University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XIV.

About the 1st of October the Indians were on the
move as usual, and by some means I became separated
from the family I was with, and was lost. I looked
around for them, but their familiar faces were not to be
seen. Strangers gazed upon me, and, although I besought
them to assist me in finding the people of my
own tipi, they paid no attention to my trouble, and
refused to do any thing for me.

Never shall I forget the sadness I felt as evening
approached, and we encamped for the night in a lonely
valley, after a wearisome day's journey.

Along one side stood a strip of timber, with a small
stream beside it. Hungry, weary, and lost to my
people, with no place to lay my head, and after a fruitless
search for the family, I was more desolate than
ever. Even Keoku, or "Yellow Bird," the Indian

girl who had been given me, was not with me that day,
making it still more lonely.

I sat down and held my pony. It was autumn, and
the forest wore the last glory of its gorgeous coloring.
Already the leaves lay along the paths, like a rich
carpet of variegated colors. The winds caught a
deeper tone, mournful as the tones of an Æolian
harp, but the air was balmy and soft, and the sunlight
lay warm and pleasant, as in midsummer, over the
beautiful valley, now occupied with numberless camps
of tentless Indians. It seemed as if the soft autumn
weather was, to the last moment, unwilling to yield
the last traces of beauty to the chill embraces of stern
winter, and I thought of the luxuries and comforts of
my home. I looked back on the past with tears of
sorrow and regret; my heart was overburdened with
grief, and I prayed to die. The future looked like a
dark cloud approaching, for the dread of the desolation
of winter to me was appalling.

While meditating on days of the past, and contemplating
the future, Keoku came suddenly upon me,
and was delighted to find the object of her search.

They had been looking for me, and did not know
where I had gone, were quite worried about me, she said,
and she was glad she had found me. I was as pleased
as herself, and rejoiced to join them.

One has no idea of the extent of an Indian village,
or of the number of its inhabitants.

It would seem strange to some that I should ever
get lost when among them, but, like a large city, one
may be separated from their companions, and in a few
moments be lost.

The Indians all knew the "white woman," but I
knew but few comparatively, and consequently when
among strangers I felt utterly friendless.

The experience of those days of gloom and sadness
seem like a fearful dream, now that my life is once
again with civilized people, and enjoying the blessings
that I was there deprived of.

Some twenty-five years ago an emigrant train, en
route for California, arrived in the neighborhood of
the crossing of the North Platte, and the cholera broke
out among the travelers, and every one died, with the
exception of one little girl.

The Indian "Black Bear," while hunting, came to
the wagons, now a morgue, and, finding the father of
the girl dying with cholera, took the child in his arms.
The dying parent begged him to carry his little
one to his home in the East, assuring him of abundant
reward by the child's friends, in addition to the
gold he gave him. These facts I gleaned from a
letter given to Black Bear by the dying father,
and which had been carefully preserved by the
daughter.

Instead of doing as was desired, he took the money,
child, and every thing valuable in the train, to his own

home among the hills, and there educated the little one
with habits of savage life.

She forgot her own language, her name, and every
thing about her past life, but she knew that she was
white. Her infancy and girlhood were, therefore,
passed in utter ignorance of the modes of life of her
own people, and, contented and happy, she remained
among them, verifying the old adage, that "habit is
second nature." When she was of marriageable age,
Black Bear took her for his wife, and they had a child,
a boy.

I became acquainted with this white woman shortly
after I went into the village, and we were sincere
friends, although no confidants, as I dared not trust
her. It was very natural and pleasant also to know
her, as she was white, and although she was an Indian
in tastes and habits, she was my sister, and belonged to
my people; there was a sympathetic chord between us,
and it was a relief to be with her.

On the occasion of my first visit with her, Black
Bear suggested the idea that white women always
drank tea together, so she made us a cup of herb tea,
which we drank in company.

I endeavered to enlighten her, and to do her all the
good I could; told her of the white people, and of
their kindness and Christianity, trying to impress her
with the superiority of the white race, all of which she
listened to with great interest.

I was the only white woman she had seen, for whenever
they neared any fort she was always kept out of
sight.

She seemed to enjoy painting herself, and dressing
for the dances, as well as the squaws, and was happy
and contented with Indian surroundings, for she knew
no difference.

I know not what has become of her, for I have
never heard; neither can I remember the name of her
father, which was in the note handed the Indian by his
dying hand.

A little boy, fourteen years old, whose name was
Charles Sylvester, belonging in Quincy, Illinois, who
was stolen when seven years of age, was in the village,
and one day I saw him playing with the Indian boys,
and, discovering immediately that he was a white boy,
I flew to his side, and tried to clasp him in my arms, in
my joy exclaiming, "Oh! I know you are a white
boy! Speak to me, and tell me who you are and where
you come from?" He also had forgotten his name and
parentage, but knew that he was white.

When I spoke to him, the boys began to plague and
tease him, and he refused to speak to me, running away
every time I approached him.

One year after, one day, when this boy was out
hunting, he killed a comrade by accident, and he dared
not return to the village; so he escaped, on his pony, to
the white people. On his way to the States, he called

at a house where they knew what Indians he belonged
to, and they questioned him, whether he had seen a
white woman in the village; he replied in the affirmative,
and a bundle of pictures being given him, he
picked mine out from among them, saying, "That is the
white woman whom I saw."

After a while, being discontented with his own people,
he returned to his adopted friends on the North Platte,
and became an interpreter and trader, and still remains
there, doing business at various posts.

When the Indians went to obtain their annuities,
they transferred me to the Unkpapas, leaving me in
their charge, where there was a young couple, and an
old Indian, who had four wives; he had been very
brave, it was said, for he had endured the trial which
proves the successful warrior. He was one of those
"who alooked at the sun" without failing in heart or
strength.

This custom is as follows: The one who undergoes
this operation is nearly naked, and is suspended from
the upper end of a pole by a cord, which is tied to
some splints which run through the flesh of both
breasts. The weight of his body is hung from it, the
feet still upon the ground helping support it a very
little, and in his left hand he holds his favorite bow,
and in his right, with a firm hold, his medicine bag.

A great crowd usually looks on, sympathizing with
and encouraging him, but he still continues to hang and

"look at the sun," without paying the least attention
to any one about him. The mystery men beat their
drums, and shake their rattles, and sing as loud as
they can yell, to strengthen his heart to look at the
sun from its rising until its setting, at which time, if
his heart and strength have not failed him, he is "cut
down," receives a liberal donation of presents, which
are piled before him during the day, and also the name
and style of a doctor, or medicine man, which lasts him,
and insures him respect, through life. It is considered
a test of bravery. Superstition seems to have full
sway among the Indians—just as much as in heathen
lands beyond the sea, where the Burmah mother casts
her child to the crocodile to appease the Great Spirit.

Many of these Indians were from Minnesota, and
were of the number that escaped justice two years before,
after committing an indiscriminate slaughter of
men, women, and children. One day, I was sent for
by one of them, and when I was seated in his lodge,
he gave me a letter to read, which purported to have
been written by General Sibley, as follows:

Instinctively I looked up into his face, and said:
"Intend to keep your promise?" He laughed derisively
at the idea of an Indian brave abandoning
his profession. He told of many instances of outrageous
cruelties of his band in their marauding and
murderous attacks on traveling parties and frontier
settlers; and, further, to assure me of his bravery, he
showed me a puzzle or game he had made from the
finger bones of some of the victims that had fallen beneath
his own tomahawk. The bones had been freed
from the flesh by boiling, and, being placed upon a
string, were used for playing some kind of Indian
game. This is but one of the heathenish acts of these
Indians.

The Indians are fond of recounting their exploits,
and, savage like, dwell with much satisfaction upon
the number of scalps they have taken from their white
foes. They would be greatly amused at the shuddering
horror manifested, when, to annoy me, they would
tauntingly portray the dying agonies of white men,
women, and children, who had fallen into their hands;

and especially would the effect of their description of
the murder of little Mary afford them satisfaction. I
feel, now, that I must have been convinced of her
death, yet I could not then help hoping that she had
escaped.

These exploits and incidents are generally related by
the Indians, when in camp having nothing to do. The
great lazy brutes would sit by the hour, making carricatures
of white soldiers, representing them in various
ways, and always as cowards and inferior beings;
sometimes as in combat, but always at their mercy
This was frequently done, apparently to annoy me,
and one day, losing patience, I snatched a rude drawing
from the hands of an Indian, who was holding it
up to my view, and tore it in two, clasping the part
that represented the white soldier to my heart, and
throwing the other in the fire. Then, looking up, I
told them the white soldiers were dear to me; that
they were my friends, and I loved them. I said they
were friends to the Indians, and did not want to harm
them. I expressed myself in the strongest manner by
words and signs.

Never did I see a more enraged set of men. They
assailed me with burning fire-brands, burning me severely.
They heated the points of arrows, and burned
and threatened me sorely.

I told them I meant no harm to them. That it was
ridiculous, their getting angry at my burning a bit of

paper. I promised I would make them some more;
that they should have pictures of my drawing, when,
at last, I pacified them. They were much like children
in this respect—easily offended, but very difficult to
please.

I was constantly annoyed, worried, and terrified by
their strange conduct—their transition from laughing
and fun to anger, and even rage. I knew not how to
get along with them. One moment, they would seem
friendly and kind; the next, if any act of mine displeased
them, their faces were instantly changed, and
they displayed their hatred or anger in unmeasured
words or conduct—children one hour, the next,
fiends. I always tried to please them, and was as
cheerful as I could be under the circumstances, for my
own sake.

One day, I was called to see a man who lay in
his tipi in great suffering. His wasted face was darkened
by fever, and his brilliantly restless eyes rolled
anxiously, as if in search of relief from pain. He
was reduced to a skeleton, and had endured tortures
from the suppuration of an old wound in the knee.

He greeted me with the "How! how!" of Indian
politeness, and, in answer to my inquiry why he came
to suffer so, replied:

"I go to fight white man. He take away land, and
chase game away; then he take away our squaws. He
take away my best squaw."

Here his voice choked, and he displayed much emotion.

Pitying his misery, I endeavored to aid him, and
rendered him all the assistance in my power, but death
was then upon him.

The medicine man was with him also, practicing his
incantations.

We were so constantly traveling, it wearied me beyond
expression. The day after the Indian's burial
we were again on the move.