Poker Jim, Gentleman, and Other Tales and Sketches

by G. Frank Lydston

“And in those joyous days the Manitou smiled upon his chosen people, for they were as yet pure, and uncontaminated by the conflicting creeds, multitudinous diseases, bad fire-water and worse morals of the wicked white man. The Indian was a fearless, noble warrior and a man, roaming the trackless woods and traversing the waters of his ancient ancestral home as free as the wild birds of his native hills.

“In that far distant time happiness hovered like a golden cloud over the lodges of the redman, for within all was peace, and comfort, and plenty. Neither cold nor hunger came like an evil spirit to bring woe to the redman’s bosom. The forests were alive with mighty game, and he was a poor and lowly hunter indeed, who could not show that acknowledged badge of fearless courage, a necklace made of the cruel claws of the fierce grizzly bear. The lakes and streams were teeming with glittering fish, in number like the falling leaves of the yellow autumn, many-hued and brilliant as the rainbow.

“For him who fain would seek for glory, there was many a gory scalp lock to be fairly and hazardously earned in fierce, relentless battle, while for the feeble, timid spirit who shrank from the hardships and dangers of war, the warm and fertile soil promised the husbandman rich rewards of nutritious maize.

“On the green-verdured slopes and in the broad, smiling valleys gleamed many a comfortable wigwam of poles and dried skins of wild beasts, wrought with the weird hieroglyphs of the tribe—strange, ancient characters and picture-writing, unintelligible even to the Indian of to-day. The smoke of a thousand lodges rose and mingled with the snowy vapor—the fleeces of the sky—mingled with the billowy flocks and herds of the Manitou.

“The valley of the sparkling Yosemite—that wonderful stream of liquid silver whose mystic source is in the clouds, far, far beyond any trail of man—was the earthly paradise of the redman of the mountains. To say that the great ineffable Beyond—the land of Manitou the Mighty—was fairer than the beauteous valley of the Yosemite, was the utmost limit of the Indian’s faith in heaven—those Happy Hunting Grounds to which death alone could transport him. Aye, it was the farthest limit of the redman’s imagination.

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“Chief among the sachems of his tribe, was Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. Tall was he, like the towering redwood; strong were his limbs like those of a mighty oak; rugged were his broad shoulders as the frowning, beetling cliffs of the mountain locked home of his people. There was none so bold and so brave as he—the mightiest hunter and most daring warrior of all his tribe. Within his lodge there hung the scalps of countless enemies, and the claws of many a savage bear of the mountains. Brave? Had he not slain by a single blow with his keen hunting knife the terrible panther—alone and single-handed had he not slain him? And where was the lodge that was large enough to hold the wide, branching horns of the kingly elk he had brought panting to the earth with his deadly, slender-shafted arrows? Straight was his handsome form as the ashen spear-shaft, and elastic as the bow of hickory; swifter was his moccasined foot than the red deer’s; lighter his step than the mountain lion’s; bright was his piercing eye as the first beams of the rising sun; keen was his vision as that of the king of birds—the great war eagle. There was not among all the Sun’s brave children a chief so nobly grand as he.

“Far up on the side of a steep, wooded mountain was the home lodge of Tu-toch-a-nu-lah. Here, like an eagle in his cloud-kissed eyrie, he watched over the welfare of his people as became a wise and mighty sachem who loved them and was well beloved by them.

“Beloved by them? Aye, and passing well, for he was their loyal, ever-ready champion, their benefactor and protector, and they—being red, not white—were grateful.

“Ranging over the fertile upper plains, the mighty sachem herded droves on droves of the graceful red deer, that his people might choose the best and fattest for the feast. High up amid the rocks were his flocks of big-horned mountain sheep—the picturesque and shaggy cimarron. The savage bear he gave not peace, for he drove him forth from his rocky lair that the braves of the tribe might win laurels in the hunt.