Red Cloud, the Solitary Sioux: A Story of the Great Prairie

by Sir William Francis Butler

Next morning we were off at daybreak, and all the long day through a steady pace was maintained to the south. Evening fell—morning dawned—and yet no food or sign of food appeared. The bird-life of the park-like prairie that lay to the north had wholly vanished. The lakelets lay at long intervals apart. Trace of buffalo there was none.

Still the Sioux kept his course unchanged, and so confidently had he spoken of the certainty of finding food that evening, that I never doubted for an instant that all would yet be well.

Each ridge that lay before us seemed to me to be the one that would bring to view the much desired game; but as ridge after ridge was passed and yet no sign of life became visible, I often bent my gaze to the west in order to measure the moments of daylight yet remaining.

At last, from one of those innumerable eminences that dot the surface of the prairie the Sioux drew rein and dismounted. All was unchanged. The vast circle of sky-line held no living creature in its embrace. Close by there lay a small sheet of water, and by its margin we two hungry men, unsaddled for the night.

But this time the Sioux did not perform the usual process of hobbling and turning adrift his horse.

“I promised you that you should have food to-night,” he said to me, “and now you shall see how it is to be done.”

So saying, he drew from his leather coat a small pocket-knife, and took from the pack of his saddle a tin cup holding about a pint. Then he passed the larêt with a running noose round his horse’s neck, drawing it tight as he did so. He then spoke a few words of encouragement to the horse, and the faithful animal answered by turning his head and rubbing his nostrils against his master’s arm.

Watching these proceedings with great interest, I saw to my astonishment the Sioux open a vein in the horse’s neck, and begin to draw from it a thin stream of blood. The horse never winced at the puncture, nor indeed did he appear to be aware of what was going on. In a few minutes the little vessel was quite full; the cord was slackened, and the drain ceased.

Approaching the small fire of old buffalo chips and small sage stalks, which had just been lighted, the Sioux placed the vessel of blood upon the flame. Into it he crushed a few leaves of the wild sage which grew so profusely around. When the mixture had simmered for some minutes, he handed the cup to me. It did not look an inviting repast; but hunger borne for two days will make palatable most of the dishes that it is possible to put before a man.