American Indian Stories Read online

  The captive in his tight-binding rawhide ropes hangs in hopeless despair. Close about him the gloom of night is slowly crouching. Yet the last red, crackling embers cast a faint light upon his long black hair, and, shining through the thick mats, caress his wan face with undying hope.

  Still about the dance-house the old woman prowls. Now the embers are gray with ashes.

  The old bent woman appears at the entrance way. With a cautious, groping foot she enters. Whispering between her teeth a lullaby for her sleeping child in her blanket, she searches for something forgotten.

  Noisily snored the dreaming men in the darkest parts. As the lisping old woman draws nigh, the captive again opens his eyes.

  A forefinger she presses to her lip. The young man arouses himself from his stupor. His senses belie him. Before his wide-open eyes the old bent figure straightens into its youthful stature. Tusee herself is beside him. With a stroke upward and downward she severs the cruel cords with her sharp blade. Dropping her blanket from her shoulders, so that it hangs from her girdled waist like a skirt, she shakes the large bundle into a light shawl for her lover. Quickly she spreads it over his bare back.

  “Come!” she whispers, and turns to go; but the young man, numb and helpless, staggers nigh to falling.

  The sight of his weakness makes her strong. A mighty power thrills her body. Stooping beneath his outstretched arms grasping at the air for support, Tusee lifts him upon her broad shoulders. With half-running, triumphant steps she carries him away into the open night.

  A DREAM OF HER GRANDFATHER

  Her grandfather was a Dakota “medicine man.” Among the Indians of his day he was widely known for his successful healing work. He was one of the leading men of the tribe and came to Washington, D.C., with one of the first delegations relative to affairs concerning the Indian people and the United States government.

  His was the first band of the Great Sioux Nation to make treaties with the government in the hope of bringing about an amicable arrangement between the red and white Americans. The journey to the nation’s capital was made almost entirely on pony-back, there being no railroads, and the Sioux delegation was beset with many hardships on the trail. His visit to Washington, in behalf of peace among men, proved to be his last earthly mission. From a sudden illness, he died and was buried here.

  When his small granddaughter grew up she learned the white man’s tongue, and followed in the footsteps of her grandfather to the very seat of government to carry on his humanitarian work. Though her days were filled with problems for welfare work among her people, she had a strange dream one night during her stay in Washington. The dream was this: Returning from an afternoon out, she found a large cedar chest had been delivered to her home in her absence. She sniffed the sweet perfume of the red wood, which reminded her of the breath of the forest,—and admired the box so neatly made, without trimmings. It looked so clean, strong and durable in its native genuineness. With elation, she took the tag in her hand and read her name aloud. “Who sent me this cedar chest?” she asked, and was told it came from her grandfather.

  Wondering what gift it could be her grandfather wished now to confer upon her, wholly disregarding his death years ago, she was all eagerness to open the mystery chest.

  She remembered her childhood days and the stories she loved to hear about the unusual powers of her grandfather,—recalled how she, the wee girl, had coveted the medicine bags, beaded and embroidered in porcupine quills, in symbols designed by the great “medicine man,” her grandfather. Well did she remember her merited rebuke that such things were never made for relics. Treasures came in due time to those ready to receive them.

  In great expectancy, she lifted the heavy lid of the cedar chest. “Oh!” she exclaimed, with a note of disappointment, seeing no beaded Indian regalia or trinkets. “Why does my grandfather send such a light gift in a heavy, large box?” She was mystified and much perplexed.

  The gift was a fantastic thing, of texture far more delicate than a spider’s filmy web. It was a vision! A picture of an Indian camp, not painted on canvas nor yet written. It was dream-stuff, suspended in the thin air, filling the inclosure of the cedar wood container. As she looked upon it, the picture grew more and more real, exceeding the proportions of the chest. It was all so illusive a breath might have blown it away; yet there it was, real as life,—a circular camp of white cone-shaped tepees, astir with Indian people. The village crier, with flowing head-dress of eagle plumes, mounted on a prancing white pony, rode within the arena. Indian men, women and children stopped in groups and clusters, while bright painted faces peered out of tepee doors, to listen to the chieftain’s crier.

  At this point, she, too, heard the full melodious voice. She heard distinctly the Dakota words he proclaimed to the people. “Be glad! Rejoice! Look up, and see the new day dawning! Help is near! Hear me, every one.”

  She caught the glad tidings and was thrilled with new hope for her people.

  THE WIDESPREAD ENIGMA CONCERNING BLUE-STAR WOMAN

  It was summer on the western plains. Fields of golden sunflowers, facing eastward, greeted the rising sun. Blue-Star Woman, with windshorn braids of white hair over each ear, sat in the shade of her log hut before an open fire. Lonely but unmolested she dwelt here like the ground squirrel that took its abode nearby,—both through the easy tolerance of the land owner. The Indian woman held a skillet over the burning embers. A large round cake, with long slashes in its center, was baking and crowding the capacity of the frying pan.

  In deep abstraction Blue-Star Woman prepared her morning meal. “Who am I?” had become the obsessing riddle of her life. She was no longer a young woman, being in her fifty-third year. In the eyes of the white man’s law, it was required of her to give proof of her membership in the Sioux tribe. The unwritten law of heart prompted her naturally to say, “I am a being. I am Blue-Star Woman. A piece of earth is my birthright.”

  It was taught for reasons now forgot that an Indian should never pronounce his or her name in answer to any inquiry. It was probably a means of protection in the days of black magic. Be this as it may, Blue-Star Woman lived in times when this teaching was disregarded. It gained her nothing, however, to pronounce her name to the government official to whom she applied for her share of tribal land. His persistent question was always, “Who were your parents?”

  Blue-Star Woman was left an orphan at a tender age. She did not remember them. They were long gone to the spirit-land,—and she could not understand why they should be recalled to earth on her account. It was another one of the old, old teachings of her race that the names of the dead should not be idly spoken. It had become a sacrilege to mention carelessly the name of any departed one, especially in matters of disputes over worldy possessions. The unfortunate circumstances of her early childhood, together with the lack of written records of a roving people, placed a formidable barrier between her and her heritage. The fact was events of far greater importance to the tribe than her reincarnation had passed unrecorded in books. The verbal reports of the old-time men and women of the tribe were varied,—some were actually contradictory. Blue-Star Woman was unable to find even a twig of her family tree.

  She sharpened one end of a long stick and with it speared the fried bread when it was browned. Heedless of the hot bread’s “Tsing!” in a high treble as it was lifted from the fire, she added it to the six others which had preceded it. It had been many a moon since she had had a meal of fried bread, for she was too poor to buy at any one time all the necessary ingredients, particularly the fat in which to fry it. During the breadmaking, the smoke-blackened coffeepot boiled over. The aroma of freshly made coffee smote her nostrils and roused her from the tantalizing memories.

  The day before, friendly spirits, the unseen ones, had guided her aimless footsteps to her Indian neighbor’s house. No sooner had she entered than she saw on the table some grocery bundles. “Iye-que, fortunate
one!” she exclaimed as she took the straight-backed chair offered her. At once the Indian hostess untied the bundles and measured out a cupful of green coffee beans and a pound of lard. She gave them to Blue-Star Woman, saying, “I want to share my good fortune. Take these home with you.” Thus it was that Blue-Star Woman had come into unexpected possession of the materials which now contributed richly to her breakfast.

  The generosity of her friend had often saved her from starvation. Generosity is said to be a fault of Indian people, but neither the Pilgrim Fathers nor Blue-Star Woman ever held it seriously against them. Blue-Star Woman was even grateful for this gift of food. She was fond of coffee,—that black drink brought hither by those daring voyagers of long ago. The coffee habit was one of the signs of her progress in the white man’s civilization, also had she emerged from the tepee into a log hut, another achievement. She had learned to read the primer and to write her name. Little Blue-Star attended school unhindered by a fond mother’s fears that a foreign teacher might not spare the rod with her darling.

  Blue-Star Woman was her individual name. For untold ages the Indian race had not used family names. A new-born child was given a brand-new name. Blue-Star Woman was proud to write her name for which she would not be required to substitute another’s upon her marriage, as is the custom of civilized peoples.

  “The times are changed now,” she muttered under her breath. “My individual name seems to mean nothing.” Looking out into space, she saw the nodding sunflowers, and they acquiesced with her. Their drying leaves reminded her of the near approach of autumn. Then soon, very soon, the ice would freeze along the banks of the muddy river. The day of the first ice was her birthday. She would be fifty-four winters old. How futile had been all these winters to secure her a share in tribal lands. A weary smile flickered across her face as she sat there on the ground like a bronze figure of patience and long-suffering.

  The breadmaking was finished. The skillet was set aside to cool. She poured the appetizing coffee into her tin cup. With fried bread and black coffee she regaled herself. Again her mind reverted to her riddle. “The missionary preacher said he could not explain the white man’s law to me. He who reads daily from the Holy Bible, which he tells me is God’s book, cannot understand mere man’s laws. This also puzzles me,” thought she to herself. “Once a wise leader of our people, addressing a president of this country, said: ‘I am a man. You are another. The Great Spirit is our witness!’ This is simple and easy to understand, but the times are changed. The white man’s laws are strange.”

  Blue-Star Woman broke off a piece of fried bread between a thumb and forefinger. She ate it hungrily, and sipped from her cup of fragrant coffee. “I do not understand the white man’s law. It’s like walking in the dark. In this darkness, I am growing fearful of everything.”

  Oblivious to the world, she had not heard the footfall of two Indian men who now stood before her.

  Their short-cropped hair looked blue-black in contrast to the faded civilian clothes they wore. Their white man’s shoes were rusty and unpolished. To the unconventional eyes of the old Indian woman, their celluloid collars appeared like shining marks of civilization. Blue-Star Woman looked up from the lap of mother earth without rising. “Hinnu, hinnu!” she ejaculated in undisguised surprise. “Pray, who are these would-be white men?” she inquired.

  In one voice and by an assumed relationship the two Indian men addressed her. “Aunt, I shake hands with you.” Again Blue-Star Woman remarked, “Oh, indeed! these near white men speak my native tongue and shake hands according to our custom.” Did she guess the truth, she would have known they were simply deluded mortals, deceiving others and themselves most of all. Boisterously laughing and making conversation, they each in turn gripped her withered hand.

  Like a sudden flurry of wind, tossing loose ends of things, they broke into her quiet morning hour and threw her groping thoughts into greater chaos. Masking their real errand with long-drawn faces, they feigned a concern for her welfare only. “We come to ask how you are living. We heard you were slowly starving to death. We heard you are one of those Indians who have been cheated out of their share in tribal lands by the government officials.”

  Blue-Star Woman became intensely interested.

  “You see we are educated in the white man’s ways,” they said with protruding chests. One unconsciously thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his ill-fitting coat and strutted about in his pride. “We can help you get your land. We want to help our aunt. All old people like you ought to be helped before the younger ones. The old will die soon, and they may never get the benefit of their land unless some one like us helps them to get their rights, without further delay.”

  Blue-Star Woman listened attentively.

  Motioning to the mats she spread upon the ground, she said: “Be seated, my nephews.” She accepted the relationship assumed for the occasion. “I will give you some breakfast.” Quickly she set before them a generous helping of fried bread and cups of coffee. Resuming her own meal, she continued, “You are wonderfully kind. It is true, my nephews, that I have grown old trying to secure my share of land. It may not be long till I shall pass under the sod.”

  The two men responded with “How, how,” which meant, “Go on with your story. We are all ears.” Blue-Star Woman had not yet detected any particular sharpness about their ears, but by an impulse she looked up into their faces and scrutinized them. They were busily engaged in eating. Their eyes were fast upon the food on the mat in front of their crossed shins. Inwardly she made a passing observation how, like ravenous wolves, her nephews devoured their food. Coyotes in midwinter could not have been more starved. Without comment she offered them the remaining fried cakes, and between them they took it all. She offered the second helping of coffee, which they accepted without hesitancy. Filling their cups, she placed her empty coffeepot on the dead ashes.

  To them she rehearsed her many hardships. It had become a habit now to tell her long story of disappointments with all its petty details. It was only another instance of good intentions gone awry. It was a paradox upon a land of prophecy that its path to future glory be stained with the blood of its aborigines. Incongruous as it is, the two nephews, with their white associates, were glad of a condition so profitable to them. Their solicitation for Blue-Star Woman was not at all altruistic. They thrived in their grafting business. They and their occupation were the by-product of an unwieldly bureaucracy over the nation’s wards.

  “Dear aunt, you failed to establish the facts of your identity,” they told her. Hereupon Blue-Star Woman’s countenance fell. It was ever the same old words. It was the old song of the government official she loathed to hear. The next remark restored her courage. “If any one can discover evidence, it’s us! I tell you, aunt, we’ll fix it all up for you.” It was a great relief to the old Indian woman to be thus unburdened of her riddle, with a prospect of possessing land. “There is one thing you will have to do,—that is, to pay us half of your land and money when you get them.” Here was a pause, and Blue-Star Woman answered slowly, “Y-e-s,” in an uncertain frame of mind.

  The shrewd schemers noted her behavior. “Wouldn’t you rather have a half of a crust of bread than none at all?” they asked. She was duly impressed with the force of their argument. In her heart she agreed, “A little something to eat is better than nothing!” The two men talked in regular relays. The flow of smooth words was continuous and so much like purring that all the woman’s suspicions were put soundly to sleep. “Look here, aunt, you know very well that prairie fire is met with a back-fire.” Blue-Star Woman, recalling her experiences in fire-fighting, quickly responded, “Yes, oh, yes.”

  “In just the same way, we fight crooks with crooks. We have clever white lawyers working with us. They are the back-fire.” Then, as if remembering some particular incident, they both laughed aloud and said, “Yes, and sometimes they use us as the back-fire! We trade fifty-fifty
.”

  Blue-Star Woman sat with her chin in the palm of one hand with elbow resting in the other. She rocked herself slightly forward and backward. At length she answered, “Yes, I will pay you half of my share in tribal land and money when I get them. In bygone days, brave young men of the order of the White-Horse-Riders sought out the aged, the poor, the widows and orphans to aid them, but they did their good work without pay. The White-Horse-Riders are gone. The times are changed. I am a poor old Indian woman. I need warm clothing before winter begins to blow its icicles through us. I need fire wood. I need food. As you have said, a little help is better than none.”

  Hereupon the two pretenders scored another success.

  They rose to their feet. They had eaten up all the fried bread and drained the coffeepot. They shook hands with Blue-Star Woman and departed. In the quiet that followed their departure she sat munching her small piece of bread, which, by a lucky chance, she had taken on her plate before the hungry wolves had come. Very slowly she ate the fragment of fried bread as if to increase it by diligent mastication. A self-condemning sense of guilt disturbed her. In her dire need she had become involved with tricksters. Her nephews laughingly told her, “We use crooks, and crooks use us in the skirmish over Indian lands.”

  The friendly shade of the house shrank away from her and hid itself under the narrow eaves of the dirt-covered roof. She shrugged her shoulders. The sun high in the sky had witnessed the affair and now glared down upon her white head. Gathering upon her arm the mats and cooking utensils, she hobbled into her log hut.

  Under the brooding wilderness silence, on the Sioux Indian Reservation, the superintendent summoned together the leading Indian men of the tribe. He read a letter which he had received from headquarters in Washington, D.C. It announced the enrollment of Blue-Star Woman on their tribal roll of members and the approval of allotting land to her.