University of Virginia Library

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

should rise before him; while his native courage, and love
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,

which will be celebrated to-morrow. You promised me to
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

that would make them forget they had ever been
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

Deer had raised the cup to his lips, when the soldier's grasp
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

them; and had not our warriors turned women, and learned
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.”