CHAPTER VIII.
The Doctor’s Adventure.—Indian Dirge.
When we had at first collected together in the chief lodge, we found that one of the party, Dr. M——, was not present. There were many conjectures as to his absence, but after a while he made his appearance. He was considerably out of breath, and related to us an adventure which he had just met with, or rather which he had forced himself into. He had remained in the lodge after we left it, to attend at our last feast. Having nothing in particular to employ him, he slapped his white beaver, which turned up all around, upon the top of his head, girded his deer-skin hunting shirt closely around him, and thrusting his hand into his breeches-pocket, set out upon a voyage of discovery. He had not travelled far before his attention was attracted by a low chanting song, proceeding from one of the lodges which stood a little apart from the others, and near the edge of the bluff, overlooking the river.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he walked towards it, entered the low, funnel shaped mouth, and peeped over the bear-skin which hung before the inner entrance, opening immediately into the lodge.
A large fire was burning cheerfully in the centre. Over it hung a kettle which was kept constantly stirred by an old Indian, dressed in a buffalo robe, whitened with chalk, and ornamented with hieroglyphic symbols. As he stirred he hummed a low chant, occasionally raising his voice until he caused it to sound loudly through the whole building, and then again sinking it, until it reached the ear of the listener, in low and almost inaudible murmurs. There was something wild, and rather forbidding in the features of this individual.
A few steps from the fire, lay two forms, completely covered by a heavy buffalo robe; and bending over these stood another Indian, dressed similar to the first. He too, was humming a low song, at intervals dancing to a slow measure round the robe.
The doctor suspected that these were Medecin-Men,[G] and that they were performing some of the miraculous cures, which they boast of in the village, and which give them a reputation for superior sanctity among the credulous Indians, who believe them to hold communion with the Great Spirit. Their ability to perform these cures, arises frequently, from their superior knowledge, of the hidden medicinal virtues of different herbs. By jumbling with their healing art, an unintelligible species of mystic mummery, and by pretending to hold a direct intercourse with the Deity, the cure of their patients is attributed more to his immediate interference, than to any virtue of the medicines which they have received.
[G] Every tribe of Indians has its Medecin-Men. They are a kind of priest or prophet. Their influence, however, is very variable, and depends upon the popularity which they may have acquired with the nation. As long as they confine their prophecies to those events, which they know will be agreeable, so long are they regarded with high veneration; but as soon as they commence predictions of evil—or attempt to reveal unpalatable truths, their influence wanes, themselves are shunned, and their predictions scorned.
They are also skilled in the virtues of herbs, and act as physicians in healing the sick. From this they have derived the name of Medecin, (signifying in French, physician.)
After humming round them, the Medecin raised the edge of the robe, exposing the naked heads and shoulders of two old, shrivelled squaws. The person at the fire, then reached to the other a large dipper, filled with part of the contents of the kettle, which was greedily swallowed by the squaws. The robe was then thrown over them, and again the Medecin commenced his hum and dance.
Now the Doctor was a curious man, and although he saw every thing that was going on in the inside of the lodge, as distinctly as if he had been there himself, still he was determined to see more. For a moment he paused to reflect, whether it would be prudent to intrude upon these mystic ceremonies, and risk incurring the anger of such influential persons, as he knew these Medecin-men to be. But prudence was a quality with which he was not much troubled; so without more hesitation he kicked up the bear-skin, and stepped boldly into the lodge, in front of the two priests.
For a moment they gazed at him, as if they doubted their senses. Their eyes flashed fire, and raising their voices, they made the lodge ring with their yells. At this unusual sound, the two old women raised the robe, peeped from under it, and seeing the white man, added their voices to the chorus.
After gazing for a moment, the Doctor attempted to approach the fire, but the Indians warned him back, ordering him with menacing gestures, to leave the lodge. These he pretended to misunderstand, at the same time attempting to enter into a parley with them, in order to gain as much time as possible for observation. Still they placed themselves before him, sternly ordering him to depart. He attempted to explain to them that he was a Medecin-Man in his own country, and wished to be acquainted with their secrets, and that in return he would communicate his. But it was useless; either they did not understand him, or they did not value his information, for they persisted in their ordering him to quit the lodge. The Doctor then determining, at all events, to obtain a look into the kettle, darted round them, and made for the fire.
There was now something of menace in their faces; and one of them rushing to the side of the lodge, seized a large club, resting against one of the pillars. The Doctor took to flight, and stopped not, until he arrived, most villanously out of wind, at the chief’s lodge, where he narrated his adventure.
After this I strolled out with one of my companions. It was so late that there were few of the Indians stirring. Here and there, we encountered individuals sitting upon the high bank, gazing upon the gliding waters of the Platte. It seemed as if they were engaged in a species of devotion, for they did not heed our approach, but sat humming a low, a very low muttered song. We passed them, and continued our course along the high bluff, looking down upon the Platte, which was dimly seen, reflecting the stars that twinkled upon its restless water. The prairie insects were piping their evening calls, and the creaking of the thousand creatures, who were hid in its long matted herbage, told that they were conscious their hour of song and revelry had come. Occasionally we heard the long howl of a wolf, softened by the distance, and now and then some serenading owl, would raise his voice from the dark fringe of trees, which drooped over the opposite bank of the river, and send forth a long quavering whoop.
We strolled along the bank for half a mile, glad to be free from the well-meant though tedious attentions of our hosts. At length, however, we turned for the purpose of retracing our steps, when our attention was attracted by a low, mournful cry, from the midst of a number of small mounds, at a short distance, the burial ground of the village. We approached the spot so cautiously, as not to disturb the person who was stationed there. Upon the top of one of the graves, a large mound covered with grass, was lying an Indian girl. Her buffalo robe had escaped from her shoulders, and her long dishevelled black hair, was mingled with the grass of the prairie. Her bosom was resting upon the sod, and her arms extended, as if embracing the form of the being who was mouldering beneath.
Believing that she was some female belonging to the tribe, singing a dirge over the grave of some departed friend, we listened attentively to her song. At one moment, it would rise in the air with a plaintive sound, as if she was dwelling with mournful tenderness, upon the virtues of the deceased. At times, she would seem to speak of the feelings of his heart; at others, the note would seem to be one of war, of battle; and then her song would burst from her, with the startling energy of a person, who was in the midst of the scene itself, and was acting over the feats of the silent dead. At these moments, she raised her head, and her whole frame seemed swelling with the inspiration of her theme; but in the very midst of this energetic burst of enthusiasm, the chord of some more mournful recollection would be touched, and the song would sink from its high, and ardent tone, to a note of wo, so despairing, that it appeared as if the sluices of her heart were opened, and the deep-hidden stream of her affection, was flowing out in the mournful melody.
After a short time she rose from the ground, and wrapping her robe round her, walked slowly towards the village. It was not until she was completely lost to our sight, that we left our sheltering place, and followed in the direction which she had taken. We had heard the Indian dirge sung before by different females, of the tribe, but as we considered them mere pieces of formality, we had passed by, without heeding them. But in this lonely being, there was an air of deep desolation, as she lay upon the grave, and a hopeless, despairing tone, in her low, melodious voice, that laid bare the recesses of a withered heart.
We were so much interested in her, that we had accurately noted her appearance, and now hurried towards our lodge, with the intention of finding out her history from our interpreter—a matter of no great difficulty, as the history of every individual of the village is known to all. We found the half-breed interpreter sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in his blanket-coat, with his elbow resting upon his knee, and his hand supporting his chin. There was an air of iron gravity and even sternness in his deep-marked features that denoted a man not prone to yield to womanish emotion. We walked up to him, and by means of a Frenchman, (for he spoke no English) inquired the history of the girl—at the same time narrating the scene in the prairie.
If it had been in the nature of his face to wear a more scornful expression than it usually did, the smile of contempt which passed over his weather-beaten features, as we related our story, would have added to it. For a moment, he seemed surprised—then added, that she was a squaw, who resided in the adjoining lodge, and but a short time before, he had heard her say to her mother, that as she had nothing else to do, she believed she would go and take a bawl over her dead brother’s grave. He had been killed five years before.
Here was a waste of sympathy. We were vexed that we had suffered our feelings to be enlisted in the mock misery of this girl, who was merely performing a customary mummery. There was an expression of enjoyment in the keen eye of the half-breed, as he watched the disappointed expression of our faces. A grim smile played over his reddish-brown face, and I believe if he had ever been guilty of such an action, he would have indulged in a loud explosion of merriment.
At that moment, the broad voice of our black cook, announced that the supper was ready. Discarding both the girl, and her griefs, from our minds, we seated ourselves upon the floor, preparatory to commencing the almost hopeless task, of masticating a supper of dried buffalo’s flesh, which had been boiled for only two hours.
When we had finished, it was late in the evening—the Indians had ceased moving through the lodge, and wrapping themselves in their shaggy robes, had composed their forms upon the clay floor, for slumber.
The servants now busied themselves in spreading out our bear-skins. This completed, each retired to his couch, and in a short time a dead silence reigned throughout the building.