Old Indian Days

by Charles A. Eastman

The dreadful day of massacre was almost ended. The terrified Sioux women and children had fled up the river before the approaching troops. Long shafts of light from the setting sun painted every hill; one side red as with blood, the other dark as the shadow of death. A cloud of smoke from burning homes hung over the beautiful river. Even the permanent dwellings of the Indians were empty, and all the teepees which had dotted with their white cones the west bank of the Minnesota had disappeared. Here and there were small groups of warriors returning from their bloody work, and among them was Tawasuota.

He looked long at the spot where his home had stood; but it was gone, and with it his family. Ah, the beautiful country of his ancestors! he must depart from it forever, for he knew now that the white man would occupy that land. Sadly he sang the spirit-song, and made his appeal to the “Great Mystery,” excusing himself by the plea that what he had done had been in the path of duty. There was no glory in it for him; he could wear no eagle feather, nor could he ever recount the deed. It was dreadful to him—the thought that he had fired upon an unarmed and helpless man.

The chief soldier followed the broad trail of the fleeing host, and after some hours he came upon a camp. There were no war-songs nor dances there, as was their wont after a battle, but a strange stillness reigned. Even the dogs scarcely barked at his approach; everything seemed conscious of the awful carnage of the day.

He stopped at a tent and inquired after his beautiful wife and two little sons, whom he had already trained to uphold their father’s reputation, but was directed to his mother’s teepee.

“Ah, my son, my son, what have you done?” cried his old mother when she saw him. “Come in, come in; let us eat together once more; for I have a foreboding that it is for the last time. Alas, what have you done?”

Tawasuota silently entered the tent of his widowed mother, and his three sisters gave him the place of honor.

“Mother, it is not right to blame our brother,” said the eldest. “He was the chief’s head soldier; and if he had disobeyed his orders, he would have been called a coward. That he could not bear.”

Food was handed him, and he swallowed a few mouthfuls, and gave back the dish.

“You have not yet told me where she is, and the children,” he said with a deep sigh.

“My son, my son, I have not, because it will give you pain. I wanted you to eat first! She has been taken away by her own mother to Faribault, among the white people. I could not persuade them to wait until you came. Her people are lovers of the whites. They have even accepted their religion,” grieved the good old mother.