Hunter. One party being painted white, every man knows his opponent. No sooner is the ball in the air, than a rush takes place. Every one with his webbed stick raised above his head; no one is allowed to strike or to touch the ball with his hands. They cry out aloud at the very top of their voices, rush on, leap up to strike the ball, and do all they can to help their own side and hinder their opponents. They leap over each other, dart between their rivals’ legs, trip them up, throw them down, grapple with two or three at a time, and often fall to fisticuffs in right earnest. There they are, in the midst of clouds of dust, running, striking and struggling with all their might; so that, what with the rattle of the sticks, the cries, the wrestling, the bloody noses, the bruised shins, the dust, uproar and confusion, such a scene of excitement is hardly to be equalled by any other game in the world.
Brian. How long does the game last?
Hunter. It begins about eight or nine o’clock in the morning, and sometimes is scarcely finished by sunset. A minute’s rest is allowed every time the ball is urged beyond the goal, and then the game goes on again till it is finished. There is another ball-play somewhat resembling this, which is played by the women of the Prairie du Chien, while the men watch the progress of the game, or lounge on the ground, laughing at them.
Austin. Do they ever run races?
Hunter. Yes, and very expert they are. Many of the tribes are extravagantly fond of horses. You see an Indian, with his shield and quiver, his ornamented shirt, leggins, and mocassins; his long hair flowing behind him, or his head-dress of the war-eagle tailing gracefully nearly to his heels; his lance in his hand; and his dress ornamented with ermine, shells, porcupine quills and a profusion of scalp-locks; but you see him out of character. He should spring on a horse wild as the winds; and then, as he brandished his lance, with his pendent plumes, and hair and scalp-locks waving in the breeze, you see him in his proper element. Horse-racing among the Indians is an exciting scene. The cruel custom, of urging useful and noble animals beyond their strength, is much the same in savage as in civilized life; but the scene is oftentimes more wild, strange, and picturesque than you can imagine.
Austin. Ay, I remember that the Camanchees are capital riders. I was a Camanchee in our buffalo hunt. Brian, you have not forgotten that?
Brian. But you had no horse to ride. I was a Sioux; and the Sioux are capital riders too.
Basil. And so are the Pawnees, I was a Pawnee in the buffalo hunt.
Hunter. It was told me that the Camanchees—and, indeed, some of the Pawnees also—were able, while riding a horse at full gallop, to lie along on one side of him, with an arm in a sling from the horse’s neck, and one heel over the horse’s back; and that, while the body was thus screened from an enemy, they could use their lances with effect, and throw their arrows with deadly aim. The Camanchees are so much on their horses, that they never seem at their ease except when they are flying across the prairie on horseback.
Austin. It would be worth going to the prairies, if it were only to see the Camanchees ride.