The Man with the Iron Hand

by John Carl Parish

It was the month of March, in the villages of the Arkansas tribes, and the air was soft and mild, and the peach trees were in blossom. The banks of the river were low and drowned now with the spring floods; and thick barriers of cane rose up from the swampy shores. Since Marquette and Joliet visited the Arkansas, no white men had entered their villages; but they had learned of the events in the North. When they found that a powerful white chief was building a fort on the Illinois River and giving wonderful presents to the neighboring tribes, they sent a delegation to invite him to come to their country and live.

La Salle had said that he was coming down the river soon, and they had seen the ribs of the great ship he was building. The Arkansas, moreover, had brought home gifts from him to their neighbors and friends. But he had not come in these two long years, and the Indians had been busy with their own concerns—with their hunting and their care of the fields, and with a constant vigilance to prevent an attack by surprise from their enemies the Chickasaws.

On this particular March day a dense fog lay upon the river. In the spring fogs were frequent and were not without danger; for under cover of these concealing mists the Chickasaws might more easily approach unawares. But this morning there were those who watched and they brought news into the upper village that a band of men was coming down the river in canoes. The village flew to arms. The women gathered together and hurried away to the inland, their papooses in cradles swinging from their shoulders. The men, weapons in hand, began to howl their war cries and beat their skin drums. Within an hour the fog disappeared, and they saw a party of men encamped on the bank opposite the village. On a point of land jutting out into the river stood a man who called across to them.

The Arkansas thrust one of their dugouts into the stream and hastened to meet the visitors. When they were within earshot, the man on shore called out in the Illinois tongue to ask who they were. There happened to be an Illinois Indian in the dugout and he replied that they were Arkansas. One of the warriors from the village drew back the string of his bow and let fly an arrow. Then they sat silent and waited. It was their way of inquiring whether peace or war was sought by the strangers. The man on shore did not attempt to return the fire. So with lightened hearts they drew near to learn more of the peaceful newcomers.

It was a white man who met them. His hair was black and long, and his right hand was encased in a glove. It was the Man with the Iron Hand who greeted them on behalf of his leader La Salle. Without delay the Indians sent an embassy to smoke the calumet with La Salle, and soon the Arkansas were welcoming in their village on the west bank of the river the entire band of strangers. La Salle had come at last as he had promised, but he had not come in a mighty ship, but in a fleet of bark canoes with nearly half a hundred men.

There were old friends in his company besides Tonty. The stout-hearted young Boisrondet and the gray-gowned Father Membré were there, and perhaps a score of other Frenchmen. There were also nearly as many of the New England Indians who had joined La Salle at Fort Miami; and with them was a handful of Indian women, who had refused to be left behind, and three little Indian children.

The tribes living in this upper Arkansas village were known as Kappas or Quapaws; and they proved themselves royal entertainers. They gave the strangers quarters by themselves, built lodges for them, and brought them provisions in great abundance. The day following his arrival they danced before La Salle the calumet dance. First the chiefs of the tribe took their places in the midst of an open space, while warriors brought them two calumets decorated with plumage of many colors. The bowls of the calumets were of red pipestone and full of tobacco. Warriors who took part in the dance held gourds hollowed out and filled with pebbles; and two of them had drums made of earthen pots covered with dried pieces of skin.

One group of Indians began to sing, at the same time dancing and shaking their gourd rattles—all in perfect rhythm, though not necessarily in the same time. An Indian might sing with one time, dance with a different time, and shake his gourd with a rhythm more slow or rapid than either. Yet the rhythm of each series of motions or sounds would be perfect in itself.

When the first group stopped, another group took up the song and the dance. Two men beat the skin drums, while the chiefs gravely drew smoke from the long-stemmed calumets and passed them on to La Salle and his men. Then those of the warriors who had gained renown seized, one after another, a great war club, and with it struck blows upon a stout post planted in the ground. With his blows each brave recounted his feats of bravery and told of the scalps he had taken, the enemies he had killed, and the times when he had been first of his band to strike the enemy.

When they had finished this ceremony, they presented gifts of buffalo hides to La Salle. Then La Salle’s men also one by one struck the post and told of their own brave deeds and gave presents to the Indians. And all the while the chiefs, Indian and French, smoked the pipes that bound them to peace.