Has Relic of One Bald-headed Indian.
Bart J. Marrs, of Hailey, Idaho, has in his possession a valued keepsake in the shape of the scalp lock from the head of a forgotten Sioux chieftain.
Most relics of the long ago are valued from their intimate relationship to the forbears of their present-day owner. Particularly is this true when the relic symbolizes some event of momentous importance to the original possessor.
The trouble with many souvenirs of the misty past is that they may have been made but a few days ago in Chicago or in Connecticut and placed on the market, judiciously, of course, at so much per. With Judge Marrs’ memento, however, is a family tradition which not only proves its authenticity but lends it an added interest.
Redskins who have seen the scalp of Oogley Moogley[Pg 64] in the judge’s home are perfectly satisfied that it is extremely bad medicine to attempt the rough stuff with members of the Marrs clan.
Old Oogley Moogley was at one time taken back East to hold converse with the Great White Father in behalf of his fellow tribesmen. At least, so runs the tradition.
While honoring the honorific city of Boston with his august copper-colored presence, he was made much of by the supercultured, hyphenated ladies of the hub of the universe. One lady, whose talents and inclinations lay in the direction of poesy and letters, was greatly impressed with the æsthetic suggestion conveyed by the name of “Oogley Moogley.”
That gentleman’s dignified bearing and his majestic manner of declaiming “Ugh!” on the slightest provocation were equally impressive and awe-inspiring.
The lady resolved to come to the Golden West, look up the antecedents of the famous chieftain, and trace his personal handle back to its philological root. This for the sweet sake of poesy.
It was only after an hour’s converse with the oldest inhabitant, several futile calls on the Indian agent and the Catholic father of the post, that she learned from an educated Indian that “Oogley Moogley” was simply the warrior’s distorted pronunciation of the epithet “Ugly Mug,” bestowed upon him by the whites. Her dudgeon was up, likewise her dander, and she lost no time in leaving the post and traversing the waste places that lay on the road to Boston.
But Oogley came to an ignominious end. Several Sioux uprisings had taken place in his neighborhood within short periods. On one of his nocturnal prowls, peaceful or not it was never learnt, Oogley ran up against the member of the Marrs family who put the Indian sign on him.
Advancing stealthily to the Marrs cabin, he put his head through a white man’s window for the last time. It may have been that he was desirous only of obtaining a slice of New England pie, a strip of bacon, or begging the loan of a bit of chewing tobacco. The owner of the cabin didn’t ask. He simply put his own construction on the act, drew his trusty bowie knife out of his boot, and grabbed Oogley’s scalp lock in one hand; and one fell blow spelled “finis” for the affair. At the same time, future generations of the Marrs family were enriched by the acquisition of a relic that is a relic.
And Judge Marrs, in answer to the query made famous a few years ago by extensive advertising of a remedy for hairless-headed gentlemen, “Did you ever see a bald-headed Indian?” truthfully replies:
“No, but my granddaddy did.”