General Richard Irving Dodge, United States army, in his work on the big game of America, says:
It is almost impossible for a civilized being to realize
the value to the plains Indian of the buffalo. It furnished
him with home, food, clothing, bedding, horse equipment—
almost everything.
From 1869 to 1873 I was stationed at various posts along
the Arkansas River. Early in spring, as soon as the dry
and apparently desert prairie had begun to change its coat
of dingy brown to one of palest green, the horizon would
begin to be dotted with buffalo, single or in groups of two
or three, forerunners of the coming herd. Thick and thicker,
and in large groups they come, until by the time the grass
is well up, the whole vast landscape appears a mass of
buffalo, some individuals feeding, others lying down, but
the herd slowly moving to the northward; of their number,
it was impossible to form a conjecture.
Determined as they are to pursue their journey northward,
yet they are exceedingly cautious and timid about it,
and on any alarm rush to the southward with all speed,
until that alarm is dissipated. Especially is this the case
when any unusual object appears in their rear, and so
utterly regardless of consequences are they, that an old
plainsman will not risk a wagon-train in such a herd,
where rising ground will permit those in front to get
a good view of their rear.
In May, 1871, I drove in a buggy from old Fort Zarah
to Fort Larned, on the Arkansas River. The distance is
thirty-four miles. At least twenty-five miles of that
distance was through an immense herd. The whole country
was one mass of buffalo, apparently, and it was only when
actually among them, that the seemingly solid body was
seen to be an agglomeration of countless herds of from
fifty to two hundred animals, separated from the surrounding
herds by a greater or less space, but still separated.
The road ran along the broad valley of the Arkansas.
Some miles from Zarah a low line of hills rises from the
plain on the right, gradually increasing in height and
approaching road and river, until they culminate in
Pawnee Rock.
So long as I was in the broad, level valley, the herds
sullenly got out of my way, and, turning, stared stupidly
at me, some within thirty or forty yards. When, however,
I had reached a point where the hills were no more than
a mile from the road, the buffalo on the crests, seeing an
unusual object in their rear, turned, stared an instant,
then started at full speed toward me, stampeding and
bringing with them the numberless herds through which
they passed, and pouring down on me, no longer separated
but compacted into one immense mass of plunging animals,
mad with fright, irresistible as an avalanche.
The situation was by no means pleasant. There was but
one hope of escape. My horse was, fortunately, a quiet
old beast, that had rushed with me into many a herd, and
been in at the death of many a buffalo. Reining him up,
I waited until the front of the mass was within fifty yards,
then, with a few well-directed shots, dropped some of
the leaders, split the herd and sent it off in two streams
to my right and left. When all had passed me, they stopped,
apparently satisfied, though thousands were yet within
reach of my rifle. After my servant had cut out the
tongues of the fallen, I proceeded on my journey, only to
have a similar experience within a mile or two, and this
occurred so often that I reached Fort Larned with twenty-six
tongues, representing the greatest number of buffalo that
I can blame myself with having murdered in one day.
Some years, as in 1871, the buffalo appeared to move
northward in one immense column, oftentimes from twenty
to fifty miles in width, and of unknown depth from front
to rear. Other years the northward journey was made
in several parallel columns moving at the same rate and
with their numerous flankers covering a width of a hundred
or more miles.
When the food in one locality fails, they go to another,
and toward fall, when the grass of the high prairies
becomes parched by the heat and drought, they gradually
work their way back to the south, concentrating on the
rich pastures of Texas and the Indian Territory, whence,
the same instinct acting on all, they are ready to start
together again on their northward march as soon as spring
starts the grass.
Old plainsmen and the Indians aver that the buffalo never
return south; that each year's herd was composed of animals
which had never made the journey before, and would never
make it again. All admit the northern migration, that
being too pronounced for any one to dispute, but refuse
to admit the southern migration. Thousands of young calves
were caught and killed every spring that were produced
during this migration, and accompanied the herd northward;
but because the buffalo did not return south in one vast
body as they went north, it was stoutly maintained that
they did not go south at all. The plainsman could give
no reasonable hypothesis of his "No-return theory" on which
to base the origin of the vast herds which yearly made
their march northward. The Indian was, however, equal
to the occasion. Every plains Indian firmly believed that
the buffalo were produced in countless numbers in a country
under ground; that every spring the surplus swarmed,
like bees from a hive, out of the immense cave-like opening
in the region of the great Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain
of Texas. In 1879 Stone Calf, a celebrated chief, assured
me that he knew exactly where the caves were, though he had
never seen them; that the good God had provided this
means for the constant supply of food for the Indian, and
however recklessly the white men might slaughter, they could
never exterminate them. When last I saw him, the old man
was beginning to waver in this belief, and feared that
the "Bad God" had shut the entrances, and that his tribe
must starve.
The old trappers and plainsmen themselves, even as early as the beginning of the Santa Fe trade, noticed the gradual disappearance of the buffalo, while they still existed in countless numbers. One veteran French Canadian, an employee of the American Fur Company, way back in the early '30's, used to mourn thus: "Mais, sacre! les Amarican, dey go to de Missouri frontier, de buffalo he ron to de montaigne; de trappaire wid his fusil, he follow to de Bayou Salade, he ron again. Dans les Montaignes Espagnol, bang! bang! toute la journee, toute la journee, go de sacre voleurs. De bison he leave, parceque les fusils scare im vara moche, ici là de sem-sacré!"
CHAPTER XIII. INDIAN CUSTOMS AND LEGENDS.
Thirty-five miles before arriving at Bent's Fort, at which point the Old Trail crossed the Arkansas, the valley widens and the prairie falls toward the river in gentle undulations. There for many years the three friendly tribes of plains Indians—Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Kiowas—established their winter villages, in order to avail themselves of the supply of wood, to trade with the whites, and to feed their herds of ponies on the small limbs and bark of the cottonwood trees growing along the margin of the stream for four or five miles. It was called Big Timbers, and was one of the most eligible places to camp on the whole route after leaving Council Grove. The grass, particularly on the south side of the river, was excellent; there was an endless supply of fuel, and cool water without stint.
In the severe winters that sometimes were fruitful of blinding blizzards, sweeping from the north in an intensity of fury that was almost inconceivable, the buffalo too congregated there for shelter, and to browse on the twigs of the great trees.
The once famous grove, though denuded of much of its timber, may still be seen from the car windows as the trains hurry mountainward.
Garrard, in his Taos Trail, presents an interesting and amusing account of a visit to the Cheyenne village with old John Smith, in 1847, when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, and that with the various tribes of savages in its golden days.
Toward the middle of the day, the village was in a great
bustle. Every squaw, child, and man had their faces
blackened—a manifestation of joy.[44]
Pell-mell they went—men, squaws, and dogs—into the icy
river. Some hastily jerked off their leggings, and held
moccasins and dresses high out of the water. Others, too
impatient, dashed the stream from beneath their impetuous
feet, scarce taking time to draw more closely the always
worn robe. Wondering what caused all this commotion, and
looking over the river, whither the yelling, half-frantic
savages were so speedily hurrying, we saw a band of Indians
advancing toward us. As the foremost braves reined their
champing barbs on the river-bank, mingled whoops of triumph
and delight and the repeated discharge of guns filled
the air. In the hands of three were slender willow wands,
from the smaller points of which dangled as many scalps—
the single tuft of hair on each pronouncing them Pawnees.[45]
These were raised aloft, amid unrestrained bursts of joy
from the thrice-happy, blood-thirsty throng. Children ran
to meet their fathers, sisters their brothers, girls their
lovers, returning from the scene of victorious strife;
decrepit matrons welcomed manly sons; and aged chiefs their
boys and braves. It was a scene of affection, and a proud
day in the Cheyenne annals of prowess. That small but
gallant band were relieved of their shields and lances by
tender-hearted squaws, and accompanied to their respective
homes, to repose by the lodge-fire, consume choice meat,
and to be the heroes of the family circle.
The drum at night sent forth its monotony of hollow sound,
and my Mexican Pedro and I, directed by the booming,
entered a lodge, vacated for the purpose, full of young men
and squaws, following one another in a continuous circle,
keeping the left knee stiff and bending the right with a
half-forward, half-backward step, as if they wanted to go on
and could not, accompanying it, every time the right foot
was raised, with an energetic, broken song, which, dying
away, was again and again sounded—"hay-a, hay-a, hay-a,"
they went, laying the emphasis on the first syllable.
A drum, similar to, though larger than a tambourine, covered
with parflêche,[46] was beaten upon with a stick, producing
with the voices a sound not altogether disagreeable.
Throughout the entire night and succeeding day the voices
of the singers and heavy notes of the drum reached us,
and at night again the same dull sound lulled me to sleep.
Before daylight our lodge was filled with careless dancers,
and the drum and voices, so unpleasing to our wearied ears,
were giving us the full benefit of their compass. Smith,
whose policy it was not to be offended, bore the infliction
as best he could, and I looked on much amused. The lodge
was so full that they stood without dancing, in a circle
round the fire, and with a swaying motion of the body
kept time to their music.
During the day the young men, except the dancers, piled up
dry logs in a level open space near, for a grand demonstration.
At night, when it was fired, I folded my blanket over my
shoulders, comme les sauvages, and went out. The faces
of many girls were brilliant with vermilion; others were
blacked, their robes, leggings, and skin dresses glittering
with beads and quill-work. Rings and bracelets of shining
brass encircled their taper arms and fingers, and shells
dangled from their ears. Indeed, all the finery collectable
was piled on in barbarous profusion, though a few, in good
taste through poverty, wore a single band and but few rings,
with jetty hair parted in the middle, from the forehead
to the neck, terminating in two handsome braids.
The young men who can afford the expense trade for dollars
and silver coin of less denomination—coin as a currency
is not known among them—which they flatten thin, and fasten
to a braid of buffalo hair, attached to the crown lock,
which hangs behind, outside of the robe, and adds much to
the handsome appearance of the wearer.
The girls, numbering two hundred, fell into line together,
and the men, of whom there were two hundred and fifty,
joining, a circle was formed, which travelled around with
the same shuffling step already described. The drummers
and other musicians—twenty or twenty-five of them—marched
in a contrary direction to and from and around the fire,
inside the large ring; for at the distance kept by the
outsiders the area was one hundred and fifty feet in diameter.
The Apollonian emulators chanted the great deeds performed
by the Cheyenne warriors. As they ended, the dying strain
was caught up by the hundreds of the outside circle, who,
in fast-swelling, loud tones, poured out the burden of
their song. At this juncture the march was quickened,
the scalps of the slain were borne aloft and shaken with
wild delight, and shrill war-notes, rising above the
furious din, accelerated the pulsation and strung high
the nerves. Time-worn shields, careering in mad holders'
hands, clashed; and keen lances, once reeking in Pawnee
blood, clanged. Braves seized one another with an iron
grip, in the heat of excitement, or chimed more tenderly
in the chant, enveloped in the same robe with some maiden
as they approvingly stepped through one of their own
original polkas.
Thirty of the chiefs and principal men were ranged by the
pile of blazing logs. By their invitation, I sat down with
them and smoked death and its concomitant train of evils to
those audacious tribes who doubt the courage or supremacy
of the brave, the great and powerful, Cheyenne nation.