On the day of Onesta’s ceremony, I had my first public recognition from Brings-Down-the-Sun. I was outside the Thunder Tepee, where I could watch both dancers and the crowd of spectators. In the midst of the ceremony, Brings-Down-the-Sun left his family and took a seat by my side.
This straightway roused the jealousy of Bull Plume, which he did not try to hide. He was seated next to Onesta and said so that any one could hear:
“White Weasel has not come to visit my camp. He was my friend before he came into this part of the country. Now I know who has turned him against me.”
Next morning Bull Plume came to our camp. He was a fine looking Indian of over six feet, muscular and well-proportioned, with a roman nose and high cheek bones. His voice was strong and resonant and of a quality well suited for leading ceremonies. When he talked he had a nervous habit of tossing his head and throwing back a long lock of hair which fell over his forehead. [[207]]
On this occasion I knew that Bull Plume had something on his mind. He was morose and ill at ease. We talked for a while, but soon fell into a gloomy silence. Then he said:
“My heart is heavy because you are in the camp of another. You were once my friend, but now you do not come to see me.”
I was loth to offend him and began to make excuses. But he said abruptly:
“I ask you to come to my lodge now. It is not far, on the other side of the river. I have tribal records to show you. Some of them are very old; they are picture records made on buffalo hides, which were handed down from my grandfather. If you come with me to-day, I will allow you to copy these old records.”
I assured him I wanted to see his records, but again made excuses for that day, because our horses were feeding on the hills and there was no way for me to cross the river to his tepee.
Then Bull Plume was angry. He arose and drawing his blanket around him, stalked from our camp. That was the last I ever saw of him. He took down his tepee and left the country.