THE BLOOD LUST
John Seger, having been detailed to run a mail route across the country from Fort Reno to Camp Supply, selected his friend Little Robe to be his guide. Little Robe was Cheyenne, a tall, grave and rather taciturn man, much respected in his tribe. Just as they were about to start he said to his employer, with gentle decision:
“I don’t know you—you don’t know me. I am Cheyenne, you are white man. It is best that we take no weapons along. Each of us may carry a knife, to use about the camp, but no guns.”
This struck Seger as a bit risky, but, realizing that his life was in the red man’s hands anyway, he decided to accept. “Very well,” said he. “If you don’t need a gun, I don’t.”
Driving a span of horses and carrying a meager camping outfit Seger set forth hopefully. It was in the days of the Star Routers, and this was a bogus line, but neither he nor Robe knew it. They were indeed very much in earnest.
The weather was beautiful, and the prairies glorious. Larks were whistling, plovers crying. “I never enjoyed a ride more in my life,” said Seger, and, as for Little Robe, he proved a capital companion. His talk was most instructive. He never once became coarse or commonplace, and after the second day Seger trusted him perfectly—though he went to his blanket the first night with some apprehension.
He soon saw why Robe had been recommended to him. His knowledge of the whole country was minute. Every stream suggested a story, every hill discovered a memory. As he came to like his white companion, he talked more and more freely of his life as a warrior, telling tales quite as Seger would have done had he been able to speak of his part in the Vicksburg campaign. To the chief, every enterprise of his career was honorable. It’s all in the point of view.
He knew the heavens, too, and could lay his course almost as well by night as by day, and Seger soon came to have a genuine admiration as well as a feeling of affection for him. He was handy as a woman around the camp kettle, and never betrayed weariness or anger or doubt.
One night as they rode down to camp in the valley of a small stream Robe looked about him with more than usual care, and a perceptible shadow fell over his face. “I know this place,” he said, and Seger could see that he was saddened by some recollection connected with it.
He said no more till after they had eaten their supper, and were sitting beside the smouldering fire; then he began slowly to utter his mind.
“Aye, friend, I know this place. It is filled with sad thoughts. I camped here many years ago. I was a young warrior then and reckless, but my wife was with me, and my little daughter.” His lips took on a sweetness almost feminine as he paused. “She was very lovely, my child. She had lived five years and she could swim like an otter. She used to paddle about in this little pool. Several days I camped here debating whether to go on into the south country or not. You see, friend, I was in need of horses and in those days it was the custom for the young warriors of my tribe to make raids among the peaked hats, whom you call Mexicans, in order to drive off their horses. This was considered brave and honorable, and I was eager to go and enrich myself.
“My wife did not wish me to take this journey. She wept when I told her my plan. ‘Do not go,’ she said, ‘stay with me!’ Then I began to consider taking her and my little daughter with me—for I did not like to be separated from them even for a day. My child was so pretty, her cheeks were so round and her eyes so bright. She had little dimpled hands, and when she put her arms about my neck my heart was like wax.”
The old warrior’s voice trembled as he reached this point in his story, and for a long time he could not go on. At last he regained composure. “It was foolish to make the raid—it was very wrong to take my little girl, but I could not leave her behind. Therefore one day with my wife and daughter and my three brothers, I set out into the southwest, resolute to win some ponies.
“After the first two days we traveled at night and camped in a concealed place during the day. Slowly we stole forward, until at last we came near a small village of The Peaked Hats, where some fine horses and mules were reported to be had by advancing with boldness and skill.
“My own ponies were poor and weak and as I saw the horses about this village I became very eager to own some of them. Especially did I desire a fine sorrel mare. It was not easy to get her, for these people had been many times raided by the Comanches and were very careful to round up their best animals at night and put them into a high corral. Nevertheless, I told my brothers to be ready and that I myself would adventure to the gate, open it, and drive forth our prizes.
“My wife begged me to give up my plan. She wept and clung to my arm. ‘It will lead to evil, I feel it,’ she said. ‘You will be killed.’ But I had given my word. I could not fail of it. ‘Take my wife,’ I said sternly to my younger brother. ‘Take her and the little one and ride northward toward that black butte. I will meet you there at daybreak,’ I said.
“My wife took our little daughter in her arms, and my brother led them away. I could hear my wife moaning as she rode into the dark night——”
Again the deep voice faltered, as the memory of this parting wail came back to him, but he soon resumed quietly: “Slowly I crept forward. I reached the corral, but could not find the gate. It was on the side nearest the village and as I crept round feeling of the poles, the dogs began to bark. I kept on, however, and at last found and tore down the bars. Entering the corral, I began to lash the horses with my lariat. As the sorrel was about to pass me I caught her and leaped upon her back. In a few moments I was driving the whole herd like a whirlwind across the plain.
“My brother joined me and we tried to turn the herd northward, but the leaders gave me great trouble. At last some of them escaped and returned to the village. We heard shouting, we were pursued. Roping and tying some of the best of the ponies we could overtake, we drove them before us toward the butte, well pleased with our capture.
“We traveled hard, overtaking my brother and my wife and baby girl, but thereafter we were unable to make speed on account of the child and its mother, and on account of the horses, two of which were fine but very stubborn. I could not consent to set them loose though I knew I was endangering my dear ones by delay. It was very foolish and I was made to suffer for my folly.
“The Mexicans must have had other horses hidden and ready saddled, for they came swiftly on our trail and before long they began to shoot. Almost the first shot they fired struck my wife in the back, and passing entirely through her body wounded my little daughter. I turned then and began to shoot in return and my pursuers fell back. We abandoned all the horses but two and when my wife told me of her hurt I took my little girl in my arms and rode fast for a place of concealment. My wife was badly crippled and got upon another horse, and followed me closely.
“That day we spent in swiftest flight—using every precaution to conceal our trail. I did not know how sadly mangled my child was, but she moaned with pain and that nearly broke my heart, and yet I dared not stop. I realized how crazy I had been to bring her into this land, but my repentance came too late. At every stream I gave her water to drink and bathed her wound, but it was of no avail—she died in my arms—”
The warrior stopped abruptly. His lips quivered and his eyes were dim with memories too sad for speech. For some minutes he sat in silence, the tears rolling down his browned and wrinkled cheeks. At last he brokenly resumed.
“Friend, we buried her there in that lonely land and kept on our way. But thereafter I could not sleep. When I closed my eyes I could see my baby’s little round face and feel her soft arms about my neck, and my heart was full of bitterness. I longed for revenge. My blood cried out for the death of the man whose bullet had taken her life. Each night in our homeward way my heart burned hot in my bosom, flaming with hate. It was like a live ember in my flesh.
“My woman who knew what was in my mind begged me not to return to the south—but I shut my ears to her pleading. I assembled my clan round me. I called upon those who wished to help me revenge the death of my daughter to join me. Many stepped forth and at last with a band of brave young men I swept back and fell like a whirlwind on that town.
“When I left it, only a heap of ashes could be seen. Of all who inhabited that village not one escaped me—not one.” Then with a face of bronze and with biblical brevity of phrase he concluded: “After that I slept.”
THE REMORSE OF WAUMDISAPA
THE REMORSE OF WAUMDISAPA[2]
There was dissension in the camp of Waumdisapa. Mattowan, his cousin, jealous of his chief’s great fame, was conspiring to degrade and destroy him.
Waumdisapa, called “King of the Plains” by those border men who knew him best, was famed throughout the valley of the Platte. Grave, dignified, serious of face and commanding of figure, he rose intellectually above all his people as his splendid body towered in the dance, a natural leader of men. His people were still living their own life, happy in their own lands, free to come and go, sweeping from north to south as the bison moved, needing nothing of the white man but his buffalo guns and his ammunition. It was in these days that women emptied the flour of their rations upon the grass in order to use the cloth of the sack, careless of the food of the paleface which was considered enervating and destructive to warriors and hunters.
Yet even in those days Waumdisapa was friendly with the traders, and like the famous Sitting Bull of the north, was only anxious to keep his people from corrupting contact with the whites, jealous to hold his lands and resolute to maintain his tribal traditions. His was the true chief’s heart—all his great influence was used to maintain peace and order. He carried no weapon—save the knife with which he shaved his tobacco and cut his meat, and on his arm dangled the beaded bag in which the sacred pipe of friendship and meditation lay, and wherever he walked turmoil ceased.
For these reasons he was greatly beloved by his people. No one feared him—not even the children of the captive Ute woman who served Iapa—and yet he had gained his preëminence by virtue of great deeds as well as by strong and peaceful thoughts. He was a moving orator also—polished and graceful of utterance, conciliatory and placating at all times. Often he turned aside the venomous hand of revenge and cooled the hot heart of war. In tribal policies he was always on the side of justice.
Mattowan was a brave warrior, too, a man respected for his horsemanship, his skill with death-dealing weapons, and distinguished, too, for his tempestuous eloquence—but he was also feared. His hand was quick against even his brothers in council. He could not tolerate restraint. Checked now and again by Waumdisapa, he had darkened with anger, and in his heart a desire for revenge was smoldering like a hidden fire in the hollow of a great tree.
He was ambitious. “Why should Waumdisapa be chief? Am I not of equal stature, of equal fame as a warrior?” So he argued among his friends, spreading disaffection. “Waumdisapa is growing old,” he sneered. “He talks for peace, for submission to the white man. His heart is no longer that of a warrior. He sits much in his tepee. It is time that he were put away.”
When the chief heard these words he was very sad and very angry. He called a council at once to consider what should be done with the traitor and the whole tribe trembled with excitement and awe. What did it mean when the two most valiant men of the tribe stood face to face like angry panthers?
When the head men were assembled Waumdisapa, courteous, grave and self-contained, placed Mattowan at his left and old Mato, the hereditary chief, upon his right, and took his seat with serene countenance. Outside the council tepee the women sat upon the ground—silent, attentive, drawn closer to the speakers than they were accustomed to approach. The children, even the girl babies, crouched beside their mothers—their desire for play swallowed up in a dim sense of some impending disaster. No feast was being prepared, smiles were few and furtive. No one knew what was about to take place, but a foreboding of trouble chilled them.
The chief lighted his pipe and passed it to Mato who put it to his lips, drew a deep whiff and passed it to his neighbor. So it went slowly from man to man while Waumdisapa sat, in silence, with downcast eyes, awaiting its return.
As the pipe came to Mattowan he, the traitor, passed it by with a gesture of contempt.
The chief received it again with a steady hand, but from his lowered eye-lids a sudden flame shot. Handing the pipe to Mato he rose, and looking benignantly, yet sadly, round the circle, began very quietly:
“Brothers, the Lakotans are a great people, just and generous to their foes, faithful to the laws of their tribe. I am your chief. You all know how I became so. Some of you knew my father—he was a great warrior——”
“Aye, so he was,” said Mato.
“He was a wise and good man also,” continued Waumdisapa.
“Aye, aye,” chorused several of the old men.
“He brought me up in the good way. He taught me to respect my elders and to honor my chief. He told me the stories of our tribe. He taught me to pray—and to shoot. He taught me to dance, to sing the ancient songs, and when I was old enough he led me to battle. My skill with the spear and the arrow I drew from him, he gave me courage and taught me forbearance. When he died you made me leader in his place and carefully have I followed his footsteps. I have kept the peace among my people. I have given of my abundance to the poor. I have not boasted or spoken enviously because my father would be ashamed of me if I did so. Now the time has come to speak plainly. I hear that my brother who sits beside me—Mattowan, the son of my mother’s sister—is envious. I hear that he wishes to see me put aside as one no longer fit to rule.”
He paused here and the tension was very great in all the assembly, but Mattowan sullenly looked out over the heads of the women—his big mouth close set.
The chief gently said: “This shall be as you say. If you, my brothers, head men of the Lakotans, say I am old and foolish, then Waumdisapa will put aside his chief’s robes and go forth to sit outside the council circle.” His voice trembled as he uttered this resolution—but drawing himself to proud height he concluded in a firm voice: “Brothers, I have spoken.”
As he took his seat a low mournful sound passed among the women, and the mother of Mattowan began to sing a bitter song of reproach—but some one checked her, as old Mato rose. He was small, with the face of a fox, keen, shrewd, humorous. After the usual orator’s preamble, he said: “Brothers, this is very foolish. Who desires to have Mattowan chief? Only a few boys and grumblers. What has he done to be chief? Nothing that others have not done. He is a crazy man. His heart is bad. Would he bring dissension among us? Let us rebuke this braggart. For me I am old—I sit here only by courtesy of Waumdisapa, but for me I want no change. I do not wish to make a wolf the war chief of my people. I have spoken.”
As the pipe went round and one by one the head men rose to praise and defend their chieftain, Mattowan became furious. He trembled and his face grew ferocious with his almost ungovernable hate and disappointment—plainly the day was going against him.
At last he sprang up, forgetting all form—all respect. “You are all squaws,” he roared. “You are dogs licking the bones this whining coward throws to you——”
He spoke no more. With the leap of a panther his chief fell upon him and with one terrible blow sunk his knife to the hilt in his heart. Smitten with instant palsy Mattowan staggered a moment amid the moans of the women, and the hoarse shouts of the men, and fell forward, face down in the very center of the council circle.
An Indian Brave
Illustration from
A BUNCH OF BUCKSKINS
by Frederic Remington
Originally published by
R. H. Russell, 1901
For a minute Waumdisapa, tense and terrible in his anger, stood looking down upon his fallen calumniator—rigid, menacing, ready to strike again—then his vast muscles relaxed, his eyes misted with tears and with a moan of remorse and anguish he lifted his blanket till his quivering lips were covered—crying hoarsely, “I have killed my brother. I am no longer fit to be your chief.”
Thereupon dropping his embroidered pipe-bag and his ceremonial fan upon the ground he turned and walked slowly away with staggering, shaking limbs, onward through the camp, out upon the plain and there, throwing himself down upon the ground, began to chant a wild song of uncontrollable grief.
All night long he lay thus, mourning like a wounded lion, and his awed people dared not approach. Over and over, with anguished voice, he cried: “Father pity me. My hand is red with my brother’s blood. I have broken the bond of the council circle. My heart is black with despair!—Pity me!—My brother!”
In the morning he returned to his tepee, moving like an old man, bent and nerveless, avoiding all eyes, ignoring all greetings—and when next the council met, Waumdisapa, clad in rags, with dust upon his head, silently took his place outside the council circle—self-accused and self-deposed.
The sight of their chief moving so humbly to a seat among the obscure, deeply affected the women, and a wailing song ran among them like an autumn wind—but Waumdisapa’s head was bowed to hide his quivering lips.
A DECREE OF COUNCIL