THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

The Buffalo, While They Still Existed in countless Numbers.

One Veteran French Canadian, An Employee Of The American Fur Company,

Way Back In the Early '30'S, Used to Mourn Thus: "Mais, Sacre!

Les Amarican, Dey Go To De Missouri Frontier, De Buffalo He Ron To

De Montaigne; De Trappaire Wid His Fusil, He Follow To De Bayou

Salade, He Ron Again.  Dans Les Montaignes Espagnol, Bang! Bang!

Toute La Journee, Toute La Journee, Go De Sacre Voleurs.  De Bison He

Leave, Parceque Les Fusils Scare Im Vara Moche, Ici La De Sem-Sacre!"

 

Chapter XIII (Indian Customs And Legends)

Thirty-Five Miles Before Arriving at Bent'S Fort, At Which Point

The Old Trail Crossed the Arkansas, The Valley Widens And The Prairie

Falls Toward The River In gentle Undulations.  There For Many Years

The Three Friendly Tribes Of Plains Indians--Cheyennes, Arapahoes,

And Kiowas--Established their Winter Villages, In order To Avail

Themselves Of The Supply Of Wood, To Trade With The Whites, And To

Feed their Herds Of Ponies On The Small Limbs And Bark Of The

Cottonwood Trees Growing along The Margin Of The Stream For Four

Or Five Miles.  It Was Called big Timbers, And Was One Of The Most

Eligible Places To Camp On The Whole Route After Leaving Council Grove.

The Grass, Particularly On The South Side Of The River, Was Excellent;

There Was An Endless Supply Of Fuel, And Cool Water Without Stint.

 

 

 

In The Severe Winters That Sometimes Were Fruitful Of Blinding

Blizzards, Sweeping From The North In an Intensity Of Fury That

Was Almost Inconceivable, The Buffalo Too Congregated there For

Shelter, And To Browse On The Twigs Of The Great Trees.

 

 

 

The Once Famous Grove, Though Denuded of Much Of Its Timber, May

Still Be Seen From The Car Windows As The Trains Hurry Mountainward.

 

 

 

Garrard, In his _Taos Trail_, Presents An Interesting and Amusing

Account Of A Visit To The Cheyenne Village With Old John Smith,

In 1847, When The Santa Fe Trade Was At Its Height, And That With

The Various Tribes Of Savages In its Golden Days.

 

 

 

          Toward The Middle Of The Day, The Village Was In a Great

          Bustle.  Every Squaw, Child, And Man Had Their Faces

          Blackened--A Manifestation Of Joy.[44]

 

 

 

          Pell-Mell They Went--Men, Squaws, And Dogs--Into The Icy

          River.  Some Hastily Jerked off Their Leggings, And Held

          Moccasins And Dresses High Out Of The Water.  Others, Too

          Impatient, Dashed the Stream From Beneath Their Impetuous

          Feet, Scarce Taking Time To Draw More Closely The Always

          Worn Robe.  Wondering What Caused all This Commotion, And

          Looking Over The River, Whither The Yelling, Half-Frantic

          Savages Were So Speedily Hurrying, We Saw A Band Of Indians

          Advancing Toward Us.  As The Foremost Braves Reined their

          Champing Barbs On The River-Bank, Mingled whoops Of Triumph

          And Delight And The Repeated discharge Of Guns Filled

          The Air.  In the Hands Of Three Were Slender Willow Wands,

          From The Smaller Points Of Which Dangled as Many Scalps--

          The Single Tuft Of Hair On Each Pronouncing Them Pawnees.[45]

 

 

 

          These Were Raised aloft, Amid Unrestrained bursts Of Joy

          From The Thrice-Happy, Blood-Thirsty Throng.  Children Ran

          To Meet Their Fathers, Sisters Their Brothers, Girls Their

          Lovers, Returning From The Scene Of Victorious Strife;

          Decrepit Matrons Welcomed manly Sons; And Aged chiefs Their

          Boys And Braves.  It Was A Scene Of Affection, And A Proud

          Day In the Cheyenne Annals Of Prowess.  That Small But

          Gallant Band Were Relieved of Their Shields And Lances By

          Tender-Hearted squaws, And Accompanied to Their Respective

          Homes, To Repose By The Lodge-Fire, Consume Choice Meat,

          And To Be The Heroes Of The Family Circle.

 

 

 

          The Drum At Night Sent Forth Its Monotony Of Hollow Sound,

          And My Mexican Pedro And I, Directed by The Booming,

          Entered a Lodge, Vacated for The Purpose, Full Of Young Men

          And Squaws, Following One Another In a Continuous Circle,

          Keeping The Left Knee Stiff And Bending The Right With A

          Half-Forward, Half-Backward Step, As If They Wanted to Go On

          And Could Not, Accompanying It, Every Time The Right Foot

          Was Raised, With An Energetic, Broken Song, Which, Dying

          Away, Was Again And Again Sounded--"Hay-A, Hay-A, Hay-A,"

          They Went, Laying The Emphasis On The First Syllable.

          A Drum, Similar To, Though Larger Than A Tambourine, Covered

          With Parfleche,[46] Was Beaten Upon With A Stick, Producing

          With The Voices A Sound Not Altogether Disagreeable.

 

 

 

          Throughout The Entire Night And Succeeding Day The Voices

          Of The Singers And Heavy Notes Of The Drum Reached us,

          And At Night Again The Same Dull Sound Lulled me To Sleep.

          Before Daylight Our Lodge Was Filled with Careless Dancers,

          And The Drum And Voices, So Unpleasing To Our Wearied ears,

          Were Giving Us The Full Benefit Of Their Compass.  Smith,

          Whose Policy It Was Not To Be Offended, Bore The Infliction

          As Best Be Could, And I Looked on Much Amused.  The Lodge

          Was So Full That They Stood Without Dancing, In a Circle

          Round The Fire, And With A Swaying Motion Of The Body

          Kept Time To Their Music.

 

 

 

          During The Day The Young Men, Except The Dancers, Piled up

          Dry Logs In a Level Open Space Near, For A Grand Demonstration.

          At Night, When It Was Fired, I Folded my Blanket Over My

          Shoulders, Comme Les Sauvages, And Went Out.  The Faces

          Of Many Girls Were Brilliant With Vermilion; Others Were

          Blacked, Their Robes, Leggings, And Skin Dresses Glittering

          With Beads And Quill-Work.  Rings And Bracelets Of Shining

          Brass Encircled their Taper Arms And Fingers, And Shells

          Dangled from Their Ears.  Indeed, All The Finery Collectable

          Was Piled on In barbarous Profusion, Though A Few, In good

          Taste Through Poverty, Wore A Single Band And But Few Rings,

          With Jetty Hair Parted in the Middle, From The Forehead

          To The Neck, Terminating In two Handsome Braids.

 

 

 

          The Young Men Who Can Afford The Expense Trade For Dollars

          And Silver Coin Of Less Denomination--Coin As A Currency

          Is Not Known Among Them--Which They Flatten Thin, And Fasten

          To A Braid Of Buffalo Hair, Attached to The Crown Lock,

          Which Hangs Behind, Outside Of The Robe, And Adds Much To

          The Handsome Appearance Of The Wearer.

 

 

 

          The Girls, Numbering Two Hundred, Fell Into Line Together,

          And The Men, Of Whom There Were Two Hundred and Fifty,

          Joining, A Circle Was Formed, Which Travelled around With

          The Same Shuffling Step Already Described.  The Drummers

          And Other Musicians--Twenty Or Twenty-Five Of Them--Marched

          In a Contrary Direction To And From And Around The Fire,

          Inside The Large Ring; For At The Distance Kept By The

          Outsiders The Area Was One Hundred and Fifty Feet In diameter.

          The Apollonian Emulators Chanted the Great Deeds Performed

          By The Cheyenne Warriors.  As They Ended, The Dying Strain

          Was Caught Up By The Hundreds Of The Outside Circle, Who,

          In fast-Swelling, Loud Tones, Poured out The Burden Of

          Their Song.  At This Juncture The March Was Quickened,

          The Scalps Of The Slain Were Borne Aloft And Shaken With

          Wild Delight, And Shrill War-Notes, Rising above The

          Furious Din, Accelerated the Pulsation And Strung High

          The Nerves.  Time-Worn Shields, Careering In mad Holders'

          Hands, Clashed; And Keen Lances, Once Reeking In pawnee

          Blood, Clanged.  Braves Seized one Another With An Iron

          Grip, In the Heat Of Excitement, Or Chimed more Tenderly

          In the Chant, Enveloped in the Same Robe With Some Maiden

          As They Approvingly Stepped through One Of Their Own

          Original Polkas.

 

 

 

          Thirty Of The Chiefs And Principal Men Were Ranged by The

          Pile Of Blazing Logs.  By Their Invitation, I Sat Down With

          Them And Smoked death And Its Concomitant Train Of Evils To

          Those Audacious Tribes Who Doubt The Courage Or Supremacy

          Of The Brave, The Great And Powerful, Cheyenne Nation.

 

 

 

It Is Indian Etiquette That The First Lodge A Stranger Enters On

Visiting a Village Is His Home As Long As He Remains The Guest Of

The Tribe.  It Is All The Same Whether He Be Invited or Not.

Upon Going In, It Is Customary To Place All Your Traps In the Back

Part, Which Is The Most Honoured spot.  The Proprietor Always Occupies

That Part Of His Home, But Invariably Gives It Up To A Guest.

With The Cheyennes, The White Man, When The Tribe Was At Peace With

Him, Was Ever Welcome, As In the Early Days Of The Border He Generally

Had A Supply Of Coffee, Of Which The Savage Is Particularly Fond--

Mok-Ta-Bo-Mah-Pe, As They Call It.  Their Salutation To The Stranger

Coming Into The Presence Of The Owner Of A Lodge Is "Hook-Ah-Hay!

Num-Whit,"--"How Do You Do?  Stay With Us."  Water Is Then Handed by

A Squaw, As It Is Supposed a Traveller Is Thirsty After Riding;

Then Meat, For He Must Be Hungry, Too.  A Pipe Is Offered, And

Conversation Follows.

 

 

 

The Lodge Of The Cheyennes Is Formed of Seventeen Poles, About Three

Inches Thick At The End Which Rests On The Ground, Slender In shape,

Tapering Symmetrically, And Eighteen Feet Or More In length.  They Are

Tied together At The Small Ends With Buffalo-Hide, Then Raised until

The Frame Resembles A Cone, Over Which Buffalo-Skins Are Placed,

Very Skilfully Fitted and Made Soft By Having Been Dubbed by The

Women--That Is, Scraped to The Requisite Thinness, And Made Supple

By Rubbing With The Brains Of The Animal That Wore It.  They Are

Sewed together With Sinews Of The Buffalo, Generally Of The Long

And Powerful Muscle That Holds Up The Ponderous Head Of The Shaggy

Beast, A Narrow Strip Running Towards The Bump.  In summer The

Lower Edges Of The Skin Are Rolled up, And The Wind Blowing Through,

It Is A Cool, Shady Retreat.  In winter Everything Is Closed, And I

Know Of No More Comfortable Place Than A Well-Made Indian Lodge.

The Army Tent Known As The Sibley Is Modelled after It, And Is The

Best Winter Shelter For Troops In the Field That Can Be Made.

Many Times While The Military Post Where I Had Been Ordered was

In Process Of Building, I Have Chosen The Sibley Tent In preference

To Any Other Domicile.

 

 

 

When A Village Is To Be Moved, It Is An Interesting Sight.  The Young

And Unfledged boys Drive Up The Herd Of Ponies, And Then The Squaws

Catch Them.  The Women, Too, Take Down The Lodges, And, Tying The

Poles In two Bundles, Fasten Them On Each Side Of An Animal, The

Long Ends Dragging On The Ground.  Just Behind The Pony Or Mule,

As The Case May Be, A Basket Is Placed and Held There By Buffalo-Hide

Thongs, And Into These Novel Carriages The Little Children Are Put,

Besides Such Traps As Are Not Easily Packed on The Animal'S Back.

 

 

 

The Women Do All The Work Both In camp And When Moving.  They Are

Doomed to A Hopeless Bondage Of Slavery, The Fate Of Their Sex In

Every Savage Race; But They Accept Their Condition Stoically, And

There Is As Much Affection Among Them For Their Husbands And Children

As I Have Ever Witnessed among The White Race.  Here Are Two Instances

Of Their Devotion, Both Of Which Came Under My Personal Observation,

And I Could Give Hundreds Of Others.

 

 

 

Late In the Fall Of 1858, I Was One Of A Party On The Trail Of A Band

Of Indians Who Had Been Committing Some Horrible Murders In a

Mining-Camp In the Northern Portion Of Washington Territory.  On The

Fourth Day Out, Just About Dusk, We Struck Their Moccasin Tracks,

Which We Followed all Night, And Surprised their Camp In the Gray

Light Of The Early Morning.  In less Than Ten Minutes The Fight

Was Over, And Besides The Killed we Captured six Prisoners.  Then As

The Rising Sun Commenced to Gild The Peaks Of The Lofty Range On

The West, Having Granted our Captives