Mary and I: Forty Years with the Sioux

by Stephen Return Riggs

From this time onward we did not suffer so much from cattle-killing, though it has always been an incident attaching to mission life among the Indians. For the years that followed we were generally treated as friends. Sometimes there was a breeze of opposition, some wanted us to go away, but we always had friends who stood by us. And they were not always of the same party. The results of mission work began to be seen in the young men who grew up, many of them desirous of adopting, in part at least, the habits and the dress of the whites.

There was another reason for a cessation of hostilities on their part; viz., that starvation did not so much stare them in the face. They had better corn crops than for some years previous. And, besides this, for two seasons the buffalo range was extended down the Minnesota far below Lac-qui-parle. For many years they had been far away, west of Lake Traverse. Now they came back, and for two winters our Indians revelled in fresh buffalo meat, their children and dogs even growing fat. And the buffalo robes gave them the means of clothing their families comfortably.

Sometimes the herds of bison came into the immediate neighborhood of the village. One morning it was found that a large drove had slept on the prairie but a little distance back of our mission houses. Mr. Martin McLeod, the trader, and a few others organized a hunt on horseback. There was snow on the ground, I hitched our ponies to a rude sled, and we went to the show. As the hunters came into the herd and began to shoot them, the excitement increased in our sled—the ponies could not go fast enough for the lady.

We now addressed ourselves afresh to the work of teaching and preaching. The day-school filled up. We took some children into our families. The young men who had learned to read and write when they were boys, came and wanted to learn something of arithmetic and geography. In the work of preaching I began to feel more freedom and joy. There had been times when the Dakota language seemed to be barren and meaningless. The words for Salvation and Life, and even Death and Sin, did not mean what they did in English. It was not to me a heart-language. But this passed away. A Dakota word began to thrill as an English word. Christ came into the language. The Holy Spirit began to pour sweetness and power into it. Then it was not exhausting, as it sometimes had been—it became a joy to preach.

MARY’S STORY.

“Lac-qui-parle, May 17, 1847.

“Since Mr. Riggs left home, two weeks to-day, I have had a double share of wants to supply. I could almost wish he had locked up the medicine-case and taken the key with him, for I have not so much confidence in my skill as to suppose the Indians would have suffered if it had been out of my power to satisfy their wants. I purposed only giving rhubarb and a few other simples, but I have been besieged until I have yielded, and have no relief to hope for until Mr. Riggs returns.

“In addition to the medicines, there has been a great demand for garden-seeds, to say nothing of the common wants of a little thread, or soap, or patches for a ragged short-gown, or a strip of white cloth for the head to enable them to kill ducks or buffalo, as the case may be. There is scarcely any view of God’s character that gives me so clear an apprehension of his infinite goodness and power as that of his kind care of his sinful creatures. He listens to their requests, and giving doth not impoverish, neither doth withholding enrich him.”

“May 26.

“This afternoon twenty-six armed Indian men paraded before the door and discharged their guns. I was a little startled at first, but soon learned that they had been in search of Chippewas that were supposed to be concealed near by, and that they had returned unsuccessful, and were merely indulging in a little military exercise.”

“Jan. 11, 1848.

“The last Sabbath in December, Mr. Riggs spent at an Indian encampment about sixteen miles from this place. When he left home, baby Samuel, Mr. and Mrs. Pettijohn’s only child, was ill, but we did not apprehend dangerously so; when he returned on Monday noon, little Samuel was dead. This has been a severe affliction to them. Why was this first-born and only son taken, and our five children spared, is a query that often arises.

“Some weeks ago, an elderly woman with a young babe begged me for clothing for the little one. I asked her if it was her child. She replied that it was her grandchild, that its mother died last summer, and that she had nursed it ever since. At first she had no milk, but she continued nursing it, until the milk flowed for the little orphan. This, thought I, is an evidence of a grandmother’s love not often witnessed. I felt very compassionate for the baby, and gave the grandmother some old clothing. After she left, a knife was missing, which seemed rather like a gypsy’s compensation for the kindness received. But perhaps she was not the thief, as our house was then thronged with visitors from morning till night. We endeavor to keep such things as they will be tempted to steal out of their reach, but a mother can not watch three or four children, and perform necessary household duties at the same time, without sometimes affording an opportunity for a cunning hand to slip away a pair of scissors or a knife unnoticed.

“The buffalo are about us in large herds. I have just taken a ride of four or five miles to see these natives of the prairie. Before the herd perceived our approach, they were quietly standing together, but, on perceiving us, they waited a moment for consultation, and then started bounding away. Those who were prepared for the chase entered their ranks, and then the herd separated into three or four parts, and scampered for life in as many different directions. Several were killed and dressed, and we brought home the huge head of one for the children to see, besides the tongue and some meat, which were given us as our share of the spoils.”

“May 25,1848.

“How very quiet and green I think those lanes are—no noise except the whispering winds in those beautiful elms and maples; and those still rooms, where rang the merry shout of children returned from school. I could almost fancy they would look as sober and sombre as those dark firs under which we played when we and they were small. They still are young and vigorous, for aught I know, but we, alas! are young no longer. Do the lilacs and roses and snowballs still bloom as brightly as ever? But the thought of those bright and beautiful scenes makes me sad, and I wish to write a cheering letter, so good-by to the visions of departed joys.

“We are building, this summer, a plain, snug, one-story house, with a sitting-room, kitchen, and two bedrooms on the lower floor, and two rooms above, if ever they should be completed. We have been hoping to have a young lady to assist in teaching, etc., for an occupant of one of our bedrooms, but the prospect is rather discouraging. And yet I feel that it is no more so than we deserve, for I have not exercised faith in this respect. I have, however, some hope that He ‘who is able to do exceeding abundantly, above all that we ask or think,’ will send us such fellow-laborers as we need.”