Chapter III: Part 3

“‘Then he breathed his poison upon the buffalo, and they disappeared. They vanished into the earth. One day they covered the hills, the next nothing but their bones remained. Would you remove the white man? Would you have the buffalo come back? Listen, and I will tell you how to make great magic. I will teach you a mystic dance, and then let everybody go home and dance. When the grass is green, the change will come. Let everybody dance four days in succession, and on the fourth day the white man will disappear and the buffalo come back; our dead will return with the buffalo.

“‘The earth is old. It will be renewed. The new and happy world will slide above the old as the right hand covers the left.

“‘You have forgotten the ways of the fathers; therefore great distress is upon you. You must throw away all that the white man has brought you. Return to the dress of the fathers. You must use the sacred colors, red and white, and the sacred grass, and in the spring, when the willows are green, the change will come.

“‘Do no harm to any one. Do not fight each other. Live in peace. Do not tell lies. When your loved ones die, do not weep, nor burn their tepees, nor cut your arms, nor kill horses, for you will see the dead again.’

“His words made my heart glad and warm in my breast. I thought of the bright days when I was a boy and the white man was far away, when the buffalo were like sagebrush on the plains—there were so many. I rose up. I went toward him. I bowed my head, and I said:

“‘Oh, father, teach us the dance!’ and all the people sitting round said, ‘Good! teach us the dance!’

“Then he taught us the song and the dance which white people call ‘the ghost dance,’ and we danced all together, and while we danced near him he sat with bowed head. No one dared to speak to him. The firelight shone on him. Suddenly he disappeared. No one saw him go. Then we were sorrowful, for we wished him to remain with us. It came into my heart to make a talk; so I rose, and said:

“‘Friends, let us now go home. Our father has given us the mighty magic dance. Let us go home and teach all our people, and dance the four days, so that the white man may go and the buffalo come back. All our fathers will come back. The old men will be made young. The blind will see again. We will all be happy once more.’

“This seemed good to them, and we all smoked the pipe and shook hands and took our separate trails. The Blackfeet went north, the People-that-click-with-their-tongues went west, and the Magpies, the Cut Throats, and the Snakes started together to the east. The Burnt Thighs kept on, while the Magpies and the Cut Throats turned to the northeast.

“At last we reached home, and I called a big dance, and at the dance I told the people what I had seen, and they were very glad. ‘Teach us the dance,’ they cried to me.

“‘Be patient,’ I said. ‘Wait till all the other people get home. When the grass is green and the moon is round, then we will dance, and all the red people will dance at the same time; then will the white man surely fade away, and the buffalo come up out of the earth where he is hid and roam the sod once more.’

“Then they did as I bid, and when the moon was round as a shield, we beat the drum and called the people to dance.

“Then the white man became much excited. He called for more soldiers everywhere to stop the dance, so I heard afterward. But the people paid no attention, for was not the white man poor and weak by the magic of the dance?

“Then we built five fires, one to each world direction and one in the center. We put on our best dress. We painted our faces and bodies in memory of our forefathers, who were mighty warriors and hunters. We carried bows and arrows and tomahawk and war clubs in memory of the days before the white man’s weapons. Our best singers knelt around the drum, and the women sat near to help them sing. When the drum began to beat, our hearts were very glad. There were Magpies and Cut Throats among us, but we were all friends. We danced between the fires, and as we danced the drummers sang the mystic song:

“Father, have pity on us.
We are crying for thirst—
All is gone!
We have nothing to eat,
Our Father, we are poor—
We are very poor.
The buffalo are gone,
They are all gone.
Take pity on us, O Father!
We are dancing as you wish,
Because you commanded us.
We dance hard—
We dance long.
Have pity!

“The agent came to see us dance, but we did not care. He was a good man, and we felt sorry for him, for he must also vanish with the other white people. He listened to our crying, and looked long, and his interpreter told him we prayed to the Great Spirits to destroy the white man and bring back the buffalo. Then he called me with his hand, and because he was a good man I went to him. He asked me what the dance meant, and I told him, and he said, ‘It must stop.’ ‘I cannot stop it,’ I said. ‘The Great Spirits have said it. It must go on.’

“He smiled, and went away, and we danced. He came again on the third day, and always he laughed. He said: ‘Go on. You are big fools. You will see the buffalo will never come back, and the white man is too strong to be swept away. Dance till the fourth day, dance hard, but I shall watch you.’

“On the fourth night, while we danced, soldiers came riding down the hills, and their chiefs, in shining white hats, came to watch us. All night we prayed and danced. We prayed in our songs.

“Great Spirit, help us.
You are close by in the dark.
Hear us and help us.
Take away the white man.
Send back the buffalo.
We are poor and weak.
We can do nothing alone.
Help us to be as we once were,
Happy hunters of buffalo.

“But the agent smiled, and the soldiers of the white chiefs sat not far off, their guns in their hands, and the moon passed by, and the east grew light, and we were very weary, and my heart was heavy. I looked to see the red come in the east. ‘When the sun looks over the hills, then it will be,’ I said to my friends. ‘The white man will become as smoke. The wind will sweep him away.’

“As the sun came near we all danced hard. My voice was almost gone. My feet were numb, my legs were weak, but my heart was big.

“‘Oh, help us, Great Spirits,’ we cried in despair.

“‘Father, the morning star,
Father, the morning star,
Look on us!
Look on us, for we have danced till dawn;
Look on us, for we have danced until daylight.

Take pity on us,
O Father, the morning star!
Show us the road—
Our eyes are dark.

Show us our dead ones.
We cry and hold fast to you,
O morning star.
We hold out our hands to you and cry.
Help us, O Father!
We have sung till morning
The resounding song.’

“But the sun came up, the soldiers fired a big gun, and the soldier chiefs laughed. Then the agent called to me,

“‘Your Great Spirit can do nothing. Your Messiah lied.’

“Then I covered my head with my blanket and ran far away, and I fell down on the top of the high hill. I lay there a long time, thinking of the white man’s laugh. The wind whistled a sad song in the grass. My heart burned, and my breath came hard.

“‘Maybe he was right. Maybe the messenger was two-tongued and deceived us that the white man might laugh at us.’

“All day I lay there with my head covered. I did not want to see the light of the sun. I heard the drum stop and the singing die away. Night came, and then on the hills I heard the wailing of my people. Their hearts were gone. Their bones were weary.

“When I rose, it was morning. I flung off my blanket, and looked down on the valley where the tepees of the white soldiers stood. I heard their drums and their music. I had made up my mind. The white man’s trail was wide and dusty by reason of many feet passing thereon, but it was long. The trail of my people was ended.

“I said, ‘I will follow the white man’s trail. I will make him my friend, but I will not bend my neck to his burdens. I will be cunning as the coyote. I will ask him to help me to understand his ways, and then I will prepare the way for my children. Maybe they will outrun the white man in his own shoes. Anyhow, there are but two ways. One leads to hunger and death, the other leads where the poor white man lives. Beyond is the happy hunting ground, where the white man cannot go.’”

THE RIVER’S WARNING

THE RIVER’S WARNING

We were visiting the camp of Big Elk on the Washeetay and were lounging in the tepee of the chief himself as the sun went down. All about us could be heard the laughter of the children and the low hum of women talking over their work. Dogs and babies struggled together on the sod, groups of old men were telling stories and the savory smell of new-baked bread was in the air.

The Indian is a social being and naturally dependent upon his fellows. He has no newspapers, no posters, no handbills. His news comes by word of mouth, therefore the “taciturn red man” does not exist. They are often superb talkers, dramatic, fluent, humorous. Laughter abounds in a camp. The men joke, tell stories with the point against themselves, ridicule those who boast and pass easily from the humorous to the very grave and mysterious in their faith. It is this loquacity, so necessary to the tribe, which makes it so hard for a red man to keep a secret.

In short, a camp of Indians is not so very unlike a country village where nothing but the local paper is read and where gossip is the surest way of finding out how the world is wagging. There are in both villages the same group of old men with stories of the past, of the war time, to whom the young men listen with ill-concealed impatience. When a stranger comes to town all the story tellers rejoice and gird up their loins afresh. It is always therefore in the character of the eager listener that I visit a camp of red people.

Big Elk was not an old man, not yet sixty, but he was a story teller to whom everybody listened, for he had been an adventurous youth, impulsive and reckless, yet generous and kindly. He was a handsome old fellow natively, but he wore his cheap trousers so slouchily and his hat was so broken that at a distance in the daytime he resembled a tramp. That night as he sat bareheaded in his tepee with his blanket drawn around his loins, he was admirable. His head was large, and not unlike the pictures of Ben Franklin.

“You see, in those days,” he explained, “in the war time with the game robbers, every boy was brought up to hate the white man who came into our land to kill off our buffalo. We heard that these men killed for money like the soldiers who came to fight us, and that made our fathers despise them. I have heard that the white boys were taught to hate us in the same way, and so when we met we fought. The white man considered us a new kind of big game to hunt and we considered him a wolf paid to rob and kill us. Those were dark days.

“I was about twenty-two, it may be, when the old man agent first came to the east bank of the Canadian, and there sat down. My father went to see him, I remember, and came back laughing. He said, ‘He is a thin old man and can take his teeth out in pieces and put them back,’ and this amused us all very much. To this day, as you know, that is the sign for an agent among us—to take out the upper teeth.

“We did not care for the agent at that time for we had plenty of buffalo meat and skins. Some of the camp went over and drew rations, it is true, but others did not go. I pretended to be very indifferent, but I was crazy to go, for I had never seen a white man’s house and had never stood close to any white man. I heard the others tell of a great many wonderful things over there—and they said there were white women and children also.

“I was ambitious to do a great deed in those days and had made myself the leader of some fourteen reckless young warriors like myself. I sat around and smoked in tepee, and one night I said, ‘Brothers, let us go to the agency and steal the horses.’

“This made each one of them spring to his feet. ‘Good! Good!’ they said. ‘Lead us. We will follow. That is worth doing.’

“‘The white men are few and cowardly,’ I said. ‘We can dash in and run off the horses, and then I think the old men will no longer call us boys. They will sing of us in their songs. We shall be counted in the council thereafter.’

“They were all eager to go and that night we slipped out of camp and saddled and rode away across the prairie, which was fetlock deep in grass. Just the time for a raid. I felt like a big chief as I led my band in silence through the night. My bosom swelled with pride like a turkey cock and my heart was fierce.

“We came in sight of the white man’s village next day about noon, and veering a little to the north, I led my band into camp some miles above the agency. Here I made a talk to my band and said: ‘Now you remain here and I will go alone and spy out the enemy and count his warriors and make plans for the battle. You can rest and grow strong while I am gone.’”

Big Elk’s eyes twinkled as he resumed. “I thought I was a brave lad to do this thing and I rode away trying to look unconcerned. I was very curious to see the agency. I was like a coyote who comes into the camp to spy out the meat racks.” This remark caused a ripple of laughter, which Big Elk ignored. “As I forded the river I glanced right and left, counting the wooden tepees” (he made a sign of the roof), “and I found them not so many as I had heard. As I rode up the bank I passed near a white woman and I looked at her with sharp eyes. I had heard that all white women looked white and sicklike. This I found was true. This woman had yellow hair and was thin and pale. She was not afraid of me—she did not seem to notice me and that surprised me.

“Then I passed by a big wooden tepee which was very dirty and smoky. I could see a man, all over black, who was pounding at something. He made a sound, _clank, clank, clunk-clank_. I stood at the door and looked in. It was all very wonderful. There were horses in there and this black man was putting iron moccasins on the horses’ feet.

“An Arapahoe stood there and I said in signs, ‘What do they do that for?’

“He replied, ‘So that the horses can go over rocks without wearing off their hoofs.’

“That seemed to me a fine thing to do and I wanted my pony fixed that way. I asked where the agent was, and he pointed toward a tall pole on which fluttered a piece of red and white and blue cloth. I rode that way. There were some Cheyennes at the door, who asked me who I was and where I came from. I told them any old kind of story and said, ‘Where is the agent?’

“They showed me a door and I went in. I had never been in a white man’s tepee before and I noticed that the walls were strong and the door had iron on it. ‘Ho!’ I said, ‘This looks like a trap. Easy to go in, hard to get out. I guess I will be very peaceful while I am in here.’

“The agent was a little old man—I could have broken his back with a club as he sat with his back toward me. He paid no attention till a half-breed came up to me and said, ‘What do you want?’

“‘I want to see the agent.’

“‘There he is; look at him,’ and he laughed.

“The agent turned around and held out his hand. ‘How, how!’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

“His face was very kind, and I went to him and took his hand. His tongue I could not understand, but the half-breed helped me. We talked. I made up a story. ‘I have heard you give away things to the Cheyennes,’ I said; ‘therefore I have come for my share.’

“‘We give to good red people,’ he said. Then he talked sweetly to me. ‘My people are Quakers,’ he said. ‘We have visions like the red people—but we never go to war. Therefore has the Great Soldier, the Great Father at Washington, put me here. He does not want his children to fight. You are all brothers with different ways of life. I am here to help your people,’ he said, ‘and you must not go to war any more.’

“All that he said to me was good—it took all the fire and bitterness out of my heart and I shook hands and went away with my head bowed in thought. He was as kind as my own father.

“I had never seen such white people before; they were all kind. They fed me; they talked friendly with me. Not one was making a weapon. All were preparing to till the soil. They were kind to the beasts, and all the old Cheyennes I met said, ‘We must do as this good old man says.’

“I rode home very slowly. I strutted no more. The stuffing was gone out of my chest. I dreaded to come back into my camp where my warriors were waiting for me. I spread my blanket and sat down without speaking, and though they were all curious to hear, they waited, for I smoked a pipe in sign of thought. At last I struck the ashes from my pipe and rose and said: ‘Listen, brothers I shall not go to war against the agency.’

“They were all astonishment at this and some were instantly angry. ‘Why not? What has changed your plan so suddenly?’

“‘I have seen the agent; he is a good old man. Every one was pleasant to me. I have never seen this kind of white man. No one was thinking of war. They are all waiting to help the Cheyennes. Therefore my heart is changed—I will not go out against them.’

“My band was in a turmoil. One by one they cried out: ‘You are a girl, a coyote with the heart of a sparrow.’ Crow Kill made a long speech: ‘This is strange business. You talk us into making you chief; you lead us a long hard ride and now we are without meat, while you, having your belly full of sweet food and a few presents in your hand, want to quit and run home crying like a papoose.’”

The old story teller was pitilessly dramatic in reciting the flood of ridicule and abuse poured out upon his head.

“Well, at last I said: ‘Be silent! Perhaps you are right. Perhaps they deceived me. I will go again to-morrow and I will search closely into hidden things. Be patient until I have studied the ground once more.’

“As I thought of it all that night I came to feel again a great rage—I began to say: ‘You are a fool. You have been blinded.’ I slept uneasily that night, but I was awake early and rode away to the agency. I remained all day among them. I talked with all the Cheyennes and in signs I conversed with the Arapahoe—all said the same thing—‘The agent does not lie. He is a good man.’ Nevertheless, I looked the ground all over and at night I rode slowly back to the camp.

“Again I said, ‘I will not go to war against these people,’ and again my warriors cried out against me. They were angrier than before. They called me a coward. ‘We will go on without you. You are fitted only to carry a papoose and stir the meat in a pot,’ they said.

“This filled me with wrath and I rose and said: ‘You call me a woman! Who of you can show more skill in the trail? Who of you can draw a stronger bow or bring down bigger buffalo bulls? It is time for you to be silent. You know me—you know what I have done. Now listen: I am chief. To-morrow when the east gets light we will cross the river and attack the agency! I have spoken!’

“This pleased them very much and they listened and looked eagerly while I drew on the sand lines to show where the horse corral was and where the storehouse was. I detailed five men to go to the big fence and break the chain on the gate, while I led the rest of the band to break into the storehouse. Then I said: ‘Do not kill any one unless they come out against you with arms in their hands. Some of them gave me food; I shall be sorry if they are hurt.’

“That night I could not sleep at all, for my heart was swollen big in my bosom. I knew I was doing wrong, but I could not stand the reproach of my followers.

“When morning came, the river was very high, and we looked at it in astonishment, for no clouds were to be seen. The banks were steep and the current swift, and there was no use attempting to carry out our plan that day.

_At Fort Reno in 1890, in the then Oklahoma Territory, there was
an agency for the Cheyennes and Arapahoes. In those days one
might see the Indians in their fantastic mixture of colors and
beads and red flannel and feathers—so theatrical in appearance
that the visitor expected to see even the army officers look back
over their shoulders when one of these braves rode by._

_Illustration from_
THE WEST FROM A CAR WINDOW
_by_ Richard Harding Davis

_Originally published in_
HARPER’S WEEKLY, _May 14, 1892_]

_Illustration from_
TALKING MUSQUASH
_by_ Julian Ralph

_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _March, 1892_]

“‘We must wait,’ I said, and with black looks and aching bellies we waited all that day. ‘The river will go down to-morrow,’ I said, to comfort them.

“We had only a little dried beef to eat and the river water to drink, and my warriors were very hungry.

“That second morning I was awake before dawn, watching to see what the river had done during the night. Behold, it was an arrow’s length higher than before! Then I said: ‘Friends, I am no liar. I started on this plan with a heart to carry it out, but now I am deeply troubled. I did not sleep last night, for a pain in my breast kept me awake. I will not deceive you. I am glad the water is deeper this morning. I believe it is a sign from the Great Spirit that we are to turn back and leave these white people in peace.’

“But to this Crow Kill and most of the others would not listen. ‘If we go back now,’ said he, ‘everybody will laugh at us.’

“Quickly I turned upon him and cried out: ‘Are you the boaster who has prattled of our plans? The camp will know nothing of our designs if you have not let your long tongue rattle on the outside of your mouth.’ At this he fell silent and I went on. ‘Now I will wait one more day. If the river is high to-morrow—the third day—then it will surely be a sign, and we must all bow to the will of the Great One who is above us.’

“To this they all agreed, for the sky was still clear and blue and the river was never known to rise on three successive days. They put their weapons in order, and I recounted my words of instruction as to the battle.

“I went aside a little from the camp that night, and took my watch on a little mound. The moon rose big in the east and made a shining trail over the water. When a boy I used to think, may be that trail led to the land of the spirits—and my heart was full of peaceful thoughts that night. I had no hate of anybody.” The old man’s voice was now deep and grave and no one laughed. “I prayed to the Great Spirit to send the water so that I could go back without shame. All night I heard the water whisper, whisper in the grass. It grew broader and broader and the moon passed over my head. I slept a little, and then I woke, for something cold had touched my heel. I looked down and in the grass at my feet lay the shining edge of the river.

“I leaped up and ran and touched the others. ‘See,’ I called out, ‘the water has come to speak to you!’ and I scooped water from the river’s edge and flung it over them. ‘The Great Spirit has spoken. All night I heard it whisper in the grass. It said: “_Peace, peace! You must go to war no more._” Come. We will ride away with clean hands and glad hearts.’”

As he finished his story Big Elk put away his pipe abstractedly, as though his mind yet dwelt on the past. His hearers were silent and very serious. He had touched the deepest chord in the red man’s soul—the chord which vibrates when the Great Spirit speaks to him in dreams.

LONE WOLF’S OLD GUARD

LONE WOLF’S OLD GUARD

Now it happened that Lone Wolf’s camp was on the line between the land of the Cheyennes and the home of his own people, the Kiowas, but he did not know this. He had lived there long, and the white man’s maps were as unimportant to him as they had been to the Cheyennes. When he moved there he considered it to be his—a gift direct from the Creator—with no prior rights to be overstepped.

But the Consolidated Cattle Company, having secured the right to enclose a vast pasture, cared nothing for any red man’s claim, provided they stood in with the government. A surveying party was sent out to run lines for fences.

Lone Wolf heard of these invaders while they were at work north of him, and learned in some mysterious way that they were to come down the Elk and cut through his camp. To his friend John, the interpreter, he sent these words:

“The white man must not try to build a fence across my land. I will fight if he does. Washington is not behind this thing. He would not build a fence through my lines without talking with me. I have sent to the agent of the Kiowas, he knows nothing about it—it is all a plan of the cattlemen to steal my lands. Tell them that we have smoked over this news—we have decided. This fence will not be built.”

When “Johnny Smoker” brought this stern message to the camp of the surveyors some of them promptly threw up their hands. Jim Bellows, scout and interpreter, was among these, and his opinion had weight, for he wore his hair long and posed as an Indian fighter of large experience.

“Boys,” he began, impressively, “we got to get out o’ here as soon as darkness covers us. We’re sixty miles from the fort, and only fifteen all told, and not half-armed. Old Lone Wolf holds over us, and we might as well quit and get help.”

This verdict carried the camp, and the party precipitately returned to Darlington to confer with the managers of the company.

Pierce, the chief man, had reasons for not calling on the military authorities. His lease was as yet merely a semi-private arrangement between the Secretary of the Interior and himself, and he feared the consequences of a fight with Lone Wolf—publicity, friction, might cause the withdrawal of his lease; therefore he called in John Seger, and said:

“Jack, can you put that line through?”

“I could, but I don’t want to. Lone Wolf is a good friend of mine, and I don’t want to be mixed up in a mean job.”

“Oh, come now—you mustn’t show the white flag. I need you. I want you to pick out five or six men of grit and go along and see that this line is run. I can’t be fooling around here all summer. Here’s my lease, signed by the Secretary, as you see. It’s all straight, and this old fool of an Indian must move.”

Jack reluctantly consented, and set to work to hire a half dozen men of whose courage he had personal knowledge. Among these was a man by the name of Tom Speed, a border man of great hardihood and experience. To him he said:

“Tom, I don’t like to go into this thing; but I’m hard up, and Pierce has given me the contract to build the fence if we run the line, and it looks like we got to do it. Now I wish you’d saddle up and help me stave off trouble. How does it strike you?”

“It’s nasty business, Jack; but I reckon we might better do it than let some tenderfoot go in and start a killin’. I’m busted flat, and if the pay is good, I jest about feel obliged to take it.”

So it happened that two avowed friends of the red man led this second expedition against Lone Wolf’s camp. Pierce sent his brother as boss, and with him went the son of one of the principal owners, a Boston man, by the name of Ross. Speed always called him “the Dude,” though he dressed quite simply, as dress goes in Roxbury. He wore a light suit of gray wool, “low-quartered shoes,” and a “grape box hat.” He was armed with a pistol, which wouldn’t kill a turtledove at fifteen feet. Henry Pierce, on the contrary, was a reckless and determined man.

Moving swiftly across the Divide, they took up the line on Elk Creek, and started directly toward Lone Wolf’s camp. As they were nearing the bend in the river where Lone Wolf was camped, a couple of young warriors came riding leisurely up from the south. They were very cordial in their greeting, and after shaking hands all around pleasantly inquired:

“What are you doing here?”

“Running a line to mark out the land which the cattlemen have leased of the Cheyennes.”

“We will go along and see where you are going,” they replied.

A couple of hours later, while they were still with the camp, two others came riding quietly in from the east. They said, “We are looking for horses,” and after shaking hands and asking Seger what the white men were doing, rode forward to join their companions, who seemed deeply interested in the surveyors and their instruments. Turning to Pierce, Jack said,

“You noticed that these four men were armed, I reckon?”

“Oh, yes, but they are all right. Didn’t you see how they shook hands all round? They’re just out hunting up ponies.”

“Yes, I saw that; but I noticed they had plenty of ammunition and that their guns were bright. Indians don’t hunt horses in squads, Mr. Pierce.”

Pierce smiled, giving Seger a sidewise glance. “Are you getting nervous? If you are, you can drop to the rear.”

Now Seger had lived for the larger part of his life among the red people, and knew their ways. He answered, quietly:

“There are only four of them now; you’ll see more of them soon,” and he pointed away to the north, where the heads of three mounted men were rising into sight over a ridge. These also proved to be young Kiowas, thoroughly armed, who asked the same question of the manager, and in conclusion pleasantly said,

“We’ll just go along and see how you do it.”

As they rode forward Seger uttered a more pointed warning.

“Mr. Pierce, I reckon you’d better make some better disposition of your men. They are all strung out here, with their guns on their backs, in no kind of shape to make a defense.”

Pierce was a little impressed by the scout’s earnestness, and took trouble to point out the discrepancy between “a bunch of seven cowardly Indians” and his own band of twenty brave and experienced men.

“That’s all right,” replied Seger; “but these seven men are only spies, sent out to see what we are going to do. We’ll have to buckle up with Lone Wolf’s whole band very soon.”

A few minutes later the seven young men rode quietly by and took a stand on a ridge a little in front of the surveyors. As he approached them, Seger perceived a very great change in their demeanor. They no longer smiled; they seemed grim, resolute, and much older. From a careless, laughing group of young men they had become soldiers—determined, disciplined, and dignified. Their leader, riding forth, held up his hand, and said,

“Stop; you must wait here till Lone Wolf comes.”

Meanwhile, in the little city of tents, a brave drama was being enacted. Lone Wolf, a powerful man of middle age, was sitting in council with his people. The long-expected had happened—the cattlemen had begun to mark off the red man’s land as their own, and the time had come either to submit or to repel the invaders. To submit was hard, to fight hopeless. Their world was still narrow, but they had a benumbing conception of the power and the remorseless greed of the white man.

_In the ’nineties the Comanche of the Fort Sill region was
considered a good type of the Indian of that day. Not only was
he the most expert horse-stealer on the plains—a title of honor
rather than reproach among Indians—but he was particularly
noteworthy for knowing more about a horse and horse-breeding than
any other Indian._

_Illustration from_
SOME INDIAN RIDERS
_by_ Colonel Theodore Ayrault Dodge, U.S.A.

_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _May, 1891_]

_Having made out the camp of the Crow Indians in the plain many
miles below, the Piegans are making their way slowly through the
mountains on foot, their object being to raid the Crow camp and
steal their war ponies._

_Illustration from_
SUN-DOWN’S HIGHER SELF
_by_ Frederic Remington

_Originally published in_
HARPER’S MAGAZINE, _November, 1898_]

“We can kill those who come,” said Lone Wolf. “They are few, but behind them are the soldiers and men who plough.”

At last old White Buffalo rose—he had been a great leader in his day, and was still much respected, though he had laid aside his chieftainship. He was bent and gray and wrinkled, but his voice was still strong, and his eyes keen.

“My friends, listen to me! During seventy years of my life I lived without touching the hand of a white man. I have always opposed warfare, except when it was necessary; but now the time has come to fight. Let me tell you what to do. I see here some thirty old men, who, like me, are nearing the grave. This thing we will do—we old men—we will go out to war against these cattlemen. We will go forth and die in defense of our lands. Big Wolf, come—and you, my brother, Standing Bear.”

As he called the roll of the gray old defenders, the old women broke into heart-piercing wailing, intermingled with exultant cries as some brave wife or sister caught the force of the heroic responses, which leaped from the lips of their fathers and husbands. A feeling of awe fell over the young men as they watched the fires flame once more in the dim eyes of their grandsires, and when all had spoken, Lone Wolf rose and stepped forth, and said,

“Very well; then I will lead you.”

“Whosoever leads us goes to certain death,” said White Buffalo. “It is the custom of the white men to kill the leader. You will fall at the first fire. I will lead.”

Lone Wolf’s face grew stern. “Am I not your war chief? Whose place is it to lead? If I die, I fall in combat for my land, and you, my children, will preserve my name in song. We do not know how this will end, but it is better to end in battle than to have our lands cut in half beneath our feet.”

The bustle and preparation began at once. When all was ready the thirty gray and withered old men, beginning a low humming song, swept through the camp and started on their desperate charge, Lone Wolf leading them. “Some of those who go will return, but if the white men fight, I will not return,” he sang, as they began to climb the hill on whose top the white man could be seen awaiting their coming.

Halfway up the hill they met some of the young warriors. “Go bring all the white men to the council,” said Lone Wolf.

As the white men watched the band leaving the village and beginning to ascend the hill, Speed turned and said: “Well, Jack, what do you think of it? Here comes a war party—painted and armed.”

“I think it’s about an even chance whether we ever cross the Washita again or not. Now, you are a married man with children, and I wouldn’t blame you if you pulled out right this minute.”

“I feel meaner about this than anything I ever did,” replied Speed, “but I am going to stay with the expedition.”

As Lone Wolf and his heroic old guard drew near, Seger thrilled with the significance of this strange and solemn company of old men in full war-paint, armed with all kinds of old-fashioned guns, and bows and arrows. As he looked into their wrinkled faces, the scout perceived that these grandsires had come resolved to die. He divined what had taken place in camp. Their exalted heroism was written in the somber droop of their lips. “We can die, but we will not retreat!” In such wise our grandsires fought.

Lone Wolf led his Spartan host steadily on till near enough to be heard without effort. He then halted, took off his war-bonnet and hung it on the pommel of his saddle. Lifting both palms to the sky, he spoke, and his voice had a solemn boom in it: “The Great Father is looking down on us. He sees us. He knows I speak the truth. He gave us this land. We are the first to inhabit it. No one else has any claim to it. It is ours, and I will go under the sod before any cattlemen shall divide it and take it away from us. I have said it.”

When this was interpreted to him, Pierce with a look of inquiry turned to Speed. “Tell the old fool this line is going to be run, and no old scarecrows like these can stop us.”

Seger, lifting his hand, signed: “Lone Wolf, you know me. I am your friend. I do not come to do you harm. I come to tell you you are wrong. All the land on my left hand the Great Father says is Cheyenne land. All on my right is Kiowa land. The Cheyennes have sold the right to their land to the white man, and we are here to mark out the line. We take only Cheyenne land.”

“I do not believe it,” replied the chief. “My agent knows nothing of it. Washington has not written anything to me about it. This is the work of robbers. Cattlemen will do anything for money. They are wolves. They shall not go on.”

“What does he say?” asked Pierce.

“He says we must not go on.”

“You tell him that he can’t run any such bluff on me with his old scarecrow warriors. This lines goes through.”

Lone Wolf, tense and eager, asked, “What says the white chief?”

“He says we must run the line.”

Lone Wolf turned to his guard. “You may as well get ready,” he said, quietly.

The old men drew closer together with a mutter of low words, and each pair of dim eyes selected their man. The clicking of their guns was ominous, and Pierce turned white.

Speed drew his revolver-holster round to the front. “They’re going to fight,” he said. “Every man get ready!”

But Seger, eager to avoid the appalling contest, cried out to Pierce:

“Don’t do that! It’s suicide to go on. These old men have come out to fight till death.” To Lone Wolf he signed: “Don’t shoot, my friend!—let us consider this matter. Put up your guns.”

Into the hot mist of Pierce’s wrath came a realization that these old men were in mighty earnest. He hesitated.

Lone Wolf saw his hesitation, and said: “If you are here by right, why do you not get the soldier chief to come and tell me? If the Great Father has ordered this—then I am like a man with his hands tied. The soldiers do not lie. Bring them!”

Seger grasped eagerly at this declaration. “There is your chance, Pierce. The chief says he will submit if the soldiers come to make the survey. Let me tell him that you will bring an officer from the fort to prove that the government is behind you.”

Pierce, now fully aware of the desperate bravery of the old men, was looking for a knothole of escape. “All right, fix it up with him,” he said.

Seger turned to Lone Wolf. “The chief of the surveyors says: ‘Let us be friends. I will not run the line.’”

“Ho, ho!” cried the old warriors, and their faces, grim and wrinkled, broke up into smiles. They laughed, they shook hands, while tears of joy filled their eyes. They were like men delivered from sentence of death. The desperate courage of their approach was now revealed even to Pierce. They were joyous as children over their sudden release from slaughter.

Lone Wolf, approaching Seger, dismounted, and laid his arm over his friend’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said, with grave tenderness, “I wondered why you were with these men, and my heart was heavy; but now I see that you were here to turn aside the guns of the cattlemen. My heart is big with friendship for you. Once more you have proved my good counselor.” And tears dimmed the fierceness of his eyes.

A week later, a slim, smooth-cheeked second lieutenant, by virtue of his cap and the crossed arms which decorated his collar, ran the line, and Lone Wolf made no resistance. “I have no fight with the soldiers of the Great Father,” he said: “they do not come to gain my land. I now see that Washington has decreed that this fence shall be built.” Nevertheless, his heart was very heavy, and in his camp his heroic old guard sat waiting, waiting!

BIG MOGGASEN

BIG MOGGASEN

Far in the Navajoe Country there are mountains almost unknown to the white man. Beginning on the dry penon spotted land they rise to pine clad hills where many springs are. Deep cañons with wondrous cliffs of painted stone cut athwart the ranges and in crevices of these walls, so it is said, are the stone houses of most ancient peoples. It is not safe for white men to go there—especially with pick and shovel, for Big Moggasen the Chief is keenly alive to the danger of permitting miners to peer about the rocks and break them up with hammers.

Because these mountains are unknown they are alluring and men often came to the agency for permission to enter the unknown land. To them the agent said, “No, I don’t want a hellabaloo raised about your death in the first place, and in the second place this reservation belongs to the Navajoes—you’d better prospect in some other country.”

Big Moggasen lived far away from the agency and was never seen even by the native police. He lived quite independent of the white man’s bounty. He drew no rations and his people paid no taxes. His young men tended the sheep, the old men worked in silver and his women wove blankets which they sold to the traders for coffee and flour. In such wise he lived from the time that his father’s death made him a chief.

In winter his people retreated to the valleys where they were sheltered from the wind—where warm hogans of logs and dirt protected them from the cold, and in the spring when the snow began to melt they drove their flocks of black and white sheep, mixed with goats, higher in the hills. In midsummer when the valleys were baking hot, the young herders urged their herd far up among the pines where good grass grew and springs of water gushed from every cañon.

Their joys equaled their sorrows. True the old were always perishing and birth was a pain, and the sheep sometimes starved because the snow covered the grass, and the children died of throat sickness, but of such is human life in all lands. For the most part they had plenty of meat to roast, and berries and pinon nuts to make it savory, and the young men always had hearts for dancing and the young girls pulled at their robes and every one laughed in the light of the dance-fire.

But at last the people began to complain. Women chattered their discontentment as they wove their blankets under the cedars and the old men gossiped in twos and threes before their camp fires. The children cried for coffee and cakes of flour, and at last Big Moggasen was forced to consider the discontent of his people. His brow was black as he rose in council to say: “What is the matter that you all grumble and whine like lame coyotes? Of old it was not so, you took what that sun spirits sent and were brave, now you have the hearts of foxes. What is it you want?”

Then Black Bear, a young chief man arose and said: “We will tell you, father. The Tinné to the south have a better time than we do. They have better clothing and coffee each day and wagons in which to ride or carry heavy loads. They have shovels with which to build hogans and to dig wells for their sheep. They have hats also which keep off the sun in summer and snow in winter. Why do we not have some of these good things also? We need wells and have nothing to dig them with. We go about bareheaded and the sun is hot on our hair. We grow tired of meat without drink. We think therefore that we should go down and see the white man and get some of these needed things.”

To this applauded speech old Big Moggasen sharply replied: “I have heard of these things for a long time, but a bear does not present me with his ears for love of me. Why does the white man give these things? I have trapped deer by such sly actions. It is for some reason that our cousins are fed on sweet things by the white man. They wish to make captives of us. They will steal our children and our wives. I have known of the ways of white men for many years. I am old and my face is wrinkled with thinking about him. I am not to be instructed of boys in such a matter.”

All the night long the talk raged. Big Moggasen stood like a rock in the wash of the current. He repeated again and again his arguments. “The white man does not give his coat to the Tinné without hope of pay. It is all a trick.”

At last he gave way and consented to go with two of his head men and see the Little Father and find out for himself the whole truth. He went reluctantly and with drawn brows for he was not at all sure of returning again. All the old people shared his feeling but Brown Bear and Four Fingers who had traveled much laughed openly and said: “See, they go like sick men. Their heads hang down toward their feet like sick ponies. They need some of the white man’s hot drink.”

They traveled hard to the south for three days coming into a hot dry climate, which they did not like. There was little grass and the sheep were running to and fro searching for food somewhere, even eating sagebrush. The women were everywhere making blankets, and each night when they stopped the men of the north had coffee to drink and the people told many strange things of the whites. The old men had heard these things before but they had not really believed them. Some of the women said, “My children are away at the white man’s big house. They wear the white man’s clothes and eat three times each day from white dishes. They are learning the ways of the white man.”

“I like it not,” said Big Moggasen, “it is their plan to steal them and make them work for the white man. Why do they do these things?”

One woman held up a big round silver piece, “You see this? My man digs for the white man far in the south where the big iron horse runs and he gets one of these every day. Therefore we have coffee and flour often—and shoes and warm clothing.”

Big Moggasen shook his head and went on to the south. He came at last to the place where the soldiers used to be in the olden time and behold there were some big new red houses and many boys and girls and ten white people, and all about stood square hogans in which Tinné also lived. At the door of one of these hogans stood a white-haired man and he said:

“Friend, I do not know you but you are welcome. Come in and eat.”

The old man entered and in due time Big Moggasen told his name and his errand and his fears.

To this White-hairs replied: “It is natural for you to feel so. Once I felt the same but the white man has not harmed me yet. My children have learned to speak his tongue and to write. They are happier than they were and that makes me happy. I do not understand the white people. They are strange. Their thoughts are not our thoughts but they are wonder-workers. I am in awe of them. They are wiser than the spirits. They do things which it is impossible for us to do, therefore I make friends with them. They have done me no harm. My children are fond of them and so I am content.”

All the evening the old men from the northern mountains sat arguing, questioning, shaking their heads. At last they said, “Very well, in the morning we will go to the Little Father and hear what he has to say. To us it now seems that these strange people have thrown dust in your eyes and that they are scheming to make pack-ponies of you.”

In the morning they drank again of the white man’s coffee with sweet in it and ate of the white man’s bread and it was all very seductive to the tongue. Then old White-hairs led them to the Little Father’s room.

The Little Father was a small man who wore bits of glass before his eyes. He was short-spoken and his voice was high and shrill but calm.

“What is it?” he said to White-hairs in the Tinné tongue.

“These are they from the mountains,” replied White-hairs. “This is Big Moggasen.”

The Little Father rose and held out his hand, “How is your health?”