Frontier Charity

Army life on the frontier with all its privations was made cheery and happy for the majority of people by the unselfishness in which social intercourse and the common effort to please which characterized it. The isolated posts being hundreds of miles from our old homes, entirely cut off from familiar faces and scenes, and we were absolutely dependent upone ach other, for amusement and companionship. The situation developed talents and agreeable qualities that otherwise might have remained latent. Any sort of entertainment at those old frontier posts was so rare that a musicale or an amateur theatrical performance was fraught with universal interest. Nothing short of a sudden call to arms constituted a rival. When the officers and ladies would give an entertainment the soldiers were always welcomed and the enthusiasm they displayed was an inspiration to the players. In the course of the Winter the enlisted men, too, generally prepared a “show” which caused a pleasantly interested stir along the officers’ line, for under such occasions the soldiers were given a good deal of latitude to play upon the peculiarities of their officers. This gave particular spice to their performances for they frequently hit close and hard. That element of personal interest in the soldier at play bound the men closer to their officers than they are now, and accounts for the splendid manner in which they worked together.

One performance given by the soldiers at Camp Poplar River we have always remembered on account of the household saying to which it gave rise. The men had arranged the entire program among themselves and the whole as to be a surprise to the officers’ families. The first number was rendered by an improved orchestra. That the members had had little practice together was quite evident from the first note. The soldiers in the audience began immediately to laugh, and made so much fun in a jolly, good-natured way it became difficult for the “musicians” to finish their selection; there was no encore and the second number was hurried on. It was a song by one of the teamster, a great big Irishman, Tumberty by name. He was quite a character in the post and a general favorite.

When he came on the stage he advanced to the footlights with a conciliatory gesture and addressed the assemblage in his attractive Virginia drawl something as follows:

“Ladies and Gentlemen – I am sing to sing ‘In the Old Varginia Lowlands’ for you, and the o’chestra will accompany me. Befor beginning I am going to make a request. I see ou’ o’chestra is not ve’y well received to-night, and I want to explain. The instruments a’int the very best, though they are the best to be had; not being able to get the Band from [Fort] Buford we have struck out for ourselves and made up an ‘ochestra all ou’ own. It is new, it ha’nt practiced much, but ‘way out here we cain’t expect very much.

“Please remember where we are. Ol’ Varginia is mo’ n two thousand miles away. Now ladies and gentlemen don’t shoot at the musicians, they’re doin’ the best they can.”

That speech, which was received with applause and a hearty laugh, gained for the orchestra a good humored acceptance and Tumblty’s words passed into the local lingo of the post. Afterwards when things went awry, or there arose causes for faultfinding, the members of the garrison would laughingly exhort one another: “Don’t shoot at the musicians.” Amusement, however, was not always the sole object of our frontier entertainment for one concert was given with a totally other idea in view.

One evening some wood-choppers came in from a trip to the North, bringing an injured man. He was a Canadian half-breed, who had been found fifty or sixty miles from Poplar River, alone and badly injured. He was a hunter, and meeting with an accident by shooting himself through the knee a week before, had been unable to remount his pony and seek assistance.

The leg was frightfully swollen and the doctors at the hospital found it necessary to amputate just above the knee. The man suffered terribly, and the long interval after the injury and the rough trip to the post had greatly weakened him. The sympathies of the ladies were instantly aroused, and as soon as the operation was over we began to send him jellies and delicacies which the hospital did not provide. The man seemed very grateful and sent us his warmest thanks by the surgeon.

After a couple of weeks it became necessary to operate again; this time taking a stump of the leg off near the hip joint. When I asked solicitously, the doctor told me that it was the only possible way of arresting gangrene; but he feared that the poor fellow could not survive a second operation. The men of his class had great vitality and this fellow was game, and sent me by the surgeon to request to come and see him.

I lost no time. The sufferer was very appreciative of the kindnesses that had been shown him, and begged to ask one great favor. He understood the necessity of the second operation and its seriousness, but was almost child like in the thought that if he were sure of getting a cork leg in the case of recovery, it would enable him to survive. He besought me to get up a subscription among the soldiers to buy him one.

It was so pitiful. The chance of his every rallying was very small, but the cork leg was the straw of hope which seemed to buoy his spirits. My heart went out to him. I had to tell him that the soldiers had so little money – that there were so many charities in the army to which they contributed. For that reason they would not be able to raise sufficient funds, for we had only a two-company post. His disappointment was so manifest that I boldly told him I would take it upon myself to see that he should get a cork leg if he withstood the operation and recovered. His faith in my word – the word of a strange woman – seemed boundless. With tears in his eyes he thanked me in his French patois and said he was ready for the knife.

The operation was performed, but the surgeon declined to express hope for his recovery. Many times a day inquiries were made about the poor man’s condition, and for several days the surgeon’s expression was far from sanguine. But the patient held his own and with time began to gain strength. The attendants reported that the man continually prayed for and talked of, the cork leg he expected as he would be able to leave his bed.

He was keeping is part of the bargain – to need the inanimate member; it was time I did something to keep my part – to provide it when needed. It was a real problem: for in those days artificial limbs were far more expensive than they are now. I thought and planned, scarcely knowing what to do. Finally, it occurred to me that as there had not been an entertainment recently, a “benefit” performance could e arranged and with the proceeds we might possibly purchase the cork leg.

Work was begun at once. The necessary talent was assembled, and rehearsing in private started. It was planned to give as ambitious musicale as our means would permit. Fortunately we had some very good talent. News of our intention was freely circulated through the post, as well as the Indian agency nearby, which formed a part of our community. It was an auspicious time to start the sale of tickets for pay-day had just passed; there was nothing for the soldier’s to buy, and things had been dull for several weeks. Everyone seemed ready for some pleasant excitement, and the coming entertainment was a subject of animated speculation almost as great as present-day international marriages.

As the event approached, I realized that my big square piano, the only one in the post, was greatly in need of tuning. Inquiries were made with a view to finding some one competent to put it in order. Finally a German, named Beigler, was founder among the soldiers who said he had worked in a piano factory, and that he could do the work.

One delay and another prevented he work from being done until the morning of the eventful day when at last Beigler came. My husband, who was quartermaster, had the post blacksmith make a tuning key. The key and my tuning fork were turned over to Beigler, and he began to prepare the instrument, while I went off contentedly to oversee last arrangements at the “hall.” The entertainment was to be given in one of the big warehouses at the Agency, as it was the largest room we had. Chairs had been borrowed from everybody, and placed for the audience; the improved stage was decorated with flowers, rugs, and parlor furniture – all borrowed.

All this attended to, about noon I went home weary, but pleased with the work and prospects and looking forward to a good rest until evening. Beigler had gone, leaving the key and tuning fork on the piano. The job was apparently finished and the instrument ready to be moved to the “hall.”

But mercy on me! What did I find? I sat down to the piano and tried to strike a few chords – but only a few; the result was indescribable! He had indeed changed every note – I ascertained that later, to my horror. The instrument was in such frightful condition that the most skilled pianist could not have extracted from it one harmonious chord. It was impossible to use it. What was I to do? The piano was worse than ever. Before Beigler had touched it a few of the notes were bad; now the entire gamut was shocking discord, resembling a load of tin pans falling down stairs!

As the situation fully seized me my nerves gave away. We simply could not get on without a piano, this was the only one within a hundred miles, and it was impossible to get on with it in its present condition. I wept. Then realizing the futility of tears, I raged. Finally, I pulled myself together and stood and thought. A postponement of the musicale was not practicable. Scarcely a number on the program could be rendered with the instrument. The only person whom we had found to tune the piano had wrought this havoc. There was but one thing left, I would try to tune the instrument myself!

I sent everyone from the room, shut myself up and ordered that on no account was I to be disturbed. Then I set to work with the only true note in my possession – the tuning fork – a middle A.

The history of the next two hours and a half will never be written for I am the “sole survivor” and the recollection of my anxiety is a nightmare. At the end of that time, however, I stepped from the room, chastened in spirit, but triumphant. The piano was in perfect tune and ready to be transported to the “hall.”

We played to a “crowded house,” not only clearing $60, but arousing such enthusiasm that in response to a petition drawn and signed, the performance was repeated the next evening to an even larger house. The net results were $127.

The poor half-breed for whom the benefit had been given not only received his cork leg, but when he finally was strong enough to leave the post he carried away with enough money to start him in a small fruit business in Fort Benton, Montana, where for all I know he may be yet.

So it was, that our small community was bound not alone by force of circumstances to seek our pleasures and amusements together; but the soul of human sympathy shone in the everyday interests of post life on the prairie.

Indian Connubiality: A Savage Jealousy

Indians, of the last generation at least, were not noted for affectionate demonstration or marital jealousy. Nevertheless incidents, both amusing and tragic, arose to be placed under the head of “the exceptions that prove the rule.”

At Camp Poplar River there was an Indian named “Yellow Eagle,” who had a very attractive young wife; the “whole truth” of the matter is that he had three wives, of whom this one, named Santee, was the last. He was very fond of this squaw and proud of her good looks, though from an Indian’s standpoint she had little else to recommend her unless it was her nice work in beads and porcupine quills. One day when Yellow Eagle was talking with me of her, he said in his own tongue:

“She is pretty; and if she had clothes like those you wear, she would look as handsome as any of the white women.”

He had on previous occasions suggested that Santee should adopt European dress, so I told him I would outfit her in one of my costumes. Accordingly I bundled up a dress and waist that were partly worn but still in good condition. These I gave him with a hat just as it has been last worn. Knowing my shoes would be too small for Santee, I procured a pair that seemed likely to answer the purpose. Yellow Eagle went off as delighted as a child at the prospect of seeing his favorite wife clad like one of the post ladies. He promised to bring her over for me to see when she had arrayed herself. I expressed much interest and promised to have a little supper set for them when they should come.

My husband and I were talking interestedly on the porch that evening, and the recollection of the promised call had for the moment passed from my mind, when I was startled by the apparition of myself walking up the steps of our porch in company with an Indian buck. There was something unusual in my appearance that impressed me at once – my hair was parted in the middle, smoothed way back over my forehead, and hung in two braids down my back; the part was painted bright vermillion, and a little black polka dot was tattooed on my forehead. My hat was secured by a rubber band under my chin. This all flashed through my brain before I had time to recognize under the hat brim the features of Santee.

The situation was unusual and the effect on my husband was laughable, for he knew nothing of what I had done. He sat and stared uncomprehendingly, while the figure so strongly suggesting me in costume, awkwardly clutched at its skirts as it mounted the steps. To complete the costume I had sent Santee a paid of kid gloves. Of course they were the first she had ever worn; and being too small and not properly donned, they were twisted and pulled over her hands in a curiously grotesque fashion. Yellow Eagle, in his delight and excitement, not noticing our astonished and breathless greeting, grinned appreciatively when I exclaimed:

“Why, it’s Santee with the dress I sent her today!”

The woman, though ill at ease in her new and unfamiliar finery, was apparently pleased with it and gratified at the evident impression it made on her husband.

When we had exhaustively inspected her outfit and particularly the manner of its adjustment, we led them to the dining-room, where the table was spread in their honor. As they sat opposite each other they presented an odd appearance. The husband wore a scout’s uniform. It looked incongruous with his two braids of hair streaming over his shoulders, and the two long eagle feathers dangling from his scalp-lock. From time to time he unconsciously hitched his shoulder as though to readjust the blanket to which it was accustomed. Santee had removed her hat, and the effect of her braided hair hanging over the tight fitting bodice, gave the impression of a hurried and incomplete toilet. She looked very well, however, and the husband’s prophecy that she would be as pretty as a white woman was quite fulfilled. Indeed, she far surpassed in appearance many of our race. All she needed was education of mind and muscle to make her a drawing-room belle.

In preparing supper for them, care had been taken to make everything attractive. Our daintiest tableware was used and everything was served as invitingly as possible. It gave us real pleasure to show them all the small courtesies, for the Indians were so manifestly impressed with the white man’s ways.

Santee enjoyed the cold ham, Saratoga potatoes, buttered biscuit and hot chocolate. To one of her experience limited to small game, sour bread and bacon, the menu was a delightful revelation. When the shrimp salad was served she knew not what to make of it. The taste was evidently unpleasant to her, and she laid aside her fork, which she had been successfully using, not withstanding the strangeness of the utensil. Yellow Eagle nodded to her to finish the salad. Obediently she tried again, gulping at each mouthful, but without success. She looked up with silent appeal in her eyes. Her insistent husband evidently feeling that her failure to eat would be a breach of etiquette, stamped his foot under the table and commanded fiercely – “Utah, utah!” (Eat, eat!”)

Obedience to the husband’s command being an absolute rule of the Sioux family life, the poor wife again essayed the difficult task of eating what was distasteful. When it was evident that she was becoming ill, I remonstrated with the husband, telling him it was not at all necessary for Santee to eat what she did not like; that many white people even did not care for that dish. Seeing how ill she really was, I excused her from the table and she went outside. When she returned a few minutes later she wore a greatly relieved expression.

When she sat down again the ice cream was served. It also was a new dish to them. Santee looked upon it with frank curiosity at her share. She took a usual sized spoonful of it; and when she got it to her mouth, her surprised expression needed no genius to interpret. She ate it, however, without comment; but the next spoonful she blew with sufficient energy to explain what her sensation had been at the first bite. Experience taught her that a little at a time went a great way, and soon she was eating ice cream and cake with the greatest relish.

So the call and supper passed off pleasantly, and profitably no doubt for us all. As the couple finally bade us a pleased and grateful good-night, I could not help but realizing what the favoritism Yellow Eagle showed Santee, meant to his other wives.

The second wife was an older woman than Santee, and not nearly so attractive; but she was passionately devoted to their husband. She slaved to please him. His slightest wish was her highest law. Of the three, the second wife was the most loving and least appreciated. The first one, a still older woman, was a good cook measured by Indian standards, and a quiet drudge of the most common type of Indian womanhood. She never appealed to her husband nor seemed to expect any attention from him.

Talking to me once about his wives, Yellow Eagle described the situation. Said he:

“The oldest wife, my first, is a good cook and I like her for the meals she gets for me. The next one likes me and works well, and I took her because she loves me. But the youngest one is beautiful and I love her.”

His attitude thus betrayed, seemed to hold nothing illogical for him.

Santee, the youngest, received his attentions and praise to such an extent as to make the second wife, “Weah Tonka” (“Big woman”), almost crazy with jealousy. Passing the Yellow Eagle lodge, a common scene was Weah Tonka busy with the household drudgery, or crouching, bathed in tears, while Santee sat contentedly at her bead-work whistling through her teeth some favorite song. In fact, Weah Tonka packed the wood and was the general slave, while her successor, the little Santee, was the household ornament and played “fine lady.”

The two were rivals with their needles, though the younger light-hearted squaw would not openly recognize the other as such. That Santee had borne Yellow Eagle his only son, however, was the hardest thing of all for the loving second wife to contemplate. Her growing jealousy of Santee was painfully evident and made us fearful that a domestic tragedy would be enacted in our midst similar to one enacted at a recent tribal dance.

A “grass dance” was given in honor of some visiting Indians from another Agency. These dances were always picturesque and attracted many whites, as well as nearly all the Indians in the camp. With a personal interest in many of the red men and their families, I rarely missed a dance, and had become familiar with much of their person and tribal history as related upon such occasions, while the braves counted their coups.

On the occasion of which I write, the Indians extending the hospitality were anxious to impress the visitors, not only with their prowess, but with their prosperity as well. So their bearing and conduct were more than usually majestic, their presents elaborate, and their oratorical efforts far above the realm of every day affairs.

One of the warriors, a splendid type of dauntless savage, arose to tell of his brave deeds. We listened with rapt interest.

He stood in the midst of his fellow, confident and courageous in his superiority of form and feat – regal in his high-headed savage pride. He recounted one of his daring deeds, and spurred by the muttered words of commendation from the audience he warmed to his subject and added an exposition of his own brave spirit and carelessness of trivial matters.

“Yes, my heart is strong, very strong,” he exclaimed. “In the hunt I ride until the deer is weary at the flight. My arrow is straight. My enemies fear me. I care for naught. Everything is like a pebble in a running brook for smallness.”

“Oheteka, oheteka” (“brave, brave”) came the words of applause from every quarter. His heart swelled with self pride; his arms swung out in gestures of power and strength.

“Great deeds only are the children of my heart. My heart is strong.”

Again a volume of savage “bravos” interrupted him. It worked him into a frenzy of self-esteem. We could not but feel that the man was over-wrought, carried away by the cheering of his people. Scarcely conscious of what he did or said, he cried:

“My heart is so strong that I throw my wife away. The beautiful daughter of her tribe I cast away.”

He paused, and the silence more than words testified to the appreciation of the audience.

“Never will I see her again; for I cast her out forever, to show easily I can sever the strongest tie that binds me to the world.”

His reiteration in sheer bravado rung out in the silence, as he placed his hand over the heart he thus proclaimed so big and strong. Suddenly from among the group of squaws and children outside the circle of braves sprang up the slight figure of a young woman. Without warning it sped past the standing and reclining Indians; on through the ring of squatting figures to where the “strong-hearted” man stood in the glory of his strength and pride. None heeded her passing, for it was like a flash of light that is gone ere one knows of its presence. Straight to the “brave” she rushed; and without pause as she reached him, she raised a sharp hunting knife she carried, and struck home with it, once, twice, and again; into the strong man’s body she buried the blade.

The blows were well-aimed and passed between his should blades to the left side, near the heart. Without sound, the splendid creature who had stood in all his pride of life and dauntless manhood, sank to the ground. For one hideous moment the woman’s slim form seemed to gain a stature and to tower with vengeance-flaming eyes above the fallen man. Like a demoniacal fury she gazed to note the result of her deed, while the buck writhed in his death agony at her feet. No word was needed to explain that she was the discarded wife who had just been so lightly tossed aside. Her blazing eyes and anguish-crazed expression told the tragic tale to the astonished assemblage.

In the consequent confusion of the scene the woman was lost; but later she was taken into custody by the military authorities to protect her from the members of her late husband’s tribe. He who had received the mortal wound from her hand, died that night. Her vengeance was complete. If he “threw” her away so carelessly, no one else might have him, and her honor was satisfied. From her viewpoint it was very simple. On her final release, she was lost sight of, but was evidently never molested, for more than half her people were in sympathy with her.

The incident naturally occasioned much comment and consternation. What its effect might be upon other ill-treated or unhappy squaws, was the resulting question.

Often as we beheld Weah Tonka in her burdensome existence, we greatly feared she might attempt some such insane way of ending the situation. Whether it was boundless love; great long-suffering; superb self-control; or pure Indian fortitude in living under the hardest situations; that held her to her place of drudgery and jealous, unrequited love, will never be known.

At any rate, Weah Tonka continued to live and to suffer; a daily proof that deepest affection and marital jealousy dwell in the camps of the lowly Indian as well as in the castles of the great.

Kassie: An Indian Character Sketch

Kassie was a unique Indian character and my introduction to her was quite as unique. Camp Poplar River was one of our early and remote stations/ I found there a curious custom, at first almost startling. Any time of day, and especially at meal times, one could see at the windows of our quarters the dark faces of Indian squaws peering through the panes. There the poor, hungry or curious would stand for hours, their faces pressed against the glass, their hands shading their eyes as they watched us at our different avocations. Parlor, dining-room or bed-room windows were turned into peep-holes and the sudden and quite noiseless appearance of the faces was a shock to the nerves until one got used to it.

Often when I have looked up to encounter a pair of earnest hungry eyes, their owner would point to the table in a manner to signify they had nothing to eat. The squaws seemed to have a monopoly on the window-peering, for very seldom could a buck be found resorting to that means to discover or to study the daily habits of the white man. I soon came to pay little attention to the peepers, but one day I noticed among them an extraordinarily sad face. It was that of a middle-aged woman. Her large dark eyes never left my face, and I had even sensed her presence before observing her, so intent was her gaze. Her unkempt hair hung in strings around her face which seemed haggard and worn with sorrow.

When I looked at her she continued motionlessly to star, but unlike all the rest she made no pleading signs. Her face was plea enough for me, though, and I told her in sign language that she should have food in a few minutes. This acknowledgment of her presence worked a wonderful change in her countenance; eyes that had been somber like an unpromising dawn suddenly brightened and her whole face lighted up without a remaining sign of clouds. Her sweet smile literally began in her eyes and overspread her countenance. It was that first transforming smile that caught and held me, and as long as I knew her it never lost its charm.

When the woman had had something to eat, instead of starting away as the Indians usually did, she picked up a scrub bucket that was standing near preparatory to the day’s labor, and signified her willingness to work. She helped about the house that day and returned the next, getting her breakfast and doing anything that came to her hands. So the habit grew and it became quite the usual thing for Kassie to appear and undertake little chores, receiving in exchange any cold food that happened to be on hand to carry away.

It was upon asking her one day what she did with this food that I first heard of her family. She had a daughter in her teens and a son a few years younger still living. It transpired that her husband had participated in the Custer Battle, and that she herself had actually taken part in it – having helped to carry ammunition and to load the rifles. Her story of the battle from the Indian standpoint was pathetic. She told me more than once how they had been attacked and, although not wanting to fight, they had been obliged to defend themselves. In that battler he husband had been killed, and ever since his death she had been struggling to provide for herself and for her children. When she spoke of her trials it was a very matter of fact account she gave in the accustomed phlegmatic Indian way; but her low tones and her sad eyes indicated a depth of feeling not ordinarily apparent in an Indian.

However, I never knew her to give way to gloomy moods. In fact, she was one of those Indian women who impress one with inherent aristocratic reticence, keeping to herself the story of the struggles and disappointments of life.

The woman was not only possessed of a certain grave dignity but her reliability was a delight to all with whom she came in contact. Her word was absolutely inviolate, and her good humor was as certain as her daily appearance. Indeed, her beautiful character and her pleasant, quiet ways charmed me, and for her a genuine affection grew up in my heart that is a ceaseless pleasure to recall.

Her Indian name was long and not euphonious, so I bestowed upon her the name of “Kassie,” as from some character in fiction or some other reason I associated with it dignity and self-possession. Before long she was known to the whites and later among her own people, by no other name.

After a time there came a change in our household which brought her even closer to its daily routine and gave me abundant opportunity to know and to appreciate her. My cook, a capable girl whom I had brought from St. Paul, left me to marry a retired soldier and start a life for herself on a ranch; Kassie volunteered to take her place until it should be regularly filled. The Indian woman had been about the house so much that she knew more of the work than I had realized; she proved a very welcome and indeed competent assistant. She learned to cook many things very well and never wearied in her efforts to please my husband and me.

Even after I had procured another cook, Kassie regarded herself as one of the household and came and went about the various chores. Perhaps because she had known me so intimately she felt freer to confide all her home affairs to me. So it was that I heard of the courtship of her daughter, whom I had named “Susie.” The girl was really very beautiful; her long, black, glossy hair, big brown eyes, clear complexion, and regular features having won for her the reputation of being the handsomest girl in the Sioux tribe, although not a member of the aristocratic Polecat family which was noted for its pretty girls.

Susie naturally received much attention. One young brave found especial favor in her eyes; many times they met, for he waited constantly to intercept her as she went about the Agency. In this manner the courtship progressed calmly, without the surveillance of the chaperone to which the present day American girl so gracefully submits.

One morning, upon emerging from their tipi, the family found a pony tethered t the door. It was the Indian lover’s customary avowal by which he made his desire known to the maiden’s household; thus the girl herself was left to make explanations without being subjected to exceptional embarrassment.

Upon learning to whom the pony belonged, the parent or guardian decided whether or not it was agreeable to receive the suitor into the family circle. In case he did not find favor in the parent’s eyes, his intercessory pony was turned loose and left free to return to its master. O the contrary, if the suitor was “persona grata” his pony had found a new home in the future father-in-law’s herd, whither several of its fellows eventually joined it in return for their last master’s new wife. For the acceptance of the first pony was merely an indication of acceptance of the suit. The price had yet to be agreed upon and might include ponies, guns, robes or other Indian chattels. It seems tous a degrading sale or barter. Through this custom, however, baby girls became sources of prospective revenue to their parents; otherwise their advent would probably be cause of regret and disappointment, as it is in some southern tribes. But with the Sioux the female offspring, if not destined to succeed to their father’s manly pursuits, at least meant an addition to the parental possessions when they should attain maturity. Without some such compensation for the lack of warrior attributes, I fear the infancy of my sex among the Sioux would have been as wretched as that which characterized it in womanhood.

Susie’s suitor proved acceptable, and as “long engagements” wee not the order of the day, the glad young buck soon afterward proclaimed the girl his wife in the eyes of their world by publicly escorting her from her mother’s lodge to his own, which was pitched with those of his family at “Deer Tail,” a half dozen miles away.

Time passed.

Susie seemed happy in her new life. But her absence was a constant sorrow to her mother who almost worshipped her. Only Kassie’s son, a promising lad whom I had named “Johnny,” was left in her home. Kassie had lost a daughter through death after her husband was killed. When I first knew her, indeed, her hair was still cropped as evidence of mourning for that daughter; one of the odd tokens of bereavement of the Sioux Indians being the cropping of their hair at the death of a relative. Sometimes also they mutilate the body by severing a joint or two of a finger. Kassie’s hair was growing long again, but still another time of mourning was at hand for the gentle, faithful soul into whose life had already been thrust so much sorrow.

One day she came to me weeping piteously. At first she could not control herself sufficiently to tell me her trouble, but soon I understood that she had received news of Susie’s death. She begged me to go with her to her daughter’s late home at Deer Tail and be present at the burial.

From the very first of our acquaintance, and especially when she spoke of her bereavements, I had talked to Kassie of the Life-to-come and the Father Who cares for His children when they leave this world. She seemed to have been much impressed, and was one of the very few Indians at the time to accept the Christian doctrine or even to appear to enter upon an appreciation of its meaning. The belief and trust that had grown in her heart now stood her in good stead. Not only did she turn to the “White Man’s God,” but she also wanted to have her daughter buried in the white man’s way. It seemed she was relying upon me to help her compass her desire.

In pity for her sore distress, I applied for and was granted the use of an escort wagon, and a teamster to drive us to the scene of mourning. There was at the Agency a lady whose husband had been sent out as a missionary by a Presbyterian Church in Cleveland Ohio. She was greatly interested in the work to which her husband had been called and, anxious to assist him, she had been applying herself to the study of the Sioux language, and had in the few months of their stay learned enough of it to read intelligibly to the Indians from the Scriptures which had been published in their own language. I asked her to accompany Kassie and me on our errand; so the three of us drove away.

Poor Kassie sat inert on the floor of the wagon bed and sobbed quietly to herself until we entered the small tipi village where Susie had come a bride just a year before. On our approach we had heard the sounds of Indian wailing. It seemed more than ever to unnerve the stricken mother.

As we entered the tent where Susie’s body lay, her husband arose and left, for was not the custom for the husband and mother to mourn together. In the center of the tipi lay the girlish form already wrapped for burial, surrounded by relative and friends of her husband’s, but with none of her own blood to attend it. Around the body, squatting on the ground with bowed heads and rocking bodies, sat the mourners uttering the most soul-stirring wails that it is possible to conceive. I have heard the wail of Indian mourning too many times to count, and I could never become accustomed to it, for the sound was as agonizingly pitiful, weird and heart-rending to me the last time I heard it as it was the first.

Without heeding those present, Kassie went to the head of the body and, touching it lovingly, murmured as though hoping to be heard by the dead. She seemed unwilling to take anyone’s word for it that her daughter was beyond recall; but actually began to remove the funeral wrappings from the body. Yards and yards of ticking were wound around it mummy fashion, and when these were at one side, the mother tried to feel through the casing of yellow muslin in which the body had first been sewed, for any possible signs of life. Her exhibition of vain hope was pitiful, but finally she stayed her hand, and replaced the shrouding about the lifeless form that had been so dear to her – those present assuring her that Susie had died at sunrise.

When the father-in-law saw us two ladies he betrayed an ugly disposition and ordered us away. I told him we had come at Kassie’s request, and that we were going to have to have Susie’s body buried the way we were accustomed to put away our dead. That angered him still more; he told us that arrangements were made for the body to be disposed of in Indian fashion, and brusquely added that we had nothing to say about the matter.

The Indian method of burial was to fasten a corpse upon cross sticks supported on poles in the ground or in the boughs of the tree-tops. Here the air and the elements silently disposed of the lifeless clay, until in a year or so but little remained to bear evidence of a tomb – perhaps some broken sticks in the top, and a few scattered beads or human bones beneath the burial place. I cannot conceive of anything more pitifully gruesome than an Indian burial ground of this type. I have seen them in the fall of the year when the winds were shaking and swaying the platforms and wringing the leafless trees, flaunting the burial rags like signals of distress from the bones and neglected remains of those who had many a time withstood the tempest and storm when the breath of life stirred within them.

When Kassie had readjusted the wrappings, the other lady who was with us sat in the tipi and read aloud in their own tongue the fourteenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel. I did my best to expound and make it plain while the tent was as still as the dead, except when form near-by came the piercing wail of the bereaved husband, mourning alone. Him we could not comfort.

Soon they proceed to the ceremony of cutting their hair and preparing to kill the ponies that were to accompany the soul of the departed to the “Happy Hunting Ground.” Upon realizing what was to be done, I besought him to desist. Again the husband’s father interposed with the argument that his son had already cut off the joint of a finger, and that all but one of the ponies were to be killed – the husband sparing only his own saddle horse. We explained to them best we could that the ponies would be of no benefit to Susie, while they were very valuable to the living; also that the Big Chief (Indian Agent) only provided rations for those who were not able to get food enough for themselves, and that if they killed their ponies it would show that they were rich enough and did not need any help. If they did not listen to me, I declared I would send word to the Big Chief, and he would surely stop their rations. This argument was too much for them, for big game in the vicinity by this time had become so scarce that, without government rations, it was almost impossible for the most thrifty Indians to get along. Flour, bacon, baking-powder, tea and so forth were the necessary staples which, with the small game procurable, furnished their diet. So finally my arguments had the desired effect, and the usual gory sacrifice was averted, and further objection to our plans for a white man’s burial for Susie, as her mother wished were not urged.

Taking from around my neck long silk scarf I measured the body for its coffin. Sometime before, I had gotten up an entertainment for the founding of a charitable fund, and with some of the proceeds we had a plain coffin made for Susie in which she was buried.

With the added weight of this most recent sorrow, Kassie began to fade. Only at rare intervals would she smile and she maintained her quiet dignity, never intruding her sorrow upon others. She continued conscientiously about her duties and displayed as evident desire to please as ever.

She remained with us until we left Poplar River, and our parting was indeed painful. She seemed to take my going quite to heart, and begged as a parting gift a lock of my hair and a small picture of myself, which she had admired. Gladly I granted the request, and she was very pleased with the little tokens. She wrapped them up carefully and put them away together in a tiny trunk in which her very few valuables were kept.

The trunk was one of a lot that, the trader having ordered out, proved a very popular line of goods, delighting the Indians as a novelty. The trunks were nothing but “doll luggage,” just large enough for the few keepsakes that the Indians prized sufficiently to preserve. Each was supplied with a key, and it was not unusual to see a tiny key suspended by a string around the neck of an Indian buck or squaw.

When my husband and I left the Agency we said our farewell to old “Kassie,” for we were never to meet again.

Some three years later, while riding horse-back near Fort Yates, South Dakota, I met a party of Sioux Indians form Poplar river on their way to visit at Standing Rock Agency. Just as we came abreast one of the bucks called out:

“How cola, How cola!”

He did not wait for his pony to stop but dismounted and ran over to greet us with great affection. It was Kassie’s brother; and between his manifestation of joy at seeing me, he told of his sister’s death which had occurred nearly two years previous. Then asking me to wait he ran over to a travots’ and from the conglomerate pile of household goods, kettles, clothing and so forth he brought out a doll’s trunk unlock and took out a small parcel.

With a sentiment far more tender than one would expect in a savage he stood in the dust o the road and the fierce glare of the sun beside my saddle and removed the wrapper after wrapper as he opened the package. It contained the lock of my hair tied with a red ribbon to one of my visiting cards and my picture which I had given to Kassie. I felt the hot moist tears coursing down my cheek as he recited the tenderness with which she had will them to him on her death-bed to care for as her most precious possession. It was proof unneeded of the enduring affection of a lofty-minded woman within her narrow horizon – brave amid misfortune; patient and uncomplaining in its endurance.

Sitting Bull

“Shall we have time to stop to get Sitting Bull’s autograph” was eagerly asked one afternoon at Fort Yates.

A small party was starting in the ambulance to attend an Indian dance. We had several visitors with us from the East, to whom our intimacy with the Indians, and knowledge of their habits, was a constant source of wonder. When they had learned that the warrior, “Sitting Bull,” had returned, after a short absence, o the agency, and that they might procure his autograph, their enthusiasm was unbounded. For some time had occupied a large share of their conversation, and they had not been content until I had promised to take them to see him.

Some years previous, at Fort Buford, I had known the chief, and when we again met at Fort Yates he continued his friendship, unusual as it was in a way. It certainly was not customary for a buck to notice a woman of his own people in public, much less for a dignified warrior to accord especial attention and respect to a white woman, the wife of an Army officer.

The Indians could not forget – as the effective quelling of open rebellion was yet of too recent date – that te Army posts were as sentinel boxes through the West. The presence of officers and men typified restraining authority to the high-spirited red man. However, Sitting Bull was big enough to disregard circumstance and race prejudice when personal feeling entered into the case.

When I first knew him he had been much pleased by my knowledge of his language; and seemed to enjoy a chat with me in his own tongue. My husband and I entertained “Tatonka Iotaonka,” as he was known in Sioux, to lunch. This courtesy he never forgot, though his natural dignity and reserve kept him from expressing his appreciation in words. So the friendship grew. Whenever I took visitors to see him he was so unusually pleasant with them that it became a habit to ask me to accompany post visitors to the warrior’s shack.

The day of which I speak seemed especially propitious for such a visit; we were to pass the place on our “sight-seeing” jaunt. Sight-seeing at that time on the prairie naturally did not include the view of noted buildings, or even hills, interesting as having figured in widely known events. Nor were the waving fields of grain or prosperous ranch colonies within easy traveling distance. More unique were our sight-seeing excursions, in the human interest they engendered – for it was the savage people that claimed the onlookers’ whole attention.

Post people, who were stationary for a couple of years at a time, were unwilling to miss the large Indian gatherings. We knew that that phase of world history was fast passing away, though with what astonishing rapidity we could not then realize. It was our custom to make up parties for the special events with the impulsive enthusiasm of the isolated West.

During guard-mount this particular morning we had heard the Indian “criers” announcing a “Grass Dance” for that afternoon. It was to be in honor of some visiting Crows. They and the Sioux had been at enmity for generations, and only recently had the hatchet been buried. About 150 Crows had been invited to pay a visit to the agency, and their consequent presence was being made the occasion of special ceremony and celebration. The Indian was scrupulously punctilious in observing the niceties of his social code. From the ‘crier” we learned that the dance was to be a big affair. “Many gifts” were to be distributed – a special sign of hospitality, even when the “gifts” were bestowed upon members of the same tribe.

The day was beautiful, a Friday in autumn, and we were all glad of the opportunity to make up a party to attend the dance. The Quartermaster put an ambulance and driver at our service, and immediately after luncheon we were ready for our short ride to the scene of action.

The start was sufficiently early for us to see Sitting Bull, as our guests had requested; and when the ambulance stopped before a shack not at all or promising appearance, the strangers were sitting with expectant faces. In answer to our call from the wagon, the door was opened by a squaw, to whom I told our errand. She silently re-entered to carry our message, and did not again appear while we waited.

The chief’s appearance as he emerged from the hut was sufficient to gratify a wish for dramatic effect. As the big man, erect and dignified, keen-eyed, of inscrutable face, stood silently for a second on his door-step, he personified medieval America in all its savage strength of frame and splendor of adornment. He was dressed for the dance, though his role was that of dignified host and onlooker, rather than participant in the festivity itself. His beaded belt and moccasins were elaborate in color and design. His blanket was new and of a very gorgeous color scheme. His feathered head-dress, rising as it did above his painted face, gave the man an added aspect of force and power. The picture, however momentary, of Sitting Bull framed in his doorway, must have made an impression on those seeing him for the first time.

When he came to the side of the ambulance I told him these four friends would like him to write his name for them. Some one during his later life had taught him to form the letters of his name, and since he had sprung into historic prominence he had frequently sold his autographs for a dollar apiece. I think the fact of his being able to supply the flattering demand was much a part of his pleasure as was the acceptance of the money n payment. We had brought paper along with us for the purpose, and one of the gentlemen loaned his pencil. It was incongruous to see the big, gaily decked savage bending over the slips of paper, and, with cramped fingers and unaccustomed schoolboy motions, tracing the English letters of his name.

When he had finished the number requested, I told him I, too, wanted a copy. As we started away I handed him my money, with that of the other recipients of his handiwork. But Sitting Bull was incensed at my action, and would not hear of my paying him.

“I have an admiration for you, and should you pay me for what I give you?” he explained in Sioux, and his tone voiced wounded friendship.

Then, with adieux and mutual satisfaction at the interview, our party left Sitting Bull’s shack, expecting to watch him with friendly eye at the grass dance later.

As we neared the scene of the dance the bedlam of whooping, yelling, beating tom-toms and “singing” grew louder. On the open prairie the groups of figures could be seen for quite a distance through the cloud of dust raised by their travel. At close range, in the glare of the sun, the brightly colored figures, constantly mingling and separating only to re-form into multi-colored groups, had the aspect of a titanic kaleidoscope.

The men with their long grass bustles that kicked their heels as they stepped, their waving grass bonnets, and their grass and ribbon-decked sticks, had formed an irregular circle. Some hundred yards distant the squaws had congregated and made their own dance ring. Some sat on the ground, while a few at a time stood and danced in the center. In emulation of the holiday attire of the men, they were gaily dressed and their faces were flushed with unaccustomed color in the excitement.

When the women saw me, those dancing beckoned me to join tem. Of course I shook my headed in refusal, but they paid me no heed. In words that kept the rhythm of their chant they invited me to come dance with them. Again I smilingly declined, exclaiming “Meah o mespeshney” (“I am not skillful!”) My “no” however, was to no effect, for two of the dancers came toward me, and each taking an arm led me toward their circle, continuing to chant and beckon. I tried to hold back, but when a couple of members of our party added their voice to the persuasive ones of my would-be hostesses, I succumbed and entered the ring.

Once there I entered with my best grace into the dance. Although it was not the first time I had done so, it was my first appearance “in public,” as I had learned to dance only at small camp-fire rings. When the women began throwing gifts in the shape of pieces of calico and packages of tobacco at my feet I caught the spirit and really think I forgot my assumed audience, and hopped the squaws in a progression of semi-circles in true Indian fashion. Whether or not I joined in the song, which was familiar, I do not now recall, though I am inclined to think I did, for I believe in thoroughness.

It must have been quite a spectacle – my figure in the ring. There I hopped on toe and heel beside streaming-haired, blanketed squaws, surrounded by others sitting on the scattered clumps of buffalo grass. All were singing in a strange tongue to a weird minor air; those seated supplying time for the chant by clapping their hands, in place of the men’s tom-toms. If the white spectators laughed I surely can appreciate their amusement at the sight.
I had come prepared to give “presents,” and when the time came I had reason to be satisfied with the squaws’ pleased reception of the ten-pound can of hard-tack, a dozen packages of tobacco, and as many loaves of bread.

We saw from a distance with what dignity Sitting Bull deported himself among his people and the visitors. The deference paid him by all was received by him as his due, without haughtiness, as he moved or sat with them.

Toward sundown the squaws began the preparation of the supper feast. They cooked the fresh meats and fat cakes in Dutch ovens that stood in a scattered group near at hand. There seemed a certain amount of system in the confusion of squaws, for when we started on our homeward way we saw that certain groups of women had charge of the cooking, others of waiting on the men, still others looked after the fires, etc.

Despite our visitors’ interests in the grass dance, Sitting Bull remained their hero of the day. Indeed, I doubt not that their last look as we were driven away from the scene included the figure of the warrior whose autograph they carried.

My last glimpse of him, some time later, was les bright and typical of the life to which he belonged.

The occasion was our leaving Fort Yates – on being relieved by the 12th Infantry – to take station in New York State. We went by boat up the Missouri to Bismarck, North Dakota, and to the boat came Sitting Bull to say farewell. He seemed indeed sorry to have us go, and I had never seen him manifest so much feeling as he did on that occasion.

When we had boarded the boat in the evening Sitting Bull came on and attached himself to our party, seating himself near me at the gunwale of the boat It was a glorious evening, but the mosquitoes were so attentive that I well remember my annoyance at them. The chief, however, seemed not to know of their existence. He sat very quietly, scarcely speaking except to tell me how bad his heart was that was going so far away. I felt the pathos of parting from my unusual admirer, yet as the evening advanced and the amusement of the party at his prolonged call increased, I felt it incumbent upon me to shorten his farewell. I told him I should have to say good-bye so we could retire early, as our boat pulled away at daylight.

Then in the deepening twilight, with none of his people near, the deposed chief sat and sang farewell to a white woman to whim he had given his friendship. His song was a parting song that in the peculiar circumstance and with his quiet dignity was pathetic, and yet to this day ring in my ears the tender words and weird music.

And so, on the deck of the river boat, Sitting Bull left us, nor did we ever again meet the chief – so cool and distant to the great majority of those who knew him, but lavish with his friendship for those to whom it once was given.

A Lothario of the Prairie

In the winter of ’81 a large camp of Sioux Indians under command of Chief Yellow Gall went into winter quarters near Poplar River, Montana. their temper was such that in mid-winter the troops attacked them. After a day’s fighting the camp surrendered. They belonged in reality to Sitting Bull’s following. A few weeks after the surrender the young bucks were detained for a fortnight under military control at Camp Poplar River where my husband was then stationed. They were allowed certain liberties, among which was the privilege of going to the trader’s store to dispose of any skins not destroyed when the troops burned their camp. We were having zero weather; indeed, it was some thirty below; but we had become accustomed to severe cold, and enjoyed it. Nevertheless, it was easy, in the dry clear atmosphere, to freeze carelessly exposed parts of one’s anatomy. We had to be particularly careful about wrapping up well on going out of doors. It was no unusual circumstance for one to freeze a nose, ear or finger.

I had all sorts of wraps and the like. My coat, which reached away below my knees, was made of buffalo calf, with beaver trimmings, and a high collar. This thoroughly protected my neck and ears. Then I had a cap of muskrat fur. It fitted down over my head below my collar, and its big side tabs covered my ears. It had a deep visor, too, that warded off the chill air from my eyes and face. Indeed, when attired for an outing I was so closely wrapped that nothing was visible except an edge of the bang above my forehead and a small oval of my face. I also wore German socks that reached to my knees. With such an outfit one was neither graceful nor agile, but nothing less would enable one to endure the low temperature. In this costume I accompanied my husband and another officer to the Indian trader’s store on one of our walks. A number of Indians stood about waiting their turn with the trader, while others bargained for goods in return for their furs and peltrie.

While the officers transacted some business I glanced casually around the room. In doing so my eye accidentally caught that of a young buck. He was a well built brave, of medium height. He had good features and an intelligent expression. His discomfiture as my eye caught his made it plain that he had been watching me. He was richly dressed after the fashion of his people. His costume was picturesque, though not unusual for an Indian. His thick scarlet blanket hung open in the warm room, disclosing the details of his dress. His bracelets and belt were of heavy leather studded in a neat design with brass tacks brightly polished. From his neck hung a breastplate that reached to his waist. It was made of a broad, flat chain of clay shells of various lengths. Here and there an elk tooth dangled by way of additional ornament. The shells were white, like bone, and were the shape and thickness of pipe stems, As was customary, he worse his hair in two long braids, decked with strips of fur. Leggings cased his lower limbs from the knee down. They were sumptuously ornamented with fur strips and mink tails. His moccasins were finely wrought in gray-colored porcupine quills. Altogether, he was a typical Beau Brummel of the prairie.

He continued to watch me, scarcely taking his eyes away. At last his steady gaze grew rather embarrassing, especially so when the officers began joking about it. One of them said:

“That fellow looks as though he would like to have your picture.”

At that my husband, always ready to tease, though very clever with his pencil, picked up a piece of brown wrapping paper and rapidly made a sketch of me as I stood. The likeness was a striking one, full of sketchy dash. There was so little diversion that insignificant happenings magnified into events. So, when the sketch was finished it, of course, had to be passed around and commented upon by my friends in the store. Someone showed it to the young buck who had been the innocent cause of the picture and merriment. he was delighted at sight of it, and clapped his hands, saying:

“Wash tala, wash tala. Miah wah chink.” (“Good, good! I want it.”)

The joke had gone so far that as a climax my companions asked if they might give it to him. I could do nothing gracefully but continue the spirit of the party and consent. After he had it we were all curious to know what he would do with it. We watched, and were much amused at his next move. As soon as he could edge his way to the counter he approached the trader and engaged him in a barter. He brought out his pelts one at a time, after the Indian fashion, completing and closing the bargain with every pelt, as if it were his last, and demanding a present (sinta) every time. He seemed to confine his purchases to various bright and varied colored calicoes, buying a half yard or so of each. Then he rolled the sketch with painstaking care and wrapped it in each piece of cloth successively, until it must have been covered with a dozen or more thicknesses. My husband suggested that it would be a courteous act to recognize the care he bestowed upon it by thanking him. I did so, and exchanged several sentences with him in his native tongue which seemed to please him exceedingly. Upon leaving the store I bought him a package of tobacco, to his further delight and satisfaction.

In a few days the Indian prisoners left Poplar River, and were established in a camp near Fort Buford, some sixty miles away.

I saw no more of him before they left, and the incident passed from my mind, until a few weeks later, when visiting at Fort Buford. It was a very bleak and barren station, especially at that time of year, late winter, with the ground yet under nearly two feet of snow on the level. The only possible out-of-door sport for ladies was sleighing, and with no place to go that was not very satisfactory, until the scheme of arranging bob-sled parties to visit the Indian camp, four miles out, was inaugurated. There was no other place of interest -- indeed, not a habitation except the forlorn stage ranches -- nearer than my own post. So one afternoon during my visit seven or eight of us arranged to attend a big feast dance that the Indians were to hold that day. The ride was delightfully exhilarating. There we were on the great open prairie, the snow-covered rolling country stretching away as far as the eye could reach in every direction. The four brisk mules whirled us along at a beautiful pace, kicking up a cloud of fine ice, so hard were the particles of snow in the frigid temperature. We were all in excellent spirits, and the party was a jolly one.

as we entered the Indian village it presented an interesting sight even to us who were accustomed to such scenes. The few substantial log buildings were used for stores, and for a dance “shack.” The tipis were constructed, some of unbleached muslin, others of skin, and still others of flour sacks sewed together and showing the brand of flour in the most unexpected places. Had the latter been pitched in an inhabited country they would have proved very unique advertisements. Volumes of blue smoke curled out from the lodge tops, showing above the tall willows, and ascended almost vertically. As compensation for the dreadfully low temperatures we generally had no wind with it. The scanty warmth of the dancing room was very welcome to us as we entered it. The dancers were just gathering. The “band” was already there, and presented a gaudy sight as they squatted around their tom-toms, which they gently and almost inaudibly beat, as though in the process of tuning. Soon the men removed their blankets, revealing their lithe and muscular forms painted for the most part in bright colors, some blue, others yellow, and still others red, green or white, in a few cases relieved by fantastic designs in contrasting colors. Their faces were decorated with stripes and blotches of different colors; some showing the “coup” mark (a kind of half moon), polka dots, or the like.

Our party on its entrance was naturally the cynosure of all eyes; but one of the “musicians” exhibited more persistent curiosity than any of the others. He never took his eyes off of us. Sitting beside me was Mrs. “Jimmie” Bell, a very beautiful woman -- pretty Emily Bell, acknowledged one of the belles of the army. Indeed, if there are any more beautiful than she anywhere, I have failed to find them in two trips around the world. She turned to me and said:

“Gid, you have a mash in the ‘band.’ Se that young buck looking at you there?”

I protested, thinking he was looking at her. Each of us insisted that the other was the attraction, and while our good-natured raillerie amused the other members of our party, the young Indian continued to stare at us, until we began to feel somewhat uneasy. The Indians in this camp had participated in the Sitting Bull uprising and in most of the raids for the past five years. We knew some of the bucks were still in an ugly mood. It was not beyond possibility or precedent that they might conclude to settled some of their grievances by an attack upon our little party. However, the officers assured us that there was no danger, and were in the habit of swallowing our hearts, being as loath to show the white feather as our husbands. So we tried to believe our escorts were really as unconcerned as they pretended to be. Nevertheless, we were anxious.

All at once the Indian who had kindled our fears suddenly arose, dropped his drumsticks, threw aside his blanket and rushed from the house. His actions and manner greatly increased our uneasiness. In a few minutes, however, he was back again. As none of his companions seemed to partake of his apparent excitement, our uneasiness gave way to mystification. It was only a minute, for he made straight toward us, and, stopping directly in front of me, grasped both my hands in his. I was terrified beyond expression, and fear I made a poor effort to conceal it. However I took courage when one of the officers said to me, in English:

“Don’t let him see that you are afraid he’s all right, but don’t act frightened.”

Before he finished his sentence, the young buck’s earnest face had relaxed, and his countenance was beaming as he pressed my hands, exclaiming:

“How cola. Jontay squeah meto wah?” (“How are you my sweetheart?”)

This speech put the whole party at ease, and sent them into a gale of merriment. I was so rejoiced that all danger had vanished that I was unconscious of my confusion until he took from under his blanket a roll of calico. Standing before me, he began to unroll the bundle. as one print of calico after another was exposed to view, I remembered the rough sketch my husband had drawn in the store at Poplar River a couple of months before, and its presentation to an Indian.

Not until then did I recognize through his fantastic paint the gallant of the trading store episode. He made a great “how-de-do” over my picture and over me, and seemed to think I had come to camp especially to see him. The only thing for me to do was to make him a present unless I wished to offend him. That there were no stores for miles around, and no place to spend money caused us to carry very little money about with us on the plains. On this occasion our purses were very light, and although I appealed to the entire party in taking up a collection right there for the joyful young buck, all we could raise was 45 cents. The amount was so small that I was almost ashamed to give it to him, but made up by a promise to send him some tobacco when I got home by the captain in charge of the camp, whose duty it was to visit the camp daily. I fulfilled my promise the next day, and the captain told me the Indian inquired after me, and begged for permission to leave camp to come and see me. He was a prisoner of war, and of course such an indulgence was out of the question, so he was told that I had returned to my own post.

I never again saw my gay admirer, but it was many moons before I was free from good-natured teasing from my friends. The incident now stands out in my experience as a conspicuous example of the gentle sentiment I so often observed beneath the mantle of dignity and stoicism which were the prominent, outwardly observed characteristics of this really noble primitive people.