The youth are very fond of war. They have no other ambition, and pant for the glory of battle, longing for the notes of the war song, that they may rush in and win the feathers of a brave. They listen to the stories of the old men, as they recall the stirring scenes of their youth, or sing their war songs, which form only a boasting recapitulation of their daring and bravery. They yearn for the glory of war, which is the only path to distinction. Having no arts or industrial pursuits, the tribes are fast waning from war, exposure, and disease.
But few of the tribes cultivate the soil, the nature of the Indian rendering in his eyes as degrading all labor not incident to the chase or the war-path; and notwithstanding the efforts of missionaries, and the vast sums of money expended by the Government to place them on reservations and teach them the art of agriculture, the attempts to civilize the Indian in that way may be considered almost a total failure. The results bear no comparison to their cost.
Their ideas of the extent and power of the white race are very limited, and after I had learned the language sufficiently to converse with them, I frequently tried to explain to them the superior advantages of the white man’s mode of living. They would ask me many questions, as to the number of the white men on this side of the big water, and how far that extended; and on being told of two big oceans, they would ask if the whites owned the big country on the other side, and if there were any Indians there. Many of my statements were received with incredulity, and I was often called a liar, especially when I told of the number and rapid increase of the white race; sometimes the older ones would get angry. The younger ones were often eager listeners, and especially in times of scarcity and hunger would they gather around me to learn about the white man, and then would I endeavor to impress them with the advantages of a fixed home and tilling the soil over their wild, roaming life.
CHAPTER XX.
AN INDIAN TRADITION—ARRIVAL AT THE BLACKFEET VILLAGE—AN OFFER TO PURCHASE ME INDIGNANTLY REJECTED—A YANKTON ATTEMPTS MY CAPTURE.
The Blackfeet village was one hundred and fifty miles from the Ogalallas, and the way thither lay often over the tops of bare and sandy hills.
On the summits of these heights I found shells such as are picked up at the sea-side. The Indians accounted for their appearance there by saying, that once a great sea rolled over the face of the country, and only one man in a boat escaped with his family. He had sailed about in the boat until the waters retired to their place, and, living there, became the father of all the Indians.
These savages proved very kind to me. Though their nation is regarded by the whites as very vindictive and hostile, they showed me nothing but civility and respect.
On the third morning we reached a small village, where we halted. The Indians of the village were rejoiced to see me. Among them I recognized many familiar faces, and they imparted to us their mistrust and apprehension lest I had been stolen from the Ogalallas; but the Blackfeet assured them to the contrary; and, after questioning me, they became satisfied, and gave us food, promising to send warriors to our village, and giving us another horse.