V:An Adventurous Journey IT must now be about thirty years since our long journey in search of new hunting-grounds,from the Assiniboine river to the Upper Missouri.The buffalo,formerly so abundant between the two rivers,had begun to shun their usual haunts,on account of the great numbers of Canadian half-breeds in that part of the country.There was also the first influx of English sportsmen,whose wholesale methods of destruction wrought such havoc with the herds.These seemingly intelli-gent animals correctly prophesied to the natives the approach of the pale-face.
As we had anticipated,we found game very scarce as we travelled slowly across the vast plains.
There were only herds of antelope and sometimes flocks of waterfowl,with here and there a lonely bull straggling aimlessly along.At first our party was small,but as we proceeded on our way we fell in with some of the western bands of Sioux and Assiniboines,who are close connections.
Each day the camp was raised and marched from ten to twenty miles.One might wonder how such a cavalcade would look in motion.The only vehicles were the primitive travaux drawn by ponies and large Esquimaux dogs.These are merely a pair of shafts fastened on either side of the animal,and trailing on the ground behind.Alarge basket suspended between the poles,just above the ground,supplied a place for goods and a safe nest for the babies,or an occasional helpless old woman.Most of our effects were carried by pack ponies;and an Indian packer excels all oth-ers in quickness and dexterity.
The train was nearly a mile long,headed by a number of old warriors on foot,who carried the filled pipe,and decided when and where to stop.
A very warm day made much trouble for the women who had charge of the moving household.
The pack dogs were especially unmanageable.
They would become very thirsty and run into the water with their loads.The scolding of the women,the singing of the old men and the yelps of the Indian dudes made our progress a noisy one,and like that of a town in motion rather than an ord-inary company of travelers.
This journey of ours was not without its excit-ing episodes.My uncle had left the main body and gone off to the south with a small party,as he was accustomed to do every summer,to seek revenge of some sort on the whites for all the in-juries that they had inflicted upon our family.
This time he met with a company of soldiers be-tween Fort Totten and Fort Berthold,in North Dakota.Somehow,these seven Indians surprised the troopers in broad daylight,while eating their dinner,and captured the whole outfit,including nearly all their mules and one white horse,with such of their provisions as they cared to carry back with them.No doubt these soldiers reported at the fort that they had been attacked by a large party of Indians,and I dare say some promo-tions rewarded their tale of a brave defense!
However,the facts are just as I have stated them.
My uncle brought home the white horse,and the fine Spanish mules were taken by the others.
Among the things they brought back with them were several loaves of raised bread,the first I had ever seen,and a great curiosity.We called it aguyape tachangu,or lung bread,from its spongy consistency.
Although when a successful war-party returns with so many trophies,there is usually much dancing and hilarity,there was almost nothing of the kind on this occasion.The reason was that the enemy made little resistance;and then there was our old tradition with regard to the whites that there is no honor in conquering them,as they fight only under compulsion.Had there really been a battle,and some of our men been killed,there would have been some enthusiasm.
It was upon this journey that a hunter per-formed the feat of shooting an arrow through three antelopes.This statement may perhaps be doubted,yet I can vouch for its authenticity.He was not alone at the time,and those who were with him are reliable witnesses.The animals were driven upon a marshy peninsula,where they were crowded together and almost helpless.Many were despatched with knives and arrows;and a man by the name of Grey-foot,who was large and tall and an extraordinarily fine hunter,actually sent his arrow through three of them.This feat was not accomplished by mere strength,for it re-quires a great deal of skill as well.
A misfortune occurred near the river which de-prived us of one of our best young men.There was no other man,except my own uncle,for whom I had at that time so great an admiration.Very strangely,as it appeared to me,he bore a Chris-tian name.He was commonly called Jacob.I did not discover how he came by such a curious and apparently meaningless name until after I had returned to the United States.His father had been converted by one of the early missionaries,before the Minnesota massacre in 1862,and the boy had been baptized Jacob.He was an ideal woodsman and hunter and really a hero in my eyes.He was one of the party of seven who had attacked and put to rout the white soldiers.
The trouble arose thus.Jacob had taken from the soldiers two good mules,and soon afterward we fell in with some Canadian half-breeds who were desirous of trading for them.However,the young man would not trade;he was not at all dis-posed to part with his fine mules.A certain one of the mixed-bloods was intent upon getting pos-session of these animals by fair or unfair means.
He invited Jacob to dinner,and treated him to whiskey;but the Indian youth declined the liquor.
The half-breed pretended to take this refusal to drink as an insult.He seized his gun and shot his guest dead.
In a few minutes the scene was one of almost unprecedented excitement.Every adult Indian,female as well as male,was bent upon invading the camp of the bois brules,to destroy the mur-derer.The confusion was made yet more intol-erable by the wailing of the women and the sing-ing of death-songs.
