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.