Allegheny Episodes / Folk Lore and Legends Collected in Northern and Western Pennsylvania

by Henry W. Shoemaker

The Indian dancers, male and female, gaily attired, had been gathering outside, and now, with the first rattle of the drums, filed into the room and began to dance. As the first loud tattoo was heard, the dancers commenced shaking their shoulders, holding their arms rigid, and the “Shimmy” of decadent New York and Philadelphia of nearly half a century later, was rendered effectively by its originators, the rhythmic aborigines. As they danced in single file around the visitors’ bench and past the Chief, to the beat of the wolf skin drums, they melodiously chanted, first the men, and then the women: “Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wanna; Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wanna.” At times the women joined in the general song, swelling the volume of the melody, until it drowned out the drum-beats. The windows were open and the perfume of lilacs was wafted in on the evening breeze, as the swaying files of Indian braves and maidens shimmied around and around. Among the white visitors was one young man who was particularly impressed, as he was there not out of idle curiosity, but to study the manners and customs of the last of the Senecas, in order to write his doctor’s thesis at the University, the subject being “The Later History of the Seneca Indians in New York.”

Christian Trubee, for that was his name, had always been interested in the redmen, a natural heritage from pioneer and frontiersman ancestors who had fought the Indians all along the Allegheny Mountains and in the Ohio River basin. He had lately come to Steamburg, putting up at Pat Smith’s “long house,” where he had quickly become acquainted with Simon Black Chief, a handsome Indian youth who picked up a living as a mountebank among the frequenters of the ancient hostelry.

Simon was a wonderful runner, and if he could interest the lumber buyers and the traveling men, would match himself against a little black mare owned by Smith and usually ridden by the landlord’s stepson, for a half mile or mile, and generally beat his equine rival. Other times he would ride the horse at a gallop, without saddle or bridle, over the common between the hotel and the Erie Railroad Station, picking up handkerchiefs, cigars and quarter dollars off the greensward without ever once losing his equilibrium[equilibrium].

On the evening in question, he invited the young student to accompany him to the Strawberry Dance at the Council House, and passing by the one-roomed board shack where he lived, his sister, known as Black Chief’s Daughter, came out and joined them, so that the trio proceeded single file to the scene of the festivities. Neither Simon nor his sister danced that evening, but sat near their distinguished guest, explaining as best they could the methods and art of the performers, for they were very proud of the Indian dancing and music. As the evening progressed, Christian Trubee found himself admiring the Indian maid at his side more than he did the shimmying hordes on the floor, or the quaint picturesqueness of the unique ceremonial.

Black Chief’s daughter was certainly the best looking girl present, almost more like an American than an Indian in appearance, for her profile was certainly on refined lines, and it was only when looking her full in the face did the racial traits of breadth of the bridge of the nose, flatness of lips and deep duskiness of complexion reveal themselves. Her dark eyes were very clear and expressive, her teeth even and white, her neck and throat graceful, and her form long, lithe and elegant.

Christian Trubee liked her very much, and was entirely absorbed by her at the time of the last beat of the drums when, with a loud yell, the dance concluded, and the now limp and perspiring Indian dancers crowded out of doors into the cool moonlight. On the way back Simon Black Chief led the way, his long hair blowing in the breeze, his sister following. Trubee did not follow single file, but walked beside the fair damsel. She was as tall as he was, though she wore deerskin shoes without heels. When they parted, in the long lush grass, before the humble cabin, she promised to show him some of the interesting spots on the reservation–the grave of Blacksnake, the famous chief and orator, the various tribal burial places, and a visit to King Jimmerson, who alternated with Twenty Canoes as President of the Seneca Nation, to see the silver war crowns of Red Jacket, Blacksnake and The Cornplanter, and to Red House to meet Jim Jacobs, the venerable “Seneca Bear Hunter.”

All of these excursions duly came to pass, about one a day, as the weather turned steadily clear, day after day, when the Keewaydin blew, and the distant mountains along The Beautiful River wore a purple green, and fleecy white clouds tumbled about in the deep blue sky. On these excursions Black Chief’s Daughter seemed to be the equal of her brother and Trubee as a pedestrian, was never tired, always cheerful and anxious to explain the various points of interest.

At one of the graveyards she pointed out the last resting place of an eccentric redman known as “Indian Brown,” with two deep, round holes in the mound, made according to his last wishes, because he had been such a bad Indian in life, that when the Devil came down one hole to get him, he would escape by the other!

The three young people got along famously on the trips and Trubee was absorbing an unusual amount of aboriginal history and lore, and under the most pleasant circumstances. While he never said a word of affection or even compliment to Black Chief’s Daughter, he felt himself deeply enamored, and often, in his quiet moments, pictured her as his wife. Once or twice came the answering thought, how could he, a man of so much education and refinement, take for life a mate who could not read, and whose English was little better than a baby’s jargon? Where would he take her to? Would she like his life, for surely he could not become a squaw man on the reservation? On the other hand, she was gentle, sympathetic and thoughtful, and the blood of regal Indian ancestors gave her a refinement that sometimes education does not convey. But he was happy in the moment, as are most persons of adaptability of character. He was at home in any company, or in any circumstances, and had he been old enough to enlist, would have made a brilliant record in the Civil War; as it was he was but ten years of age when the conflict ended.