An Unusual Treat

When in Manila, I met an old friend who at once laughingly recalled the last time that we had met. It was at Camp Poplar River, Montana, in the early ‘80s. My friend was then a Major in the paymaster’s department, making one of his bimonthly pay tours. We entertained him in our home.

On this trip he had with him an Eastern friend, a Doctor. The latter knew nothing of the Indians, and the Major was anxious for him to see the large village near by, as their stay was to be only twenty-four hours, they wished to make as much of their time as possible.

My husband knew most of the Indian chiefs, and was on very friendly terms with them. He requested that a “Wacheepee Tonka” (general dance) be held the evening of their stay, instead of the many small dances that were nightly held. By promising that “our hearts would get strong” and that we would contribute to the feast, he obtained the desired result. Soon we heard the Indian criers running through the camp announcing the feast.

The scene of the dance was a rude hut of logs set upright in the earth and chinked with mud. The roof was of poles thatched with grass and covered with a layer, six or eight inches deep, of earth.

It was dark when we entered the building; the earth floor showed densely black except where the candle light changed it to a somber gray. These candles place don the floor, being the only means of illumination in the room, produced a singularly weird effect.

Dark figures stood or squatted around the edge of the room wrapped in blankets. Among the shadows moved busy women, hovering over the small Dutch ovens and camp kettles at one side, as they prepared the repast.

Suddenly a corner became obscure as a sweeping blanket extinguished a candle. A squaw quickly brought another, and, as she stooped, the flame illuminated her expressionless face and somber robes.

Picturesque maidens helped the older women, and anon cast shy glances at their favorite young bucks.

As we entered, the Indians called “Ho-holl ay! Leela cola otah metowa coah. Hatswashtay.” (“Look! Very many of my friends come. That’s good.”)

as the tom-toms struck up their rhythmic thud, the dancers sprang forward, ranged themselves in a ring, and began. Throwing off their blankets they revealed their magnificent figures, adorned with no clothing but their breech clouts.

Their bodies were gaudily decked with different colored paints applied in fantastic figures. Upon their heads were bonnets of waving grass and feathers. Several also wore a bustle effect of some material that lapped their heels as they danced, and clucked in rhythm to the “music.”

In their hands they carried their “coup sticks” from which hung strips of fur or possibly a scalp. These coup sticks were made of wood and cut with notches representing the brave deeds their owners had done.

There was nothing particularly graceful in the slow movement of the dance. The feet were alternately lifted high to the rear on the beat of the instruments. At the same time the coup sticks were waved in the air from side to side, while the dancers turned their heads with nervous alertness as though stalking an enemy. When the dance was ended or rather at the end of every “round,” the men resumed their blankets and seated themselves in a group.

After a short but impressive silence, a stalwart fellow flung away his blanket, sprang from the group, and pacing back and forth began speaking in a clear well-modulated voice. His accents commanded respect as the tones of his voice rose and fell. To and fro he paced, the light now gleaming on his body, now playing with the sprawling shadow that alternatively broke from and melted into the denser darkness of the real figure.

We were strangely impressed as we listened to one of those people who had lived, struggled, and finally become reconciled to their fate. His tale was one of skill and daring in personal encounter. As the recital became more exciting he stopped, and leaning forward shaded his eyes as he spied, in mimic fashion, upon the foe. Then suiting action to word, he told of the rush of the attack; the quick meeting; the desperate combat. Suddenly his long arm was raised to strike, softly and silently it descended. Then he went over his imaginary enemy as he had over the real one. At the conclusion, the brave strengthened himself, and holding his hand high, shook it in triumph as if he were holding aloft the blood-dripping scalp. The harangue ended, the speaker, held his dramatic pose in silence a few moments, when suddenly broke forth the weird Indian applause of trembling whoops.

When it subsided, the brave resumed his blanket and his place in the circle and another took the floor. He told a tale of outwitting a camp of Crow Indians and stealing their ponies. Still others had different experiences to relate; and they alternated dancing and reciting their brave deeds until all had finished. Each, at the close of his recital was greeted with the moaning shriek of approbation.

This custom of relating brave deeds was called “counting the coups.” Sometimes at great dances, the history of the tribe would be recited. It was the shrine of inspiration to the growing youth. The “coup stick” was the great personal treasure, upon it the individual recorded his deeds of bravery.

The feathers worn in the Indians’ hair also had their significance. A warrior who had distinguished himself in battle; risked his life, or struck with his stick a living enemy, was given permission by the camp-fire council to wear a “coup feather,” a sort of medal of honor. The ornament was not presented to him, however. Having earned and been accorded the right to wear it, he must procure the feather for himself; furthermore, none but a feather plucked from a living eagle was allowable.

I knew an Indian, Yellow Eagle, who, in order to get his coup feather, dug a hole in the ground on the open prairie far from camp or habitation. Over it he fixed a covering of brush, upon which was laid the carcass of a freshly slain antelope. In this trap he lay for three days awaiting the eagle’s coming.

When at last, lured by the bait, one did alight, he seized it from below and despite its flapping and clawing and pecking, he plucked the precious feathers before freeing the astonished and terrified bird. I recall none but the American aboriginal who has been able successfully to pull the American eagle’s tail.

When the warriors had finished their dancing and boasting, the squaws prepared to serve refreshments. We had brought out contribution to the feast -- bread, hard-tack, and tobacco, so I now sent out for these. The native refreshments consisted of sodden fried-cakes (a mixture of poor wheat flour, bacon grease and baking powder) and soup. It was then the custom to pass the pipe after the food was disposed of.

Our guests were curious to know what was to happen next. We told them, and to have some fun, whispered to the Major that it was dog soup that they were about to serve, and so it was. The broth was prepared like any other, only the flesh used was that of freshly slaughtered dogs. we had attended so many “feasts” that while my husband as he says, “did not hanker after dog,” yet, as it is his pride that he can eat everything that can be cooked or served raw, the prospect did not disturb him. I, too, was undisturbed for the reason that women are not expected to join in the feast or smoke.

The Major demurred strongly at partaking, but we told him that we greatly feared the Indians would regard as an unfriendly act, a declination to partake of their proffered hospitality. The result might be pleasant. Even if I had no note of the evening in my diary, I could never forget how greatly disturbed he appeared as he turned to me and said, sotto voce:

“Oh, Mrs. H., get me out of this. I can eat it! I really shall be ill if I have to partake.”

Repeating my fears, I said, “I’m sorry Major, but it will not do to refuse to eat with them; it will involve a risk of angering the Indians. The consequences might be serious.”

“But,” said he, “I cannot eat that soup.” His countenance was so woe-begone that my sympathy prompted me to turn to my husband and say:

“I’m not feeling well. So think I shall not stay for the feasting but shall go home now.

“Very well,” he replied, “I’ll take you,” but the Major interposed:

“Never mind, Lieutenant, I will be glad to accompany your wife. I have seen these feasts before, so shall not mind; besides, you can better explain things to my friend. I do not want him to miss any of it.” My husband started to object to the Major’s missing any of the scene; but I assured him that I was not seriously ill, that the fresh air would revive me, and that the Major could see me home nicely. I also added that he, with his more intimate knowledge of Indian customs, could no doubt explain to the Major’s friend better than the Major could. Having made the excuse of my illness to the Indians, the Major and I then withdrew.

After the dance was over, and the party reached home later, we had refreshments of our own choosing, then the Major told the joke on himself; and we all -- with the exception of the other guest, who until then did not know what he had partaken -- had a hearty laugh.

If the Major ever had to “square himself” with his friend afterward, he has never revealed it.