“Friend, we buried her there in that lonely land and kept on our way. But thereafter I could not sleep. When I closed my eyes I could see my baby’s little round face and feel her soft arms about my neck, and my heart was full of bitterness. I longed for revenge. My blood cried out for the death of the man whose bullet had taken her life. Each night in our homeward way my heart burned hot in my bosom, flaming with hate. It was like a live ember in my flesh.
“My woman who knew what was in my mind begged me not to return to the south—but I shut my ears to her pleading. I assembled my clan round me. I called upon those who wished to help me revenge the death of my daughter to join me. Many stepped forth and at last with a band of brave young men I swept back and fell like a whirlwind on that town.
“When I left it, only a heap of ashes could be seen. Of all who inhabited that village not one escaped me—not one.” Then with a face of bronze and with biblical brevity of phrase he concluded: “After that I slept.”
THE REMORSE OF WAUMDISAPA
THE REMORSE OF WAUMDISAPA[2]
There was dissension in the camp of Waumdisapa. Mattowan, his cousin, jealous of his chief’s great fame, was conspiring to degrade and destroy him.
Waumdisapa, called “King of the Plains” by those border men who knew him best, was famed throughout the valley of the Platte. Grave, dignified, serious of face and commanding of figure, he rose intellectually above all his people as his splendid body towered in the dance, a natural leader of men. His people were still living their own life, happy in their own lands, free to come and go, sweeping from north to south as the bison moved, needing nothing of the white man but his buffalo guns and his ammunition. It was in these days that women emptied the flour of their rations upon the grass in order to use the cloth of the sack, careless of the food of the paleface which was considered enervating and destructive to warriors and hunters.
Yet even in those days Waumdisapa was friendly with the traders, and like the famous Sitting Bull of the north, was only anxious to keep his people from corrupting contact with the whites, jealous to hold his lands and resolute to maintain his tribal traditions. His was the true chief’s heart—all his great influence was used to maintain peace and order. He carried no weapon—save the knife with which he shaved his tobacco and cut his meat, and on his arm dangled the beaded bag in which the sacred pipe of friendship and meditation lay, and wherever he walked turmoil ceased.