After the lapse of a month, he returned to his village, laden with the scalps of men, women, and children, which he hung in the smoke of his lodge. He tarried but a day among the tribe, and again set off, lonely as ever. A week elapsed, and he returned, bringing with him a large lump of white salt. In a few words he told his tale. He had travelled many miles over the prairie. The sun had set in the west, and the moon was just rising above the verge of the horizon. The Indian was weary, and threw himself on the grass. He had not slept long, when he was awakened by the low wailing of a female. He started up, and at a little distance, by the light of the moon, beheld an old, decrepit hag, brandishing a tomahawk over the head of a young female, who was kneeling, imploring mercy.
The warrior wondered how two females could be at this spot, alone, and at that hour of the night; for there was no village within forty miles of the place. There could be no hunting party near, or he would have discovered it. He approached them; but they seemed unconscious of his presence. The young female finding her prayers unheeded, sprang up, and made a desperate attempt to get possession of the tomahawk. A furious struggle ensued, but the old woman was victorious. Twisting one hand in the long black hair of her victim, she raised the weapon in her other, and prepared to strike. The face of the young female was turned to the light, and the warrior beheld with horror, the features of his deceased wife. In an instant he sprang forward, and his tomahawk was buried in the skull of the old squaw. But ere he had time to clasp the form of his wife, the ground opened, both sank from his sight, and on the spot appeared a rock of white salt. He had broken a piece from it, and brought it to his tribe.
This tradition is still current among the different tribes of Indians frequenting that portion of the country. They also imagine, that the rock is still under custody of the old squaw, and that the only way to obtain a portion of it, is to attack her. For this reason, before attempting to collect salt, they beat the ground with clubs and tomahawks, and each blow is considered as inflicted upon the person of the hag. The ceremony is continued, until they imagine she has been sufficiently belaboured, to resign her treasure without opposition. This superstition, though privately ridiculed by the chiefs of the different tribes, is still practised by them, and most devoutly credited by the rabble.
CHAP. XIII.
THE OTOE MESSENGERS.
On the afternoon following, a little before sunset, we encamped within ten miles of the Otoe village. Several times during the day, we had observed the heads of Indians, peering over the hills, but they had instantly disappeared upon being remarked, nor had an Indian ventured to approach. Our place of encampment was on a small knoll. At its foot, a meagre run of impure water was struggling through the grass, while a long line of tall, rank weeds marked its course, as it wound a passage along the different hollows. A solitary tree grew over a small puddle, which had formed in the prairie; and a cluster of wild plum trees were knotted together around its trunk. With these exceptions, there was not a tree or a bush in sight.
At a little distance from us was the site of a deserted Indian village. It had been uninhabited for many years, and the stations where the lodges once stood were overgrown with weeds and creeping vines. A short distance off was the burial ground of the place, which evidently had not been visited for a long time. The tall grass waved upon the large mounds, and the frightened prairie hen started up from the resting places of the dead.
We had scarcely encamped, and fixed up the largest tent, when the loud cry, “Indian a-head!” was bellowed out by the stentorian lungs of one of the soldiers.
The savage was on a hill, about five hundred yards distant. He was mounted upon a small black horse; clothed in a scarlet blanket, and in his hand held a long spear. He sat for some moments watching our movements; then thumping his heels into the sides of his horse, he dashed across a hollow that intervened, and galloped to the door of the tent. Here he sprang from the animal, and turning him loose, walked up to the guide. They were well acquainted; but his salutation was calm and cold; a slight smile played over his face, for a moment, as he recognized him, then all was quiet. His features were like stone; and whatever passions may have lurked within his bosom, his countenance was not the mirror that reflected them. He was attired in the wild garb of those Indians, who as yet had but little intercourse with the whites. A pair of rough leggings were drawn over his legs, and a piece of blue cloth was secured around his hips. The rest of his body was unclothed, unless the red blanket, which most of the time, lay on the ground at his feet, might have been considered part of his apparel.
The chief of the Otoe village had been apprised of our approach, and had sent this warrior to watch, lest we should come upon the town before it was prepared for our reception. He hung around the tent for some time, saying little; but we could see, that while his face was apparently turned towards the ground, his dark eyes were moving with restless activity in every direction, scanning every action of the party. He remained with us a short time; then having received a few presents for the chiefs and one or two for himself, he caught the end of the buffalo tug, which though secured to the neck of his horse, was long enough to trail twenty feet after him in the grass—and with a sudden jerk brought the animal to him and sprang upon his back.