University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The dance to the Giant is now rarely celebrated among
the Dahcotahs. So severe is the sacrifice to this deity,
that there are few who have courage to attempt it; and yet
Haokah is universally reverenced and feared among the
Sioux.

They believe in the existence of many Giants, but
Haokah is one of the principal. He is styled the antinatural
god. In summer he feels cold, in winter he
suffers from the heat; hot water is cold to him, and the
contrary.

The Dahcotah warrior, however brave he may be,
believes that when he dreams of Haokah, calamity is impending
and can only be avoided by some sort of sacrifice
to this god.

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred
while I resided among the Sioux. I allude to the desertion
of Wenona by her lover. It serves to show the blind and
ignorant devotion of the Dahcotah to his religion.

And as man is ever alike in every country, and under

every circumstance of life—as he often from selfish motives
tramples upon the heart that trusts him—so does woman
utterly condemn a sister, feeling no sympathy for her
sorrow, but only hatred of her fault.

Jealous for the honor of the long-reverenced feasts of the
Dahcotahs—the “Deer Killer” thought not for a moment
of the sorrow and disgrace he would bring upon Wenona,
while Wauska loved the warrior more than ever, triumphing
in his preference of her, above her companion. And
Wenona—

But she loved too truly to be jealous, and departed without
the revenge that most Indian women would have
sought, and accomplished too. Her silence on the subject
of her early trial induced her friends to believe that her
mind was affected, a situation caused by long and intense
suffering, and followed by neglect; in such cases the invalid
is said to have no heart.

The girl from whom I have attempted to draw the
character of Wauska, I knew well.

Good looking, with teeth like pearls, her laugh was perfect
music. Often have I been roused from my sewing
or reading, by hearing the ringing notes, as they were
answered by the children. She generally announced herself
by a laugh, and was welcomed by one in return.

She was pettish withal, and easily offended, and if refused
calico for an okendokenda, or beads, or ribbon to
ornament some part of her dress, she would sullenly rest

her chin on her hand, until pacified with a present, or the
promise of one.

It is in Indian life as in ours—youth believes and trusts,
and advancing years bring the consciousness of the trials
of life; the necessity of enduring, and in some cases the
power to overcome them. Who but she who suffers it,
can conceive the Sioux woman's greatest trial—to feel that
the love that is her right, is gone! to see another take
the place by the household fire, that was hers; to be last
where she was first.

It may require some apology that Wauska should have
vowed destruction upon herself if the Deer Killer took
another wife, and yet should have lived on and become
that most unromantic of all characters—a virago. She
was reconciled in time to what was inevitable, and as
there are many wives among the Sioux, there must be the
proportion of scolding ones. So I plead guilty to the
charge of wanting sentiment, choosing rather to be true to
nature. And there is this consideration: if there be among
the Dahcotahs some Catharines, there are many Petruchios.

A group of Indian girls were seated on the grass,
Wauska in the centre, her merry musical laugh echoed back
by all but Wenona. The leaves of the large forest tree
under which they were sheltered seemed to vibrate to the
joyous sounds, stirred as they were by a light breeze that
blew from the St. Peter's. Hark! they laugh again, and
“old John” wakes up from his noon-day nap and turns a
curious, reproving look to the noisy party, and Shah-co-pee,
the orator of the Sioux, moves towards them, anxious to
find out the cause of their mirth.

“Old John,” after a hearty stretch, joins them too, and
now the fumes of the pipe ascend, and mix with the odor
of the sweet-scented prairie grass that the young girls are
braiding.

But neither Shah-co-pee the chief, nor old John the
medicine man, could find out the secret; they coaxed and
threatened in turns—but all in vain, for their curiosity was
not gratified. They might have noticed, however, that
Wenona's face was pale, and her eyes red with weeping.
She was idle too, while the others plaited busily, and there
was a subdued look of sadness about her countenance,
contrasting strangely with the merry faces of the others.

“Why did you not tell Shah-co-pee what we were laughing
at, Wenona?” said Wanska. “Your secret is known
now. The Deer-killer told all at the Virgin's feast. Why
did you not make him promise not to come? If I had
been you, I would have lain sick the day of the feast, I
would have struck my foot, so that I could not walk, or,
I would have died before I entered the ring.

“The Deer-killer promised to marry me,” replied Wenona.
“He said that when he returned from his hunt I
should be his wife. But I know well why he has disgraced
me; you have tried to make him love you, and now he is
waiting to take you to his lodge. He is not a great warrior,
or he would have kept his word.”

“Wenona!” said Wanska, interrupting her, “you have
not minded the advice of your grandmother. She told you
never to trust the promises of the bravest warriors. You
should not have believed his words, until he took you to his
wigwam. But do not be afraid that I will marry the Deer-killer.
There was never but one woman among the Dahcotahs

who did not marry, and I am going to be the
second.”

“You had better hush, Wanska,” said the Bright Star.
“You know she had her nose cut off because she refused
to be a wife, and somebody may cut yours off too. It is
better to be the mother of warriors than to have every one
laughing at you.”

“Enah! then I will be married, rather than have my
nose cut off, but I will not be the Deer-killer's wife. So
Wenona may stop crying.”

“He says he will never marry me,” said Wenona; “and
it will do me no good for you to refuse to be his wife. But
you are a liar, like him; for you know you love him. I
am going far away, and the man who has broken his faith
to the maiden who trusted him, will never be a good husband.”

“If I were Wenona, and you married the Deer-killer,”
said the Bright Star to Wanska, “you should not live
long after it. She is a coward or she would not let you
laugh at her as you did. I believe she has no heart since
the Virgin's feast; sometimes she laughs so loud that we
can hear her from our teepee, and then she bends her head
and weeps. When her mother places food before her she
says, `Will he bring the meat of the young deer for me to
dress for him, and will my lodge be ever full of food, that
I may offer it to the hungry and weary stranger who stops
to rest himself?' If I were in her place, Wanska,” added
the Bright Star, “I would try and be a medicine woman,
and I would throw a spell upon the Deer-killer, and upon
you too, if you married him.”

“The Deer-killer is coming,” said another of the girls.

“He has been watching us; and now that he sees Wenona
has gone away, he is coming to talk to Wanska. He
wears many eagle feathers: Wenona may well weep that
she cannot be his wife, for there is not a warrior in the village
who steps so proudly as he.”

But he advanced and passed them indifferently. By
and by they separated, when he followed Wanska to her
father's teepee.

Her mother and father had gone to dispose of game in
exchange for bread and flour, and the Deer-killer seated
himself uninvited on the floor of the lodge.

“The teepee of the warrior is lonely when he returns
from hunting,” said he to the maiden. “Wanska must
come to the lodge of the Deer-killer. She shall ever have
the tender flesh of the deer and buffalo to refresh her, and
no other wife shall be there to make her unhappy.”

“Wanska is very happy now,” she replied. “Her father
is a good hunter. He has gone to-day to carry ducks and
pigeons to the Fort. The promises of the Deer-killer are
like the branch that breaks in my hand. Wenona's face
is pale, and her eyes are red like blood from weeping. The
Deer-killer promised to make her his wife, and now that
he has broken his word to her, he tells Wanska that he
will never take another wife, but she cannot trust him.”

“Wanska was well named the Merry Heart,” the warrior
replied; “she laughs at Wenona and calls her a fool,
and then she wishes me to marry her. Who would listen
to a woman's words? And yet the voice of the Merry
Heart is sweeter than a bird's—her laugh makes my spirit
glad. When she sits in my lodge and sings to the children
who will call me father, I shall be happy. Many women

have loved the Deer-killer, but never has he cared to sit
beside one, till he heard the voice of Wanska as she sang
in the scalp-dance, and saw her bear the scalp of her enemy
upon her shoulders.”

Wanska's face was pale while she listened to him. She
approached him, and laid her small hand upon his arm—
“I have heard your words, and my heart says they are
good. I have loved you ever since we were children.
When I was told that you were always by the side of
Wenona, the laugh of my companions was hateful to me—
the light of the sun was darkness to my eyes. When
Wenona returned to her village with her parents, I said in
the presence of the Great Spirit that she should not live
after you had made her your wife. But her looks told me
that there was sadness in her heart, and then I knew you
could not love her.

“You promise me you will never bring another wife to
your wigwam. Deer-killer! the wife of the white man is
happy, for her husband loves her alone. The children of
the second wife do not mock the woman who is no longer
beloved, nor strike her children before her eyes. When I
am your wife I shall be happy while you love me; there
will be no night in my teepee while I know your heart is
faithful and true; but should you break your word to me,
and bring to your lodge another wife, you shall see me no
more, and the voice whose sound is music to your ears
you will never hear again.”

Promises come as readily to the lips of an Indian lover
as trustfulness does to the heart of the woman who listens
to them; and the Deer-killer was believed.

Wanska had been often at the Fort, and she had seen

the difference between the life of a white and that of an
Indian woman. She had thought that the Great Spirit
was unmindful of the cares of his children.

And who would have thought that care was known to
Wanska, with her merry laugh, and her never-ceasing
jokes, whether played upon her young companions, or on
the old medicine man who kept everybody but her in awe
of him.

She seemed to be everywhere too, at the same time.
Her canoe dances lightly over the St. Peter's, and her
companions try in vain to keep up with her. Soon her
clear voice is heard as she sings, keeping time with the
strokes of the axe she uses so skilfully. A peal of laughter
rouses the old woman, her mother, who goes to bring the
truant home, but she is gone, and when she returns, in
time to see the red sun fade away in the bright horizon,
she tells her mother that she went out with two or three
other girls, to assist the hunters in bringing in the deer
they had killed. And her mother for once does not scold,
for she remembers how she used to love to wander on the
prairies, when her heart was as light and happy as her
child's.

When Wanska was told that the Deer-killer loved Wenona,
no one heard her sighs, and for tears, she was too proud
to shed any. Wenona's fault had met with ridicule and
contempt; there was neither sympathy nor excuse found for
her. And now that the Deer-killer had slighted Wenona,
and had promised to love her alone, there was nothing
wanting to her happiness.

Bright tears of joy fell from her eyes when her lover
said there was a spell over him when he loved Wenona,

but now his spirit was free; that he would ever love her
truly, and that when her parents returned he would bring
rich presents and lay them at the door of the lodge.

Wanska was indeed “the Merry Heart,” for she loved
the Deer-killer more than life itself, and life was to her
a long perspective of brightness. She would lightly
tread the journey of existence by his side, and when
wearied with the joys of this world, they would together
travel the road that leads to the Heaven of the Dahcotahs.

She sat dreaming of the future after the Deer-killer
had left her, nor knew of her parents' return until she
heard her mother's sharp voice as she asked her “if the
corn would boil when the fire was out, and where was the
bread that she was told to have ready on their return?”

Bread and corn! when Wanska had forgot all but that
she was beloved. She arose quickly, and her light laugh
drowned her mother's scolding. Soon her good humor
was infectious, for her mother told her that she had needles
and thread in plenty, besides more flour and sugar, and
that her father was going out early in the morning to kill
more game for the Long Knives who loved it so well.