The chiefs stood looking on, and, when occasion required, enforcing the orders of the floor-managers, who were our teamsters, turned, for the nonce, to dancing masters. I doubt if they would have been half as zealous in a Sabbath school. But since dancing is a part of American civilization, acknowledged as such by good authority, and since Indians have a natural fondness for amusements, and cannot be made to abandon such recreation, perhaps it was well that our teamster boys were qualified to teach them in this, though they were not for teaching higher lessons. At our request we were entertained with an Indian play. No phase of civilized life exists that has not its rude counterpart in Indian life. This entertainment of which I am writing was given by professional players, who evinced real talent. All the people took great interest in the preparations, inasmuch as we had honored them by making the request. The theatre was large and commodious, well lighted with huge log fires. The foot-lights were of pitch wood. The boards were sanded years before, and had been often carpeted with velvet green or snowy white. The “Green-rooms” were of white tent cloths, fashioned for the purpose by brown hands, and were in close proximity to the scene. The front seats were “reserved” for invited guests. The rest was “standing room.” Circling round in dusky rows stood the patient throng. Nor stamps, nor whistles, nor other hideous noises gave evidence of bad-breeding or undue impatience. No police force was necessary there to compel the audience to respect the players or each other’s rights.
As the time to begin comes round a silence pervades
the assembly. No huge bill-posters, or “flyers,” or other programme had given even an inkling of the play. This was as it should be everywhere, for then no promises were made to be broken, and no fault could be found, whether the play was good or bad. The knowing ones, aware, by signs we did not see, that soon the performance would commence, by motion of hand or eye would say, “Be still.”
Now we hear a female voice, soft and low, singing, and coming from some unseen lodge. It grows more distinct each moment and more plaintive, and finally the singer comes into the circle with a half dance, the music of her voice broken by occasional sobs, makes the circuit of the stage, growing weary and sobbing oftener; she at last drops down in weary, careless abandonment. This maiden was attired in showy dress, of wild Indian costume, ornamented with beads and tinsel. Her cheeks and hair were painted with vermilion. The frock she wore was short, reaching only to the knee. Close-fitting garments of scarlet cloth, richly trimmed with beads, and fringe of deer-skin she wore upon her ankles, with feet encased in dainty moccasins. When she sat down, the picture was that of one tasting the bitter with the sweets of life, in which joy and sorrow in alternate promptings came and went. The sobbing would cease while she gathered flowers that grew within her reach, arranging them in bunches, seemingly absorbed in other thoughts, occasionally giving vent in half-stifled, child-like sobs, or muttering in broken sentences, with parting lips, complaints against her cruel father, giving emphasis with her head to her half-uttered speech.
Following the eyes of our Indian interpreter, whose quick ear had caught the sound of coming steps, we saw a fine-looking young brave enter the ring, crouching and silent as a panther’s tread, and, scanning the surroundings, he espies the maiden. We hear a sound so low that we imagine it is but the chirping of a tiny bird; but it catches the maiden’s ear, who raises her head and listens, waiting for the sound, and then relapses into half-subdued silence. Meanwhile the young brave gazes, with bright eyes and parted lips, on the maiden. Again he chirps. Now she looks around and catches his eye, but does not scream, or make other noises, until, by pantomimic words, they understand they are alone.
The warrior breaks out in a wild song of love, and, keeping time with his voice, with short, soft, dancing step, he passes round the maiden, who plays coquette, and seems to be fully on her ground. He grows more earnest, and raises his voice, quickens his steps, and, passing close before her, offers his love, and proposes marriage, speaks her name, and, turning quickly again, passes back and forth, each time pleading his case more earnestly, until the maiden, woman-like, feigns resentment, and he, poor fellow, thinks she means what she does not, and slowly and sadly, in apparent despair, retreats to the farther side of the stage. When he came upon the scene, clad in his dress of deer-skins, hunting-shirt and leggings, with moccasins trimmed with beads and scarlet cloth, his long hair ornamented with eagle feathers, and neck encircled with the claws of wild cayotes, his arms with a score of rings, his scarlet blanket girded round his waist, and reaching nearly to the ground,—swinging
to his back, his quiver full of painted arrows, whose feathered ends shone above his shoulder; his left hand clasping an Indian bow, while his right held his blanket in rude drapery around him,—he was the very image of the real live young Indian brave. But now, with blanket drawn over his shoulder, covering his arms, while the feathers in his hair and the arrows were held tightly to his head and neck, he seemed the neglected lover he thought himself:
Poor Ke-how-la, you do not appear to know that Ganweta is playing prude with you. Ke-how-la breaks out afresh, in song and dance, and, circling around the maiden, gives vent to his wounded pride, declares that he will wed another, and, as if to retire, he turns from her. Ganweta, as all her sex will do, discovers that she has carried the joke too far, springs up, and, throwing a bunch of flowers over his head, begins to tell, in song, that she dare not listen to his words, because her father demands a price for her that Ke-how-la cannot pay, since he is poor in horses; but that, if left to choice, she would be his wife, and gather roots, and dress deer-skins, and be his slave.
Ke-how-la listens with head half turned, and then replies that he will carry her away until her father’s anger shall be passed.
Ganweta tells how brave and strong her father is, and that he intends to sell her to another.