Wasu: My Indian Protege

One of the peering faces that watched us from outside our windows at Camp Poplar River became very familiar by reason of its frequent and regular appearance. It was that of a child. Sometimes it was there near the sill of the window, along; again the worn, hungry face of a woman leaned above it. I would not attempt to describe the effect that the sprectre-like appearances had upon me as I would glance out of my windows and unexpectedly encounter the pair of eyes intent upon my every move. These young eyes were at first frankly inquiring; soon they took on an expression of child-like curiosity; finally one day I surprised in them the warmth and caress that is associated with personal interest.

I spoke to the child and her mother and gave them food at different times. It seemed that the girl, “Wasu” (“the Hail”), was about eleven years of age, though her size had led me to judge her older. Her mother told me Wasu was very fond of me and liked to watch me, which was fully corroborated by her daily attendance at the windows that commanded a view of me at my various employments. The Indian woman urged me to take her child and keep her, but the suggestion did not at first attract me. However, as the days passed, each marked by the girl’s tireless watching, I concluded it would be preferable having her indoors rather than seeing her pitiful appealing face as she would stand outside for hours.

Of course it was necessary to give her some employment, so as a trial I called her in one day to do some simple work. Her joy was quite manifest, and the way she readily and delightedly performed the bit of labor surprised and somewhat encouraged me. At that time good domestic help was at a premium. To get servants we had to send to some employment agency in St. Paul, a thousand miles away, guarantee their traveling expenses both ways, and agree to keep them a year; and often they proved inefficient and unsatisfactory, so that any willing assistance was seized with eagerness.

Wasu not only proved her willingness, but after being shown “the how” she applied herself so assiduously that it never occurred to her to ask “the why.” So during the course of a few weeks Wasu had grown so useful and of such assistance that I asked her if she would like to accompany us on a hunting trip.

We had planned to go duck hunting up along the British border, and I thought Wasu might be a useful addition to our small party. She was delighted at the suggestion and enthusiastically helped with our preparations. We had the post blacksmith fix us up a stove, for out-of-doors, with a capacious oven, for we expected to feast upon fresh game up in around the lakes. My husband and another young officer who was going selected three soldiers to accompany us, and with the driver of the Dougherty wagon, baggage wagon, and Wasu our party was complete.

We struck almost due north from the post and traveled leisurely for a couple of days, taking advantage of any chance games and enjoying the sight of uninhabited country, all quite a new region to us, and our only map was without details. Our old guide, Durand, who drove the baggage wagon and stood sponsor of the trail, knew where to find the best hunting.

The life we lived during that wonderful week, camping in the shadows of the timber that bordered the streams, or moving on in quest of birds yet unstartled by the reports of the white man’s gun, was an exhilarating dream. The Indians shot at small game, for their ammunition being scarce and costly, they saved it for four-footed beasts. One day we came upon a beautiful lake that had no representation on the map. It was a couple of miles wide, and its length reached beyond the horizon, and we felt the thrill of discovery when we realized that we were probably the first white people to look upon its clear waters. The first human impulse under like circumstances since the world’s christening day in Eden prompted us not to leave it nameless.

Durand’s guidance had brought us to it and as a tribute we christened it without more formality “Lake Durand.” The Indians had told us of the lake, and we had taken with is a small rowboat. We camped upon its margin, for there was game in abundance harbored in the fringing trees and in the marshes of its shores. Wild geese and several varieties of ducks we found in plenty, and before the trip was over we had added a pelican and a brant to our list. The pelican was a splendid specimen, and handling it carefully, we took it back to the post and turned it over to a soldier who was a sort of taxidermist. His art, though crude, secured for us this one substantial souvenir of our trip, which, along with some other frontier curious, we presented to the museum at the university of our home town. Through the days Wasu was tireless in her efforts to please. On our march through that magnificent country, her eyes were constantly drinking in its beauty and surprises, our lips voicing appreciation and enthusiasm. But Wasu was never moved from her Indian stolidity and acceptance of it all. The unpeopled expanse was her home and that of her fathers. What was there of the unusual about it or worthy of special interest to her? But in the evenings, when the white people’s house, or camp, keeping began, when we followed the routine with accustomed finger fingers and established habits, Wasu awoke to a new world, and her interest and eagerness made her a pleasant help. She made up the beds, kept my belongings in order and made herself useful in innumerable ways. When we cooked the brant, which did full justice to the size of our oven, Wasu had her first lesson in baking. She tirelessly tended and basted the bird until we declared its juiciness was due to her efforts.

One night during this trip stands out with particular vividness in my memory. It was that on which we went duck hunting by artificial light. We had taken with us on the trip a large lamp like the headlights used on trains. With this well filled and burning in the bow of our boat we pushed off and made the circuit of the marshy shores. It was a moonless night, and the beams of our lantern attracted the wondering birds. They circled and wheeled about it, and as they came within good distance and were illumined against the dark background we used our guns with good effect.

The scene was weird. Through the darkness the bright light slowly wandered, followed by the ripple of the water as it lapped the boatside and swelled around the oars. Overhanging leafy shadows made a mystic background as winged creatures darted up and about the white stream of light. Silently they were bathed in light for a moment, then as silently they disappeared in the darkness, only to return, blinded and attracted, until a quick report and an ominous flash sent them down with a soggy splash from out the betraying sire light forever.

Finding it somewhat difficult to row through the rushes so near shore, one of the men who was equipped with rubber boots proposed that he wade behind the boat and push it through the reeds and rushes. He did so, and our progress was yet more easy and quiet except when the report of a gun would echo across the water. It was a wonderful night, and had we even been less successful in the quantity of our game, the experience would amply have repaid us for what effort and inconvenience it may have cost.

On our return to camp, long after midnight, we found Wasu had faithfully and ably followed instructions and had hot coffee ready. This we shared with the men, especially the one who had waded, though he felt none the worse for his service. And so at almost dawn there we sat, discussing our trip and partaking cozily in our tent of a hot supper.

By the time we returned to Poplar River from this hunting trip I had become attached to quiet little Wasu and determined to keep her about the house. This delighted both the child and her mother, who, it seemed, found it most difficult to “forage” for herself alone. Having thus accepted her as a member of the household, I now began to teach Wasu not only housework and the English language, but also the Bible stories that little white girls hear so soon. She was a very attentive listener, and also had a most retentive memory. In time she began to learn the Catechism, many of whose mysteries she, like her elders, found difficult to grasp.

One day when I was resting on my couch I called Wasu to me and began expounding as well as teaching. The second question, “Where is God?” held us long. Her big eyes were serious enough as she answered in the parrot-like utterance.

“Wasu,” I said, “God is the Great Spirit, and He stays in the forests, and in the prairie, and in the villages -- everywhere. He is with His children always. He is here in this room now.”

When I began her eyes widened, but at the climax of my explanation her hands in her lap unclasped. She turned hastily in her chair to view the entire room. Seeing nothing unusual she looked back at me mystified; then ju,ping off her chair she looked behind the door and stooped to peer under the furniture. Coming back to me in surprise, for she know I had never told her an untruth, she questioned, “Took te? Took te?” (“Where? Where?”)

It took me a long time to reach her understanding, but every Sabbath the Indian girl accompanied me to service. The Indians were not only urged to attend, but some few of them seemed to enjoy attending the religious meetings, though little but the singing could have been intelligible to them. One of the regular attendants was an old buck, a “coffee cooler,” as described in the vernacular of the prairie, who was always desirous of keeping on good terms with the agency people, from whom came his issue of rations. He was always polite and was never slow in his greetings. One of the men of the agency upon whom the buck felt more or less dependent was named Bacon, whom the Indians called “Coocosh” (literally “pig”). One Sunday morning, when we were at service and the chaplain and congregation were quiet and at solemn prayer, the door opened and Mr. Bacon made his tardy entrance. Perceiving that his coming was ill-timed he tiptoed to a convenient seat, making as little noice as possible. But the polite old India “coffee cooler” spied him, and in his heavy bass welcomed the newcomer to the service with a loud and pleasant “How! Coocosh!”

The solemnity of the occasion was not sufficient to prevent the audible snicker that followed.

Wasu was a much better behaved attendant on the service.

About a year after I had first seen them Wasu’s mother died, on her deathbed willing the child to me. As she apparently had not other kin, I took her with me when we were ordered to Fort Abraham Lincoln, a few hundred miles down the river. There she learned to play and deport herself very much like a white child. She was very fond of “dressing up,” and every Saturday afternoon she donned a fresh frock and paraded around the post like a little French miss in a city park. I made her a garnet silk dress, and I doubt if ever anything pleased her so much. She learned to roller skate and took great delight in the motion. Every pleasant day after her duties in the house were ended she could be seen traversing the board-walks with Mercury-like heels.

After about a year of life at Lincoln, during which I had grounded Wasu in the “rule of three” and other educational rudiments, I sent her to the Indian school at Carlisle. There I knew she would receive the fine instruction and training of which I felt her worthy. Good reports came from her teachers, and after a short time Wasu’s letters came to me were full of contentment and busy interest. As Carlisle is my childhood hood, I had several opportunities to see Wasu on my visits East, and was delighted with her progress and ambitions. She steadily advanced from class to class; but suddenly in the last year of her schooling she developed quick consumption and was carried off as so many of her people were.

Her teachers and the associates of her young womanhood spoke of her fine character and missed “the good Wasu.”

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.