University of Virginia Library

The valley of the Upper Mississippi presents many attractions
to the reflecting mind, apart from the admiration
excited by its natural beauty. It is at once an old country
and a new—the home of a people who are rapidly passing
away—and of a nation whose strength is ever advancing.
The white man treads upon the footsteps of the Dahcotah—
the war dance of the warrior gives place to the march of
civilization—and the saw-mill is heard where but a few
years ago were sung the deeds of the Dahcotah braves.

Years ago, the Dahcotah hunted where the Mississippi
takes its rise—the tribe claiming the country as far south
as St. Louis. But difficulties with the neighboring tribes
have diminished their numbers and driven them farther
north and west; the white people have needed their lands,
and their course is onward. How will it end? Will this
powerful tribe cease to be a nation on the earth? Will
their mysterious origin never be ascertained? And must
their religion and superstitions, their customs and feasts
pass away from memory as if they had never been?

Who can look upon them without interest? hardly the
philosopher—surely not the Christian. The image of God
is defaced in the hearts of the savage. Cain-like does the

child of the forest put forth his hand and stain it with a
brother's blood. But are there no deeds of darkness done in
our own favored land?

But the country of the Dahcotah,—let it be new to those
who fly at the beckon of gain—who would speculate in the
blood of their fellow-creatures, who for gold would, aye do,
sell their own souls,—it is an old country to me. What
say the boundless prairies? how many generations have
roamed over them? when did the buffalo first yield to the
arrow of the hunter? And look at the worn bases of the
rocks that are washed by the Father of waters. Hear the
Dahcotah maiden as she tells of the lover's leap—and the
warrior as he boasts of the victories of his forefathers over
his enemies, long, long before the hated white man had intruded
upon their lands, or taught them the fatal secret of
intoxicating drink.

The Dahcotahs feel their own weakness—they know
they cannot contend with the power of the white man.
Yet there are times when the passion and vehemence of
the warriors in the neighborhood of Fort Snelling can hardly
be brought to yield to the necessity of control; and were
there a possibility of success, how soon would the pipe of
peace be thrown aside, and the yell and whoop of war be
heard instead! And who would blame them? Has not the
blood of our bravest and best been poured out like water
for a small portion of a country—when the whole could
never make up for the loss sustained by one desolate widow
or fatherless child?

The sky was without a cloud when the sun rose on the
Mississippi. The morning mists passed slowly away as
if they loved to linger round the hills. Pilot Knob rose

above them, proud to be the burial place of her warrior
children, while on the opposite side of the Mine Soto[1] the
frowning walls of Fort Snelling, told of the power of their
enemies. Not a breath disturbed the repose of nature, till
the voice of the song birds rose in harmony singing the
praise of the Creator.

But a few hours have passed away, and how changed
the scene. Numbers of canoes are seen rapidly passing over
the waters, and the angry savages that spring from them
as hastily ascending the hill. From the gates of the fort,
hundreds of Indians are seen collecting from every direction,
and all approaching the house of the interpreter. We
will follow them.

Few have witnessed so wild a scene. The house of the
interpreter employed by government is near the fort, and
all around it were assembled the excited Indians. In front
of the house is a piazza, and on it lay the body of a young
Dahcotah; his black hair plaited, and falling over his swarthy
face. The closed eye and compressed lips proclaimed
the presence of death. Life had but recently yielded to the
sway of the stern conqueror. A few hours ago Beloved
Hail had eaten and drank on the very spot where his body
now reposed.

Bending over his head is his wife; tears fall like rain
from her eyes; and as grief has again overcome her efforts
at composure, see how she plunges her knife into her arm:
and as the warm blood flows from the wound calls upon the
husband of her youth!

“My son! my son! bursts from the lips of his aged

mother, who weeps at his feet; while her bleeding limbs
bear witness to the wounds which she had inflicted upon
herself in the agony of her soul. Nor are these the only
mourners. A crowd of friends are weeping round his body.
But the mother has turned to the warriors as they press
through the crowd; tears enough have been shed, it is time
to think of revenge. “Look at your friend,” she says,
“look how heavily lies the strong arm, and see, he is still,
though his wife and aged mother call upon him. Who has
done this? who has killed the brave warrior? bring me the
murderer, that I may cut him in pieces.”

It needed not to call upon the warriors who stood around.
They were excited enough. Bad Hail stood near, his eyes
bloodshot with rage, his lip quivering, and every trembling
limb telling of the tempest within. Shah-co-pee, the orator
of the Dahcotahs, and “The Nest,” their most famous
hunter; the tall form of the aged chief “Man in the cloud”
leaned against the railing, his sober countenance strangely
contrasting with the fiend-like look of his wife; Grey Iron
and Little Hill, with brave after brave, all crying vengeance
to the foe, death to the Chippeway!