 | Dahcotah, or, Life and legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling |  |
STORMS IN LIFE AND NATURE;
UNKTAHE AND THE THUNDER BIRD.
“Ever,” says Checkered Cloud, “will Unktahe, the god
of the waters, and Wahkeon, (Thunder,) do battle against
each other. Sometimes the thunder birds are conquerors
—often the god of the waters chases his enemies back to
the distant clouds.”
Many times, too, will the daughters of the nation go
into the pathless prairies to weep; it is their custom; and
while there is sickness, and want, and death, so long will
they leave the haunts of men to weep where none but the
Great Spirit may witness their tears. It is only, they believe,
in the City of spirits, that the sorrows of Dahcotah
women will cease—there, will their tears be dried forever.
Many winters have passed away since Harpstenah brought
the dead body of her husband to his native village to be
buried; my authority is the “medicine woman,” whose
lodge, for many years, was to be seen on the banks of Lake
Calhoun.
This village is now deserted. The remains of a few
houses are to be seen, and the broken ground in which were
planted the poles of their teepees. Silence reigns where
scene of the feast and dance is now covered with long
grass, but “desolation saddens all its green.”
1. CHAPTER I.
Dark and heavy clouds hung over the village of “Sleepy
Eyes,” one of the chiefs of the Sioux. The thunder birds
flapped their wings angrily as they flew along, and where
they hovered over the “Father of many waters,” the waves
rose up, and heaved to and fro. Unktahe was eager to
fight against his ancient enemies; for as the storm spirits
shrieked wildly, the waters tossed above each other; the
large forest trees were uptorn from their roots, and fell
over into the turbid waters, where they lay powerless amid
the scene of strife; and while the vivid lightning pierced
the darkness, peal after peal was echoed by the neighboring
hills.
One human figure was seen outside the many teepees
that rose side by side in the village. Sleepy Eyes alone
dared to stand and gaze upon the tempest which was triumphing
over all the powers of nature. As the lightning
fell upon the tall form of the chief, he turned his keen
glance from the swift-flying clouds to the waters, where
dwelt the god whose anger he had ever been taught to fear.
He longed, though trembling, to see the countenance of
the being whose appearance is the sure warning of calamity.
His superstitious fears told him to turn, lest the deity
of the marvellous, chained him to the spot.
The storm raged wilder and louder—the driving wind
scattered the hail around him, and at length the chief raised
the door of his teepee, and joined his frightened household.
Trembling and crouching to the ground were the mothers
and children, as the teepee shook from the force of the wind.
The young children hid their faces close against their
mothers breasts. Every head was covered, to avoid the
streaked lightning as it glanced over the bent and terrified
forms, that seemed to cling to the earth for protection.
At the end of the village, almost on the edge of the high
bluff that towered above the river, rose a teepee, smaller
than the rest. The open door revealed the wasted form of
Harpstenah, an aged woman.
Aged, but not with years! Evil had been the days of
her pilgrimage.
The fire that had burned in the wigwam was all gone
out, the dead ashes lay in the centre, ever and anon scattered
by the wind over the wretched household articles
that lay around. Gone out, too, were the flames that once
lighted with happiness the heart of Harpstenah.
The sorrows of earth, more pitiless than the winds of
heaven, had scattered forever the hopes that had made her
a being of light and life. The head that lies on the earth
was once pillowed on the breast of the lover of her youth.
The arm that is heavily thrown from her once clasped his
children to her heart.
What if the rain pours in upon her, or the driving wind
and hail scatter her wild locks? She feels it not. Life is
there, but the consciousness of life is gone forever.
A heavier cloud hangs about her heart than that which
darkens nature. She fears not the thunder, nor sees the
angry lightning. She has laid upon the scaffold her youngest
son, the last of the many ties that bound her to earth.
One week before, her son entered the wigwam. He was
not alone; his comrade, “The Hail that Strikes,” accompanied
him.
Harpstenah had been tanning deer-skin near her door.
She had planted two poles firmly in the ground, and on
them she had stretched the deer-skin. With an iron instrument
she constantly scraped the skin, throwing water
upon it. She had smoked it too, and now it was ready to
make into mocassins or leggins. She had determined,
while she was tanning the deer-skin, how she would embroider
them. They should be richer and handsomer even
than those of their chief's son; nay, gayer than those worn
by the chief himself. She had beads and stained porcupine
quills; all were ready for her to sew.
The vension for the evening meal was cooked and placed
in a wooden bowl before the fire, when the two young men
entered.
The son hardly noticed his mother's greeting, as he invited
his friend to partake of the venison. After eating, he
filled his pipe, smoked, and offered it to the other. They
seemed inclined to waste but little time in talking, for the
pipe was put by, and they were about to leave the teepee,
when the son's steps were arrested by his mother's asking
him if he were going out again on a hunt. “There is
food enough,” she added, “and I thought you would remain
at home and prepare to join in the dance of the sun,
do so, and a Dahcotah values his word.”
The young man hesitated, for he loved his mother, and
he knew it would grieve her to be told the expedition upon
which he was going.
The eyes of his comrade flashed fire, and his lip curled
scornfully, as he turned towards the son of Harpstenah.
“Are you afraid to tell your mother the truth,” he said,
“or do you fear the `long knives'[1]
will carry you a prisoner
to their fort? I will tell you where we are going,”
he added. “The Dahcotahs have bought us whiskey, and
we are going to meet them and help bring it up. And
now cry—you are a woman—but it is time for us to be
gone.”
The son lingered—he could not bear to see his mother's
tears. He knew the sorrows she had endured, he knew
too (for she had often assured him) that should harm come
to him she would not survive it. The knife she carried in
her belt was ready to do its deadly work. She implored
him to stay, calling to his mind the deaths of his father
and of his murdered brothers; she bade him remember the
tears they had shed together, and the promises he had often
made, never to add to the trials she had endured.
It was all in vain; for his friend, impatient to be gone,
laughed at him for listening to the words of his mother.
“Is not a woman a dog?” he said. “Do you intend to
stay all night to hear your mother talk? If so, tell me,
that I may seek another comrade—one who fears neither a
white man nor a woman.”
This appeal had its effect, for the young men left the
teepee together. They were soon out of sight, while Harpstenah
sat weeping, and swaying her body to and fro, lamenting
the hour she was born. “There is no sorrow in
the land of spirits,” she cried; “oh! that I were dead!”
The party left the village that night to procure the whiskey.
They were careful to keep watch for the Chippeways,
so easy would it be for their enemies to spring up from behind
a tree, or to be concealed among the bushes and long
grass that skirted the open prairies. Day and night they
were on their guard; the chirping of the small bird by
day, as well as the hooting of an owl by night—either
might be the feigned voice of a tomahawked enemy. And
as they approached St. Anthony's Falls, they had still another
cause for caution. Here their friends were to meet
them with the fire water. Here, too, they might see the
soldiers from Fort Snelling, who would snatch the untasted
prize from their lips, and carry them prisoners to
the fort—a disgrace that would cling to them forever.
Concealed under a rock, they found the kegs of liquor,
and, while placing them in their canoes, they were joined
by the Indians who had been keeping guard over it, and at
the same time watching for the soldiers.
In a few hours they were relieved of their fears. The
flag that waved from the tower at Fort Snelling, had been
long out of sight. They kept their canoes side by side,
passing away the time in conversation.
The women who were paddling felt no fatigue. They
knew that at night they were to have a feast. Already
the fires of the maddening drink had made the blood in
their dull veins course quickly. They anticipated the excitement
cold or hungry; and bring to them bright dreams of that
world where sorrow is unknown.
“We must be far on our journey to-night,” said the
Rattler; “the long knives are ever on the watch for Dahcotahs
with whiskey.”
“The laws of the white people are very just,” said an
old man of the party; “they let their people live near us
and sell us whiskey, they take our furs from us, and get
much money. They have the right to bring their liquor
near us, and sell it, but if we buy it we are punished. When
I was young,” he added, bitterly, “the Dahcotahs were
free; they went and came as they chose. There were no
soldiers sent to our villages to frighten our women and
children, and to take our young men prisoners. The Dahcotahs
are all women now—there are no warriors among
them, or they would not submit to the power of the long
knives.”
“We must submit to them,” said the Rattler; “it
would be in vain to attempt to contend with them. We
have learned that the long knives can work in the night.
A few nights ago, some young men belonging to the village
of Marpuah Wechastah, had been drinking. They knew
that the Chippeway interpreter was away, and that his
wife was alone. They went, like cowards as they were,
to frighten a woman. They yelled and sung, they beat
against her door, shouting and laughing when they found
she was afraid to come out. When they returned home it
was just day; they drank and slept till night, and then
they assembled, four young men in one teepee, to pass
the night in drinking.
“The father of White Deer came to the teepee. `My
son,' said he, `it is better for you to stop drinking and go
away. You have an uncle among the Tetons, go and visit
him. You brought the fire water here, you frightened the
wife of the Interpreter, and for this trouble you will be
punished. Your father is old, save him the disgrace of
seeing his son a prisoner at the Fort.'
“`Fear not, my father,' said the young man, `your son
will never be a prisoner. I wear a charm over my heart,
which will ever make me free as the wind. The white
men cannot work in the night; they are sleeping even
now. We will have a merry night, and when the sun is
high, and the long knives come to seek me, you may laugh
at them, and tell them to follow me to the country of the
Tetons.' The father left the teepee, and White Deer
struck the keg with his tomahawk. The fire water dulled
their senses, for they heard not their enemies until they
were upon them.
“It was in the dead of night—all but the revellers slept—
when the soldiers from the fort surrounded the village.
“The mother of White Deer heard the barking of her dog.
She looked out of the door of her teepee. She saw nothing,
for it was dark; but she knew there was danger near.
“Our warriors, roused from their sleep, determined to find
out the cause of the alarm; they were thrust back into
their teepees by the bayonets of the long knives, and the
voice of the Interpreter was heard, crying, `The first Dahcotah
that leaves his lodge shall be shot.'
“The soldiers found out from the old chief the teepee of
the revellers. The young men did not hear them as they
approached; they were drinking and shouting. White
was upon him. It was too late for him to fly.
“There was an unopened keg of liquor in the teepee.
The soldiers struck it to pieces, and the fire water covered
the ground.
“The hands of White Deer were bound with an iron
chain; he threw from him his clothes and his blanket.
He was a prisoner, and needed not the clothing of a Dahcotah,
born free.
“The grey morning dawned as they entered the large
door of the fort. His old father soon followed him; he
offered to stay, himself, as a prisoner, if his young son
could be set free.
“It is in vain, then, that we would contend with the
white man; they keep a watch over all our actions. They
work in the night.”
“The long knives will ever triumph, when the medicine
men of our nation speak as you do,” said Two Stars. “I
have lived near them always, and have never been their
prisoner. I have suffered from cold in the winter, and have
never asked clothing, and from hunger, and have never
asked food. My wife has never stood at the gate to ask
bread, nor have my daughters adorned themselves to attract
the eyes of their young men. I will live and die on the
land of my forefathers, without asking a favor of an enemy.
They call themselves the friends of the Dahcotahs.
They are our friends when they want our lands or our furs.
“They are our worst enemies; they have trampled us
under foot. We do not chase the deer on the prairies as
eagerly as they have hunted us down. They steal from us
our rights, and then gain us over by fair words. I hate
to fear them, I would gladly climb their walls, and shout
the war cry in their ears. The Great Spirit has indeed
forsaken his children, when their warriors and wise men
talk of submission to their foes.”
2. CHAPTER II.
Well might Harpstenah sit in her lodge and weep.
The sorrows of her life passed in review before her. Yet
she was once the belle of an Indian village; no step so
light, no laugh so merry as hers. She possessed too, a
spirit and a firmness not often found among women.
She was by birth the third daughter, who is always
called Harpstenah among the Sioux. Her sisters were
married, and she had seen but fourteen summers when
old Cloudy Sky, the medicine man, came to her parents to
buy her for his wife.
They dared not refuse him, for they were afraid
to offend a medicine man, and a war chief besides.
Cloudy Sky was willing to pay them well for their child.
So she was told that her fate for life was determined upon.
Her promised bridegroom had seen the snows of eighty
winters.
It was a bright night in the “moon for strawberries.”[2]
Harpstenah had wept herself to sleep, and she had reason
too, for her young companions had laughed at her, and told
a nose. And it was true, though Cloudy Sky could
once have boasted of a fine aquiline. He had been drinking
freely, and picked a quarrel with one of his sworn
friends. After some preliminary blows, Cloudy Sky seized
his antagonist and cut his ear sadly, but in return he had
his nose bitten off.
She had wept the more when her mother told her that in
four days she was to go to the teepee of her husband. It
was in vain to contend. She lay down beside the fire;
deep sleep came upon her; she forgot the events of the
past day; for a time she ceased to think of the young
man she loved, and the old one she hated. In her dreams
she had travelled a long journey, and was seated on the
river shore, to rest her tired limbs. The red light of the
dying sun illumined the prairies, she could not have
endured its scorching rays, were it not for the sheltering
branches of the tree under which she had found a resting-place.
The waters of the river beat against her feet. She
would fain move, but something chained her to the spot.
She tried to call her mother, but her lips were sealed, and
her voice powerless. She would have turned her face from
the waters, but even this was impossible. Stronger and
stronger beat the waves, and then parted, revealing the
dreaded form of the fairy of the waters.
Harpstenah looked upon death as inevitable; she had
ever feared that terrible race of beings whose home was in
the waters. And now the fairy stood before her!
“Why do you tremble maiden? Only the wicked need
fear the anger of the gods. You have never offended us,
and have reverenced the customs of the Sioux.
You have shed many tears. You love Red Deer, and
your father has sold you to Cloudy Sky, the medicine
man. It is with you to marry the man you love, or the
one you hate.”
“If you know everything,” sighed the girl, “then you
must know that in four days I am to take my seat beside
Cloudy Sky in his wigwam. He has twice brought calico
and cloth, and laid them at the door of my father's
teepee.”
“You shall not marry Cloudy Sky, if you have a strong
heart, and fear nothing,” replied the fairy. The spirits of
the water have determined on the death of Cloudy Sky.
He has already lived three times on earth. For many
years he wandered through the air with the sons of the
thunder bird; like them he was ever fighting against the
friends of Unktahe.
“With his own hand he killed the son of that god, and
for that was he sent to earth to be a medicine man. But
long ago we have said that the time should come, when
we would destroy him from the earth. It is for you to
take his life when he sleeps. Can a Dahcotoh woman
want courage when she is to be forced to marry a man she
hates?”
The waters closed over the fairy as he disappeared, and
the waves beat harder against Harpstenah's feet. She
awoke with the words echoing in her heart, “Can a Sioux
woman want courage when she is to be forced to marry a
man she hates?” “The words of the fairy were wise and
true,” thought the maiden. “Our medicine men say that
seeking to do harm to the Dahcotahs. My dream has
made my heart light. I will take the life of the war chief.
At the worst they can but take mine.”
As she looked round the teepee, her eye rested upon the
faces of her parents. The bright moonlight had found its
way into the teepee. There lay her father, his haughty
countenance calm and subdued, for the “image of death”
had chased away the impression left on his features of a
fierce struggle with a hard life. How often had he warned
her of the danger of offending Cloudy Sky, that sickness,
famine, death itself, might be the result. Her mother too,
had wearied her with warnings. But she remembered her
dream, and with all a Sioux woman's faith in revelations,
she determined to let it influence her course.
Red Deer had often vowed to take the life of his rival,
though he knew it would have assuredly cost him his
own. The family of Cloudy Sky was a large one; there
were many who would esteem it a sacred duty to avenge
his death. Besides he would gain nothing by it, for the
parents of Harpstenah would never consent to her marriage
with the murderer of the war chief.
How often had Red Deer tried to induce the young girl
to leave the village, and return with him as his wife. “Have
we not always loved each other,” he said. “When we were
children, you made me mocassins, and paddled the canoe
for me, and I brought the wild duck, which I shot while it
was flying, to you. You promised me to be my wife, when
I should be a great hunter, and had brought to you the
scalp of an enemy. I have kept my promise, but you have
broken yours.”
“I know it,” she replied; “but I fear to keep my word.
They would kill you, and the spirits of my dead brothers
would haunt me for disobeying my parents. Cloudy Sky
says that if I do not marry him he will cast a spell upon
me; he says that the brightness would leave my eye, and
the color my cheek; that my step should be slow and weary,
and soon would I be laid in the earth beside my brothers.
The spirit that should watch beside my body would be offended
for my sin in disobeying the counsel of the aged. You,
too, should die, he says, not by the tomahawk, as a warrior
should die, but by a lingering disease—fever should enter
your veins, your strength would soon be gone, you would
no longer be able to defend yourself from your enemies.
Let me die, rather than bring such trouble upon you.”
Red Deer could not reply, for he believed that Cloudy
Sky could do all that he threatened. Nerved, then, by her
devotion to her lover, her hatred of Cloudy Sky, and her
faith in her dream, Harpstenah determined her heart should
not fail her; she would obey the mandate of the water
god; she would bury her knife in the heart of the medicine
man.
3. CHAPTER III.
In their hours for eating, the Sioux accommodate themselves
to circumstances. If food be plenty, they eat three
or four times a day; if scarce, they eat but once. Sometimes
they go without food for several days, and often they
anything that will save them from dying of famine.
When game and corn are plenty, the kettle is always
boiling, and they are invariably hospitable and generous,
always offering to a visitor such as they have it in their
power to give.
The stars were still keeping watch, when Harpstenah
was called by her mother to assist her. The father's morning
meal was prepared early, for he was going out to hunt.
Wild duck, pigeons, and snipe, could be had in abundance;
the timid grouse, too, could be roused up on the prairies.
Larger game was there, too, for the deer flew swiftly past,
and had even stopped to drink on the opposite shore of the
“Spirit Lake.”
When they assembled to eat, the old man lifted up his
hands—“May the Great Spirit have mercy upon us, and
give me good luck in hunting.”
Meat and boiled corn were eaten from wooden bowls,
and the father went his way, leaving his wife and daughter
to attend to their domestic cares.
Harpstenah was cutting wood near the lodge, when
Cloudy Sky presented himself. He went into the teepee
and lighted his pipe, and then, seating himself outside,
began to smoke. He was, in truth, a sorry figure for a
bridegroom. Always repulsive in his looks, his present
dress was not calculated to improve him. He wore mourning
for his enemy, whom he had killed.
His face was painted perfectly black; nothing but the
whites of his eyes relieved the universal darkness. His
blanket was torn and old—his hair unbraided, and on the
top of his head he wore a knot of swan's down.
Every mark of grief or respect he could have shown a
dead brother, he now assumed in honor of the man whom
he had hated—whose life he had destroyed—who had belonged
to the hateful tribe which had ever been the enemy
of his nation.
He looked very important as he puffed away, now watching
Harpstenah, who appeared to be unconscious of his
presence, now fixing his eyes on her mother, who was busily
employed mending mocassins.
Having finished smoking; he used a fan which was
attached to the other end of his pipe-stem. It was a very
warm day, and the perspiration that was bursting from his
forehead mingled with the black paint and slowly found
its way down his face.
“Where is your husband?” at length he asked of the
mother.
“He saw a deer fly past this morning,” she replied, “and
he has gone to seek it, that I may dry it.”
“Does he come back to-night?”
“He does; he said you were to give a medicine feast
to-morrow, and that he would be here.
Harpstenah knew well why the medicine feast was to be
given. Cloudy Sky could not, according to the laws of the
Sioux, throw off his mourning, until he had killed an enemy
or given a medicine dance. She knew that he wanted to
wear a new blanket, and plait his hair, and paint his face a
more becoming color. But she knew his looks could not be
improved, and she went on cutting wood, as unconcernedly
as if the old war chief were her grandfather, instead of her
affianced husband. He might gain the good will of her
parents, he might even propitiate the spirits of the dead:
to the strength of the arm that was cleaving it.
“You will be at the feast too,” said Cloudy Sky to the
mother; “you have always foretold truly. There is not a
woman in the band who can tell what is going to happen
as well as you. There is no nation so great as the Dahcotah,”
continued the medicine man, as he saw several
idlers approach, and stretch themselves on the grass to listen
to him. “There is no nation so great as the Dahcotah—
but our people are not so great now as they were formerly.
When our forefathers killed buffaloes on these prairies, that
the white people now ride across as if they were their own,
mighty giants lived among them; they strode over the
widest rivers, and the tallest trees; they could lay their
hands upon the highest hills, as they walked the earth.
But they were not men of war. They did not fight great
battles, as do the Thunder Bird and his warriors.
There were large animals, too, in those days; so large
that the stoutest of our warriors were but as children beside
them. Their bones have been preserved through many
generations. They are sacred to us, and we keep them
because they will cure us when we are sick, and will save
us from danger.
I have lived three times on earth. When my body was
first laid upon the scaffold, my spirit wandered through the
air. I followed the Thunder Birds as they darted among
the clouds. When the heavens were black, and the rain
fell in big drops, and the streaked lightning frightened our
women and children, I was a warrior, fighting beside the
sons of the Thunder Bird.
Unktahe rose up before us; sixty of his friends were
left them to seek vengeance against the Thunder Birds.
They showed us their terrible horns, but they tried to
frighten us in vain. We were but forty; we flew towards
them, holding our shields before our breasts; the wind tore
up the trees, and threw down the teepees, as we passed
along.
All day we fought; when we were tired we rested
awhile, and then the winds were still, and the sun showed
himself from behind the dark clouds. But soon our anger
rose. The winds flew along swifter than the eagle, as the
Thunder Birds clapped their wings, and again we fought
against our foes.
The son of Unktahe came towards me; his eyes shone
like fire, but I was not afraid. I remembered I had been
a Sioux warrior. He held his shield before him, as he
tried to strike me with his spear. I turned his shield aside,
and struck him to the heart.
He fell, and the waters whirled round as they received
his body. The sons of Unktahe shouted fearful cries of
rage, but our yells of triumph drowned them.
The water spirits shrank to their home, while we
returned to the clouds. The large rain drops fell slowly,
and the bow of bright colors rested between the heavens
and the earth. The strife was over, and we were conquerors.
I know that Unktahe hates me—that he would kill
me if he could—but the Thunder bird has greater power
than he; the friend of the `Man of the West'[3]
is safe
from harm.”
Harpstenah had ceased her work, and was listening to
fairy of the water told me that he had offended her race.
I will do their bidding. Cloudy Sky may boast of his
power, but ere two nights have passed away, he will find
he cannot despise the anger of the water spirits, nor the
courage of a Dahcotah woman.”
4. CHAPTER IV.
The approach of night brought with it but little inclination
to sleep to the excited girl. Her father slept, tired
with the day's hunt; and her mother dreamed of seeing
her daughter the wife of a war chief and a medicine man.
The village was built on the shores of the lake now
known as Lake Calhoun. By the light of the moon the
teepees were reflected in its waters. It was bright as day;
so clear was the lake, that the agates near the shore sparkled
in its waters. The cry of the whippoorwill alone disturbed
the repose of nature, except when the wild scream
of the loon was heard as she gracefully swept the waters.
Seated on the shore, Harpstenah waited to hear the low
whistle of her lover. The villagers were almost all asleep,
now and then the laugh of some rioters was heard breaking
in upon the stillness of night. She had not seen her lover
for many days; from the time that her marriage was determined
upon, the young warrior had kept aloof from her.
She had seized her opportunity to tell him that he must
meet her where they had often met, where none should
moon rose, as her father would be tired, and her mother
wished to sleep well before the medicine feast.
Many fears oppressed her heart, for he had not answered
her when she spoke to him, and he might not intend to
come. Long she waited in vain, and she now arose to return
to the teepee, when the low signal met her ear.
She did not wait to hear it a second time, but made her
way along the shore: now her steps were printed in the
wet sand, now planted on the rocks near the shore; not a
sound followed her movements until she stood on the appointed
place. The bright moonlight fell upon her features,
and her rich dress, as she waited with folded arms for her
lover to address her. Her okendokenda of bright colors
was slightly open at the neck, and revealed brooches of
brass and silver that covered her bosom; a heavy necklace
of crimson beads hung around her throat; bracelets of
brass clasped her wrists, and her long plaited hair was ornamented
at the end of the braids with trinkets of silver.
Her cloth petticoat was richly decorated with ribbons,
and her leggins and mocassins proved that she had spent
much time and labor on the adorning of a person naturally
well formed, and graceful.
“Why have you wished to meet me, Harpstenah?” said
the young man, gloomily. “Have you come to tell me of
the presents Cloudy Sky has made you, or do you wish to
say that you are ashamed to break the promise you made
me to be my wife?”
“I have come to say again that I will be your wife,”
she replied: “and for the presents Cloudy Sky left for me,
my heart the brooches you have given me.”
“Women are ever dogs and liars,” said Red Deer, “but
why do you speak such words to me, when you know you
have agreed to marry Cloudy Sky? Your cousin told me
your father had chosen him to carry you into the teepee of
the old man. Your father beat you, and you agreed to
marry him. You are a coward to mind a little pain. Go,
marry the old medicine man; he will beat you as he has
his other wives; he may strike you with his tomahawk
and kill you, as he did his first wife; or he will sell you to
the traders, as he did the other; he will tell you to steal
pork and whiskey for him, and then when it is found out,
he will take you and say you are a thief, and that he has
beaten you for it. Go, the young should ever mate with
the young, but you will soon lie on the scaffold, and by his
hand too.”
“The proud eagle seeks to frighten the timid bird that
follows it,” said the maiden; “but Red Deer should not
speak such angry words to the woman that will venture
her life for him. Cloudy Sky boasts that he is the friend
of the thunder bird; in my dreams, I have seen the fairy
of the waters, and he told me that Cloudy Sky should die
by my hand. My words are true. Cloudy Sky was once
with the sons of the thunder birds when they fought against
Unktahe. He killed a son of the water god, and the spirits
of the water have determined on his death.
“Red Deer, my heart is strong. I do not fear the medicine
man, for the power of Unktahe is greater than his.
But you must go far away and visit the Tetons; if you
are here, they will accuse you of his death, and will kill
think that I have murdered him. It will be long ere I see
you again, but in the moon that we gather wild rice,[4] return,
and I will be your wife. Go, now,” she added, “say
to your mother that you are going to visit your friends,
and before the day comes be far away. To-morrow Cloudy
Sky gives a medicine feast, and to-morrow night Haokah
will make my heart strong, and I will kill the medicine
man. His soul will travel a long journey to the land of
spirits. There let him drink, and boast, and frighten women.”
Red Deer heard her, mute with astonishment. The
color mantled in her cheek, and her determined countenance
assured him that she was in earnest. He charged
her to remember the secret spells of the medicine man. If
she loved him it was far better to go with him now;
they would soon be out of the reach of her family.
To this she would not listen, and repeating to him her
intention of executing all she had told him of, she left
him.
He watched her as she returned to her teepee; sometimes
her form was lost in the thick bushes, he could see
her again as she made her way along the pebbled shore,
and when she had entered her teepee he returned home.
He collected his implements of war and hunting, and,
telling his mother he was going on a long journey, he left
the village.
5. CHAPTER V.
The feast given in honor of their medicine was celebrated
the next day, and Cloudy Sky was thus relieved
of the necessity of wearing mourning for his enemy.
His face was carefully washed of the black paint that
disfigured it; his hair, plentifully greased, was braided and
ornamented. His leggins were new, and his white blanket
was marked according to Indian custom. On it was
painted a black hand, that all might know that he had
killed his enemy. But for all he did not look either young
or handsome, and Harpstenah's young friends were astonished
that she witnessed the preparations for her marriage
with so much indifference.
But she was unconscious alike of their sympathy and
ridicule; her soul was occupied with the reflection that
upon her energy depended her future fate. Never did her
spirit shrink from its appointed task. Nor was she entirely
governed by selfish motives; she believed herself an instrument
in the hand of the gods.
Mechanically she performed her ordinary duties. The
wood was cut and the evening meal was cooked; afterwards
she cut down branches of trees, and swept the wigwam.
In the evening, the villagers had assembled on the
shores of the lake to enjoy the cool air after the heat of the
day.
Hours passed away as gossipping and amusement engaged
seek rest, and Harpstenah and her mother were the last at
the door of their teepee, where a group had been seated
on the ground, discussing their own and others' affairs.
“No harm can come to you, my daughter, when you are
the wife of so great a medicine man. If any one hate you
and wish to do you an injury, Cloudy Sky will destroy
their power. Has he not lived with the Thunder Birds,
did he not learn from them to cure the sick, and to destroy
his enemies? He is a great warrior too.”
“I know it, my mother,” replied the girl, “but we have
sat long in the moonlight, the wind that stirred the waters
of the spirit lake is gone. I must sleep, that I may be
ready to dress myself when you call me. My hair must
be braided in many braids, and the strings are not yet
sewed to my mocassins. You too are tired; let us go in
and sleep.”
Sleep came to the mother—to the daughter courage
and energy. Not in vain had she prayed to Haokah the
Giant, to give her power to perform a great deed. Assured
that her parents were sleeping heavily, she rose and sought
the lodge of the medicine man.
When she reached the teepee, she stopped involuntarily
before the door, near which hung, on a pole, the medicine
bag of the old man. The medicine known only to the
clan had been preserved for ages. Sacred had it ever been
from the touch of woman. It was placed there to guard
the medicine man from evil, and to bring punishment on
those who sought to do him harm. Harpstenah's strength
failed her. What was she about to do?
Could she provoke with impunity the anger of the spirits
vengeance upon her head. Ready to sink to the earth
with terror, the words of the fairy of the waters reassured
her. “Can a Dahcotah woman want courage when she is
to be forced to marry a man she hates?”
The tumult within is stilled—the strong beating of
her heart has ceased—her hand is upon the handle of her
knife, as the moonlight falls upon its glittering blade.
Too glorious a night for so dark a deed! See! they are
confronted, the old man and the maiden! The tyrant and
his victim; the slave dealer and the noble soul he had
trafficked for!
Pale, but firm with high resolve, the girl looked for one
moment at the man she had feared—whose looks had
checked her childish mirth, whose anger she had been
taught to dread, even to the sacrificing of her heart's best
hopes.
Restlessly the old man slept; perchance he saw the
piercing eyes that were fixed upon him, for he muttered of
the road to the land of spirits. Listen to him, as he boasts
of the warrior's work.
“Many brave men have made this road. The friend of
the Thunder Birds was worthy. Strike the woman who
would dare assist a warrior. Strike—”
“Deep in his heart she plunged the ready steel,” and as
she drew it out, the life blood came quickly. She alone
heard his dying groan.
She left the teepee—her work was done. It was easy to
wash the stains on her knife in the waters of the lake.
When her mother arose, she looked at the pale countenance
of her daughter. In vain she sought to understand
fancied she heard the wild laugh of the water spirits.
Clouds had obscured the moon, and distant thunder rolled
along the sky; and, roused by the clamorous grief of the
many women assembled in the lodge, she heard from
them of the dark tragedy in which she had been the principal
actor.
The murderer was not to be found. Red Deer was
known to be far away. It only remained to bury Cloudy
Sky, with all the honors due to a medicine man.
Harpstenah joined in the weeping of the mourners—the
fountains of a Sioux woman's tears are easily unlocked.
She threw her blanket upon the dead body.
Many were the rich presents made to the inanimate clay
which yesterday influenced those who still trembled lest
the spirit of the dead war-chief would haunt them. The
richest cloth enrobed his body, and, a short distance from
the village, he was placed upon a scaffold.
Food was placed beside him; it would be long before
his soul would reach the city of spirits; his strength would
fail him, were it not for the refreshment of the tender flesh
of the wild deer he had loved to chase, and the cooling
waters he had drank on earth, for many, many winters.
But after the death of Cloudy Sky, the heart of Harpstenah
grew light. She joined again in the ball plays on
the prairies. It needed no vermilion on her cheek to show
the brightness of her eye, for the flush of hope and happiness
was there.
The dark deed was forgotten; and when, in the time
that the leaves began to fall, they prepared the wild rice
for winter's use, Red Deer was at her side.
He was a good hunter, and the parents were old. Red
Deer ever kept them supplied with game—and winter
found her a wife, and a happy one too; for Red Deer
loved her in very truth—and the secret of the death of the
medicine man was buried in their hearts.
6. CHAPTER VI.
Ten years had passed away since their marriage, and
Red Deer had never brought another wife to his teepee.
Harpstenah was without a rival in his affections, if we
except the three strong boys who were growing up beside
them.
Chaskè (the oldest son) could hunt for his mother, and it
was well that he could, for his father's strength was gone.
Consumption wasted his limbs, and the once powerful arm
could not now support his drooping head.
The father and mother had followed Cloudy Sky to the
world of spirits; they were both anxious to depart from
earth, for age had made them feeble, and the hardships of
ninety years made them eager to have their strength renewed,
in the country where their ancestors were still in
the vigor of early youth. The band at Lake Calhoun
were going on a hunt for porcupines; a long hunt, and
Harpstenah tried to deter her husband from attempting
the journey; but he thought the animating exercise of the
chase would be a restorative to his feeble frame, and they
set out with the rest.
When the hunters had obtained a large number of those
valued animals, the women struck their teepees and prepared
for their return. Harpstenah's lodge alone remained,
for in it lay the dying man—by his side his patient wife.
The play of the children had ceased—they watched with
silent awe the pale face and bright eye of their father—
they heard him charge their mother to place food that his
soul might be refreshed on its long journey. Not a tear
dimmed her eye as she promised all he asked.
“There is one thing, my wife,” he said, “which still
keeps my spirit on earth. My soul cannot travel the road
to the city of spirits—that long road made by the bravest
of our warriors—while it remembers the body which it has
so long inhabited shall be buried far from its native village.
Your words were wise when you told me I had not strength
to travel so far, and now my body must lie far from my
home—far from the place of my birth—from the village
where I have danced the dog feast, and from the shores of
the `spirit lakes' where my father taught me to use my
bow and arrow.”
“Your body shall lie on the scaffold near your native
village,” his wife replied. “When I turn from this place, I
will take with me my husband; and my young children
shall walk by my side. My heart is as brave now as it
was when I took the life of the medicine man. The love
that gave me courage then, will give me strength now.
Fear not for me; my limbs will not be weary, and when
the Great Spirit calls me, I will hear his voice, and follow
you to the land of spirits, where there will be no more
sickness nor trouble.”
Many stars shone out that night; they assisted in the
faces of her sleeping sons, and listened to their heavy breathing;
they had but started on the journey of life.
She turned to her husband: it was but the wreck of a
deserted house, the tenant had departed
The warrior was already far on his journey; ere this,
he had reached the lodge where the freed spirit adorns itself
ere entering upon its new abode.
Some days after, Harpstenah entered her native village,
bearing a precious burden. Strapped to her back was the
body of her husband. By day, she had borne it all the
weary way; at night, she had stopped to rest and to weep.
Nor did her strength fail her, until she reached her home;
then, insensible to sorrow and fatigue, she sunk to the earth.
The women relieved her from the burden, and afterwards
helped her to bury her dead.
Many waters could not quench her love, nor could the
floods drown it. It was strong as death.
Well might she sit in her lodge and weep! The village
where she passed her childhood and youth was deserted.
Her husband forgotten by all but herself. Her two sons
were murdered by the Chippeways, while defending their
mother and their young brother.
Well might she weep! and tremble too, for death among
the Dahcotahs comes as often by the fire water purchased
from the white people, as from the murderous tomahawk
and scalping-knife of the Chippeways.
Nor were her fears useless; she never again saw her
son, until his body was brought to her, his dark features
stiff in death. The death blow was given, too, by the
voice.
What wonder that she should not heed the noise of the
tempest! The storms of her life had been fiercer than the
warring of the elements. But while the fountains of
heaven were unsealed, those of her heart were closed forever.
Never more should tears relieve her, who had shed
so many. Often had she gone into the prairies to weep,
far from the sight of her companions. Her voice was heard
from a distance. The wind would waft the melancholy
sound back to the village.
“It is only Harpstenah,” said the women. “She has
gone to the prairies to weep for her husband and her children.”
The storm raged during the night, but ceased with the
coming of day. The widowed wife and childless mother
was found dead under the scaffold where lay the body of
her son.
The Thunder Bird was avenged for the death of his
friend. The strength of Red Deer had wasted under a
lingering disease; his children were dead; their mother
lay beside her youngest son.
The spirit of the waters had not appeared in vain.
When the countenance of Unktahe rests upon a Dahcotah,
it is the sure prognostic of coming evil. The fury of the
storm spirits was spent when the soul of Harpstenah followed
her lost ones.
Dimly, as the lengthened shadows of evening fall around
them, are seen the outstretched arms of the suffering Dahcotah
not to proud man!
He, in the halls of legislation, decides when the lands of
the red man are needed—one party makes a bargain which
the other is forced to accept.
But in a woman's heart God has placed sympathies to
which the sorrows of the Dahcotah women appeal. Listen!
for they tell you they would fain know of a balm for the
many griefs they endure; they would be taught to avoid
the many sins they commit; and, oh! how gladly would
many of them have their young children accustomed to
shudder at the sight of a fellow creature's blood. Like us,
they pour out the best affections of early youth on a beloved
object. Like us, they have clasped their children to
their hearts in devoted love. Like us, too, they have wept
as they laid them in the quiet earth.
But they must fiercely grapple with trials which we have
never conceived. Winter after winter passes, and they
perish from disease, and murder, and famine.
There is a way to relieve them—would you know it?
Assist the missionaries who are giving their lives to them
and God. Send them money, that they may clothe the
feeble infant, and feed its starving mother.
Send them money, that they may supply the wants of
those who are sent to school, and thus encourage others to
attend.
As the day of these forgotten ones is passing away, so
is ours. They were born to suffer, we to relieve. Let
their deathless souls be taught the way of life, that they
and we, after the harsh discords of earth shall have ceased,
may listen together to the “harmonies of Heaven.”
| Dahcotah, or, Life and legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling | |