University of Virginia Library

MOCK-PE-EN-DAG-A-WIN:
OR,
CHECKERED CLOUD, THE MEDICINE WOMAN.[1]

Within a few miles of Fort Snelling lives Checkered
Cloud. Not that she has any settled habitation; she is far too
important a character for that. Indeed she is not often two
days in the same place. Her wanderings are not, however,
of any great extent, so that she can always be found when
wanted. But her wigwam is about seven miles from the fort,
and she is never much farther off. Her occupations change
with the day. She has been very busy of late, for Check

ered Cloud is one of the medicine women of the Dahcotahs;
and as the Indians have had a good deal of sickness
among them, you might follow her from teepee to teepee, as
she proceeds with the sacred rattle[2] in her hand, charming
away the animal that has entered the body of the Dahcotah
to steal his strength.

Then, she is the great legend-teller of the Dahcotahs.
If there is a merry-making in the village, Checkered
Cloud must be there, to call to the minds of the revellers
the traditions that have been handed down from time immemorial.

Yesterday, wrapped in her blanket, she was seated on
the St. Peters, near a hole which she had cut in the ice, in
order to spear the fish as they passed through the water;
and to-day—but while I am writing of her, she approaches
the house; even now, her shadow falls upon the room as
she passes the window. I need not listen to her step, for
her mocassined feet pass noiselessly through the hall. The
door is slowly opened, and she is before me!

How tall she is! and with what graceful dignity she
offers her hand. Seventy winters have passed over her, but
the brightness of her eye is undimmed by time. Her
brow speaks of intellect—and the white hair that is parted
over it falls unplaited on her shoulders. She folds her
blanket round her and seats herself; she has a request to
make, I know, but Checkered Cloud is not a beggar, she

never asks aught but what she feels she has a right to
claim.

“Long ago,” she says, “the Dahcotah owned lands that
the white man now claims; the trees, the rivers, were all
our own. But the Great Spirit has been angry with his
children; he has taken their forests and their hunting
grounds, and given them to others.

“When I was young, I feared not wind nor storm. Days
have I wandered with the hunters of my tribe, that they
might bring home many buffalo for food, and to make our
wigwams. Then, I cared not for cold and fatigue, for I
was young and happy. But now I am old; my children
have gone before me to the `House of Spirits'—the tender
boughs have yielded to the first rough wind of autumn,
while the parent tree has stood and borne the winter's
storm.

“My sons have fallen by the tomahawk of their enemies;
my daughter sleeps under the foaming waters of the
Falls.

“Twenty winters were added to my life on that day. We
had encamped at some distance above the Falls, and our
hunters had killed many deer. Before we left our village
to go on the hunt, we sacrificed to the Spirit of the woods,
and we prayed to the Great Spirit. We lifted up our
hands and said, `Father, Great Spirit, help us to kill deer.'
The arrows of our hunters never missed, and as we made
ready for our return we were happy, for we knew we should
not want for food. My daughter's heart was light, for Haparm
was with her, and she never was sad but when he was
away.

“Just before we arrived at the Falls, she became sick; her

hands were burning hot, she refused to eat. As the canoe
passed over the Mississippi, she would fill her cup with its
waters, to drink and throw over her brow. The medicine
men were always at her side, but they said some evil spirit
hated her, and prevented their spells from doing her good.

“When we reached the Falls, she was worse; the women
left their canoes, and prepared to carry them and the rest
of the baggage round the Falls.

“But what should we do with We-no-nah? the flush
of fever was on her cheek; she did not know me when
I spoke to her; but she kept her eyes fixed upon her
lover.

“`We will leave her in the canoe,' said her father; `and
with a line we can carry her gently over the Rapids.' I
was afraid, but with her brothers holding the line she must
be safe. So I left my child in her canoe, and paddled with
the others to the shore.

“As we left her, she turned her eyes towards us, as if
anxious to know what we were about to do. The men held
the line steadily, and the canoe floated so gently that I began
to feel less anxious—but as we approached the rapids,
my heart beat quickly at the sound of the waters. Carefully
did her brothers hold the line, and I never moved my
eyes from the canoe in which she lay. Now the roaring
of the waters grew louder, and as they hastened to the rocks
over which they would fall they bore with them my child—
I saw her raise herself in the canoe, I saw her long hair as
it fell on her bosom—I saw no more!

“My sons bore me in their arms to the rest of the party.
The hunters had delayed their return that they might seek
for the body of my child. Her lover called to her, his voice

could be heard above the sound of the waters. `Return
to me, Wenonah, I will never love maiden but you; did you
not promise to light the fires in my wigwam?' He would
have thrown himself after her, had not the young men prevented
him. The body rests not in the cold waters; we
found it and buried it, and her spirit calls to me in the silence
of the night! Her lover said he would not remain
long on the earth; he turned from the Dahcotah maidens
as they smiled upon him. He died as a warrior should
die!

“The Chippeways had watched for us, they longed to
carry the scalp of a Dahcotah home. They did so—but we
were avenged.

“Our young men burst in upon them when they were
sleeping; they struck them with their tomahawks, they
tore their scalps reeking with blood from their heads.

“We heard our warriors at the village as they returned
from their war party; we knew by their joyful cries that
they had avenged their friends. One by one they entered
the village, bearing twenty scalps of the enemy.

“Only three of the Dahcotahs had fallen. But who
were the three? My sons, and he who was as dear as a
son to me, the lover of my child. I fled from their cries
of triumph—I longed to plunge the knife into my own heart.

“I have lived on. But sorrow and cold and hunger have
bowed my spirit; and my limbs are not as strong and active
as they were in my youth. Neither can I work with
porcupine as I used to—for age and tears have dimned my
sight. I bring you venison and fish, will you not give me
clothes to protect me from the winter's cold?”

Ah! Checkered Cloud—he was a prophet who named

you. Though the cloud has varied, now passing away,
now returning blacker than before—though the cheering
light of the sun has for a moment dispelled the gloom—
'twas but for a moment! for it was sure to break in terrors
over your head. Your name is your history, your life has
been a checkered cloud! But the storm of the day has
yielded to the influence of the setting sun. The thunder
has ceased to roll, the wind has died away, and the golden
streaks that bound the horizon promise a brighter morning.
So with Checkered Cloud, the storm and strife of the earth
have ceased; the “battle of life” is fought, and she has
conquered. For she hopes to meet the beloved of earth in
the heaven of the Dahcotahs.

And who will say that our heaven will not be hers? The
God of the Dahcotahs is ours, though they, less happy than
we, have not been taught to know him. Christians! are
you without blame? Have you thought of the privations,
the wants of those who once owned your country, and would
own it still but for the strong hand? Have you remembered
that their souls are dear in His sight, who suffered
for them, as well as for you? Have you given bright gold
that their children might be educated and redeemed from
their slavery of soul? Checkered Cloud will die as she has
lived, a believer in the religion of the Dahcotahs. The
traditions of her tribe are written on her heart. She
worships a spirit in every forest tree, or every running
stream. The features of the favored Israelite are hers;
she is perchance a daughter of their lost tribe. When
she was young, she would have listened to the missionary
as he told her of Gethsemane and Calvary. But age yields
not like youth to new impressions; the one looks to the future,

the other clings to the past. See! she has put by
her pipe and is going, but she is coming oft again to talk
to me of her people, that I may tell to my friends the
bravery of the Dahcotah warrior, and the beauty of the
maiden! the legends of their rivers and sacred isles—the
traditions of their rocks and hills!

If I cannot, in recounting the wild stories of this prophetess
of the forest, give her own striking words, I shall at
least be faithful to the spirit of her recitals. I shall let
Indian life speak for itself; these true pictures of its course
will tell its whole simple story better than any labored exposition
of mine. Here we may see, not the red man of
the novel or the drama, but the red man as he appears to
himself, and to those who live with him. His better characteristics
will be found quite as numerous as ought to be
expected under the circumstances; his faults and his sufferings
should appeal to the hearts of those who hold the
means of his salvation. No intelligent citizen of these
United States can without blame forget the aborigines of
his country. Their wrongs cry to heaven; their souls
will be required of us. To view them as brutes is an insult
to Him who made them and us. May this little work
do something towards exciting an interest in a single tribe
out of the many whose only hope is in the mercy of the
white man!