These small beings live in hollow trees and on rocky cliffs as do the Little People. When confronted with uncertainty, they remain still and take on the look and smell of their environment, becoming hard to see. When in flight they are luminous, sometimes appearing as balls of light of different colors, but most often transparent white.

If an encounter is made with a fairy one should be completely quiet and give full attention. Also, people should never accept food from the fairies, because they would never be able to eat human food again nor return to their family.

Nugatsa-ni is a ridge below Yellow Hill said to be a resort of the fairies. Two well known fairies are Tsa-wa-si and Tsa-ga-si. These two spirits are frequently named in the hunting prayers. All the woods and waters are peopled by hard to see fairy tribes, but these two small fairies, though mischievous enough themselves, often help hunter who acknowledges them. Tsawa-si or Tsawa-si Usdi-ga is a tiny fairy, very handsome, with long black hair to his feet, who lives in grassy patches on hillsides and has great power over game. To the hunter, he gives the skill to slip up on the deer through the long grass without being seen.

Tsaga-si is another very helpful spirit invoked by the hunter, but when someone trips and falls, it is usually known that it is he that has caused it. There are several other of these fairies with special names, all good-natured, but more or less tricky.

A firsthand account of how the Indian brave decorated his face cannot but prove of interest. Says a writer who dwelt for some time among the Sioux; “Daily, when I had the opportunity, I drew the patterns their faces displayed, and at length obtained a collection, whose variety even astonished myself. The strange combinations produced in the kaleidoscope may be termed weak when compared to what an Indian’s imagination produces on his forehead, nose and cheek. I will try to give some account of them as far as words will reach. Two things struck me most in their arrangement of color. First, the fact that they did not trouble themselves at all about the natural divisions of the face; and, secondly, the extraordinary mixture of the graceful and the grotesque. At times, it is true, they did observe those natural divisions produced by nose, eyes, mouth, etc. They eyes were surrounded with regular colored circles; yellow or black strips issued harmoniously and equidistant from the mouth; over the cheeks ran a semicircle of green dots, the ears forming the center. At times, too, the forehead was traversed by lines running parallel to the natural contour of that feature; this always looked somewhat human, so to speak, because the fundamental character of the face was unaltered. Usually, however, these regular patterns do not suit the taste of the Indians. They like contrasts, and frequently divide the face into two halves, which undergo different treatment; one will be dark — say black or blue — but the other quite light, yellow, bright red or white: one will be crossed by thick lines made by the forefingers, while the other is arabesque, with extremely fine lines, produced by the aid of a brush. This division is produced in two different ways. The line of demarcation sometimes runs down the nose, so that the right cheek and side are buried in gloom, while the left looks like a flower-bed in the sunshine. At times, though, they draw the line across the nose, so that the eyes glisten out of the dark color, while all beneath the nose is bright and lustrous. It seems as if they wished to represent on their faces the different phases of the moon. I frequently inquired whether there was any significance in these various patterns, but was assured it was a matter of taste. They were simple arabesques, like their squaws’ work on the moccasins, girdles, tobacco-pouches, etc. “Still there is a certain symbolism in the use of the colors. Thus, red generally typifies joy and festivity; and black mourning. When any very melancholy death takes place, they rub a handful of charcoal over the entire face. If the deceased is only a distant relative, a mere trellis-work of black lines is painted on the face; they have also a half-mourning, and only paint half of the face black. Red is not only their joy, but also their favorite color. They generally cover their face with a coating of bright red, on which the other colors are laid; for this purpose they employ vermilion, which comes from China, and is brought them by the Indian traders. However, this red is by no means ‘de rigueur.’ Frequently the ground color is a bright yellow, for which they employ chrome-yellow, obtained from the trader. They are very partial to Prussian blue and employ this color not only on their faces, but as a type of peace on their pipes; and as the hue of the sky, on their graves. It is a very curious fact, by the way, that hardly any Indian can distinguish blue from green. I have seen the sky which they represent on their graves by a round arch, as frequently of one color as the other. In the Sioux language toya signifies both green and blue; and a much-traveled Jesuit Father told me that among the Indian tribes the same confusion prevails. I have also been told that tribes have their favorite colors, and I am inclined to believe it, although I was not able to recognize any such rule. Generally all Indians seem to hold their own native copper skin in special affection, and heighten it with vermilion when it does not seen to them sufficiently red. I discovered during a journey I took among the Sioux that there is a certain national style in this face-painting. They were talking of a poor Indian who had gone mad, and when I asked some of his countrymen present in what way he displayed his insanity, they said, “Oh, he dresses himself up so funnily with feathers and shells; he paints his face so comically that it is enough to make one die of laughing.’ This was said to me by persons so over laden with feathers, shells, green and vermilion, Prussian blue, and chrome-yellow, that I could hardly refrain from smiling. Still, I drew the conclusion from it that there must be something conventional and typical in their variegated style which might be easily infringed.”

Told by J.G. Kohl, Kitchi-gami, (1860)

Lewis Spence.

Long, long ago the Karasha Indians of South America were still nomads who spent all their time romaing through the forests, hunting game, fishing in the great river Beracan, and gathering roots and berries. At that time they did not know how to grow crops.

Once upon a time there were two Karasha sisters, Imakro and Denake. The elder, Imakro, was a proud, haughty girl with high ambitions. The younger, Denake, was a kind hearted, modest and good-tempered, quite the opposite of her hard sister.

In the evenings Imakro used to sit outside their hut and look at the Evening Star, Tajnakan, the Karashas called it. It shone out in the night sky with a golden light, so bright and beautiful that the girl could hardly take her eyes off it. In the end she fell quite in love with it, partly because it was so beautiful and partly, perhaps, because it was so far away.

Was it really out of reach? One evening Imakro sat down in front of
the hut and sighed deeply. “What’s wrong, Imakro?” asked her father. “Why are you sighing?” “Oh father,” replied the girl sadly, “every night I look up and see the beautiful Tajnakan shining in the night. If only I could go up into the sky to join it.”

“It’s a little too far away, Imakro,” answered her father, smiling. “No one has ever been able to reach up there.” “But father,” said Imakro, “I’m so sad, and I haven’t been able to sleep since I saw how beautiful Tanjakan was.” “You still can’t reach it, my child. So you’ll just have to put it out of your mind.”

Yet Imakro shook her head. “How can you expect me to forget something so lovely?” So her father tried to comfort her. “Perhaps if you pray hard enough,” he said, “the star will come down to you.” Imakro stood up and held her arms out to the star. “Lord Tajnakan, the great and good,” she cried. “Come to me, I beg you. I am waiting for you.” Then she went into the hut and lay down with the rest of her family. Soon she was fast asleep, dreaming of the Evening Star and its beautiful golden light.

All at once she woke up. A hand touched her on the shoulder, and she saw someone leaning over her. “Who are you?” Imakro asked the stranger. “I am Tajnakan,” replied a deep voice. Imakro was afraid. “You? she stammered. “Is it really you, the Evening Star I’ve so longed to see?” “Yes, Imakro, replied the strangers voice. “You called me, and I heard you. I’ve come to ask you to marry me.” Imakro felt a wave of joy rushing over her. She jumped up. “Wake up, everyone! she cried, her voice trembling. “Tajnakan has come to me, and he wants to marry me. I’m the happiest woman in the whole wide world.”

She ran to the fire and threw on some longs. Up leapt the flames, and the glow lit up Tajnakan’s face. But Imakro could scarcely believe her eyes. Her beautiful Evening Star was an old, old man bowed down by the years. His hair and beard were white, and his face deeply wrinkled. Horror stricken, Imakro covered her face to shut out the sight of him.

“Go away!” she shrieked. “It was the lovely Evening Star I called, not you. You’re just an ugly old man. I want to marry a fine young man, someone tall and strong, not a miserable old skeleton like you!”

Tajnakan bit his lip, and his face grew dark and bitter. Without a word he turned away and went to leave the hut. But Denake, Imakro’s younger sister, took pity on the poor old man. She was ashamed of her sister’s biting rudeness, and her kind heart could not bear to see the stranger treated so cruelly.

“Please stay, sir,” she said to Tajnakan. “Don’t let us part so unhappily.” And turning to her father, she went on: “If you will let me, father, I will marry Tajnakan instead.” Tajnakan smiled, and he took Denake’s hand. A few days later the marriage took place, with much feasting and joy. Only Imakro mocked her sister for marrying such and old man.

Tajnakan built a hut, and he and Denake settled down together happily. One day Tajnake decided to go out. “You see the house, Denake,” he said. “I’m going out to work.” “What are you going to do?” Denake asked.

“You’ll soon see,” her husband replied smiling. “I’m going to sow plants you’ve never seen before. No one here has ever seen them. You’re going to be glad you married me.” Denake looked puzzled. “What does ‘sow’ mean?” she asked.

“Sowing is doing what the wind does,” answered Tajnakan. “I take the seeds and put them in the earth. Then the plants grow and bear fruit, and afterwards you can gather the fruit and eat it.”

Denake’s question was not as silly as it sounds. As we know, the Indians of the forest had not yet learned to grow crops. Tajnakan left Denake in the house, and went away to where the wide river Beracan flowed over rapids. There he stepped into the water and whispered a magic spell: “Tajnakan, Evening Star, shining on high, to the great Beracan river does cry; Carry me roots now, and plants too, and seeds, that I may fill the poor Karasha’a needs.”

All at once, swirling down the river, came grains of maize and wheat, sugar-cane plants, tapioca roots and pineapple plants. Tajnakan caught them as they floated down, and born them off to the bank. Then he made a clearing in the forest, turned over the patch of earth, sowed the seeds and planted the roots and plants. He had made a field.

It was a big task, and took quite some time. Denake, waiting at home for her husband, began to worry. “Perhaps he’s ill,” she said to herself. “My Tajnakan is old, and not very strong. I hope nothing has happened to him.” In the end Denake could wait no longer, and she ran into the forest to find him. After a long and anxious search, she found the new field, and then she caught sight of her husband. She gasped in astonishement.

Tajnakan was no longer a frail old man, but a fine, handsome youth, with arms so strong that he was uprooting trees from the ground. He was wearing the jewelled ornaments of a tribal chief, and wondrous symbols were painted on his body. Denake could not believe anyone could change so much, but her husband smiled at her. “Yes, I’m really Tajnakan,” he said.

“Does that mean that you’re not old afterall?” asked Denake, amazed. “I’m as old as when you first saw me,” replied Tajnakan. “But at the same time I’m as young as you see me now.” Denake ran into his arms. Then she took him back to show him to her family. As they entered the village they met Imakro, who stared in astonishement.

“Who’s that with you?” she said to her sister. “It’s Tajnakan, my husband,” replied Denake proudly. “Isn’t he handsome?” And so he was. Imakro was speechless with envy. Why, oh why had she refused him? Eaten up with longing and jealousy, she pushed Denake aside and whispered in Tajnakan’s ear.

“Denake’s simple and stupid. What’s she to you? Wasn’t it I who called you, I for who you came down from the sky?” “That’s true,” said Tajnakan. “And wasn’t it I you came to marry?” “That’s true too,” said Tajnakan. “Then you belong to me. You’re my husband.: And she took Tajnakan’s arem and tried to drag him away.

Denake stood to one side, watching silently while this was going on. She saw Imakro’s eyes gleam in triumph. But Tajnakan pulled his arm from Imakro’s grasp. “When I was an old man, you refused me,” he said sternly. “You, Imakro, will never understand how age carries youth within it, just as youth already carries the seeds of age. You cannot see through to the heart of things. You see only the outside, but Denake saw my heart. Go away!”

Imakro let out a piercing shriek. She lifted her arms to the sky and tore her hair. Then she fell to the ground, foaming at the mouth and shaking through and through. The villager came running up. “What’s happened? they cried. “Has an evil spirit got into her?” Denake tried to go to her sister, but Tajnakan held her back.

“Don’t touch her,” he said. “She’s lost. It’s too late to help her now.” When Imakro’s parents ran to help their daughter, she had gone. No one had seen it happen, but where she had lain a black bird was standing, flapping its wings and wailing. The sound was as sad as sad could be, and at the same time it had an evil ring to it: “Kree-ah, kreee-ah! Are you there? Are you there?”

Imakro had turned into the black bird. Ever since then the bird has wandered through the night, crying to Tajnakan, because Imakro cannot forgive him. When people hear it wailing, their blood runs cold. Sometimes, when lovers walk in the forest at night, the bird flies down and pecks a the girl’s head again and again, trying to drive Denake away and win back Tajnakan — Tajnakan the great, who taught the Karashas to grow crops, because Denake’s love was stronger than Imakro’s selfishness.

“Listen,” people will say when they hear the bird wailing at night. “It’s Imakro, still longing for Tajnakan.” And far away, high in the night sky, the Evening Star goes behind a cloud.

http://www.angelfire.com/ca/Indian/EveningStar.html

Wenona was the light of her father’s wigwam the pride of the band of Sissetons, whose village is on the shores of beautiful Lake Travers.

However cheerfully the fire might burn in the dwelling of the aged chief, there was darkness, for him when she was away and the mother’s heart was always filled with anxiety, for she knew that Wenona had drawn upon her the envy of her young companions, and she feared that some one of them would cast a spell(12) upon her child, that her loveliness might be dimmed by sorrow or sickness.

The warriors of the band strove to outdo each other in noble deeds, that they might feel more worthy to claim her hand; while the hunters tried to win her good will by presents of buffalo and deer. But Wenona thought not yet of love. The clear stream that reflected her form told her she was beautiful; yet her brother was the bravest warrior of the Sissetons; and her aged parents too was not their love enough to satisfy her heart! Never did brother and sister love each other more; their features were the same, yet man’s sternness in him was changed to woman’s softness in her. The “glance of the falcon” in his eye was the “gaze of the dove” in hers. But at times the expression of his face would make you wonder that you ever could have thought him like his twin sister.

When he heard the Sisseton braves talk of the hunts they had in their youth, before the white man drove them from the hunting-grounds of their forefathers; when instead of the blanket they wore the buffalo robe; when happiness and plenty were in their wigwams and when the voices of weak women and famished children were never heard calling for food in vain then the longing for vengeance that was written on his countenance, the imprecations that were breathed from his lips, the angry scowl, the lightning from his eye, all made him unlike indeed to his sister, the pride of the Sissetons!

When the gentle breeze would play among the prairie flowers, then would she win him from such bitter thoughts. “Come, my brother, we will go and sit by the banks of the lake, why should you be unhappy! the buffalo is still to be found upon our hunting-grounds the spirit of the lake watches over us we shall not want for food.”

He would go, because she asked him. The quiet and beauty of nature were not for him; rather would he have stood alone when the storm held its sway; when the darkness was only relieved by the flash that laid the tall trees of the forest low; when the thunder bird clapped her wings as she swept through the clouds above him. But could he refuse to be happy when Wenona smiled? Alas! that her gentle spirit should not always have been near to soften his!

But as the beauty and warmth of summer passed away, so did Wenona’s strength begin to fail; the autumn wind, that swept rudely over the prairie flowers, so that they could not lift their heads above the tall grass, seemed to pass in anger over the wigwam of the old man for the eye of the Dahcotah maiden was losing its brightness, and her step was less firm, as she wandered with her brother in her native woods. Vainly did the medicine men practice their cherished rites the Great Spirit had called and who could refuse to hear his voice? she faded with the leaves and the cries of the mourners were answered by the wailing winds, as they sang her requiem.

A few months passed away, and her brother was alone. The winter that followed his sister’s death, was a severe one. The mother had never been strong, and she soon followed her daughter while the father’s age unfitted him to contend with sorrow, infirmity, and want.

Spring returned, but winter had settled on the heart of the young Sisseton; she was gone who alone could drive away the shadow from his brow, what wonder then that his countenance should always be stern. The Indians called him Eta Keazah, or Sullen Face.

But after the lapse of years, the boy, who brooded over the wrongs of his father, eagerly seeks an opportunity to avenge his own. His sister has never been forgotten; but he remembers her as we do a beautiful dream; and she is the spirit that hovers round him while his eyes are closed in sleep.

But there are others who hold a place in his heart. His wife is always ready to receive him with a welcome, and his young son calls upon him to teach him to send the arrow to the heart of the buffalo. But the sufferings of his tribe, from want of food and other privations, are ever before his eyes. Vengeance upon the white man, who has caused them!

Winter is the season of trial for the Sioux, especially for the women and children. The incursions of the English half-breeds and Cree Indians, into the Sisseton country, have caused their buffalo to recede, and so little other game is to be found, that indescribable sufferings are endured every winter by the Sissetons.

Starvation forces the hunters to seek for the buffalo in the depth of winter. Their families must accompany them, for they have not the smallest portion of food to leave with them; and who will protect them from the Chippeways!

However inclement the season, their home must be for a time on the open prairie. As far as the eye can reach, it is a desert of snow. Not a stick of timber can be seen. A storm is coming on too; nothing is heard but the howling blast, which mocks the cries of famished children. The drifting of the snow makes it impossible to see what course they are to take; they have only to sit down and let the snow fall upon them. It is a relief when they are quite covered with it, for it shelters them from the keenness of the blast!

Alas! for the children; the cry of those who can speak is, Give me food! while the dying infant clings to its mother’s breast, seeking to draw, with its parting breath, the means of life.

But the storm is over; the piercing cold seizes upon the exhausted frames of the sufferers.

The children have hardly strength to stand; the father places one upon his back and goes forward; the mother wraps her dead child in her blanket, and lays it in the snow; another is clinging to her, she has no time to weep for the dead; nature calls upon her to make an effort for the living. She takes her child and follows the rest. It would be a comfort to her, could she hope to find her infant’s body when summer returns to bury it. She shudders, and remembers that the wolves of the prairie are starving too!

Food is found at last; the strength of the buffalo yields to the arrow of the Sioux. We will have food and not die, is the joyful cry of all, and when their fierce appetites are appeased, they carry with them on their return to their village, the skins of the animals with the remainder of the meat.

The sufferings of famine and fatigue, however, are followed by those of disease; the strength of many is laid low. They must watch, too, for their enemies are at hand.

In the summer of 1844 a large party of half-breeds and Indians from Red river, English subjects, trespassed upon the hunting grounds of the Sioux. There were several hundred hunters, and many carts drawn by oxen for the purpose of carrying away the buffalo they had killed. One of this party had left his companions, and was riding alone at some distance from them. A Dahcotah knew that his nation would suffer from the destruction of their game fresh in his memory, too, were the sufferings of the past winter. What wonder then that the arrow which was intended for the buffalo, should find its way to the heart of the trespasser!

This act enraged the half-breeds; they could not find the Sioux who committed it but a few days after they fell in with a party of others, who were also hunting, and killed seven of them. The rest escaped, and carried the news of the death of their braves to their village. One of the killed was a relative of Sullen Face. The sad news spread rapidly through the village, and nothing was heard but lamentation. The women cut long gashes on their arms, and as the blood flowed from the wound they would cry, Where is my husband? my son? my brother?

Soon the cry of revenge is heard above that of lamentation. “It is not possible,” said Sullen Face, “that we can allow these English to starve us, and take the lives of our warriors. They have taken from us the food that would nourish our wives and children; and more, they have killed seven of our bravest men! we will have revenge we will watch for them, and bring home their scalps, that our women may dance round them!”

A war party was soon formed, and Sullen Face, at the head of more than fifty warriors, stationed himself in the vicinity of the road by which the half-breeds from Red river drive their cattle to Fort Snelling.

Some days after, there was an unusual excitement in the Sioux village on Swan lake, about twenty miles northwest of Traverse des Sioux. A number of Indians were gazing at an object not very distant, and in order to discover what it was, the chief of the village, Sleepy Eyes, had sent one of his young men out, while the rest continued to regard it with looks of curiosity and awe.

They observed that as the Sioux approached it, he slackened his pace, when suddenly he gave a loud cry and ran towards the village.

He soon reached them, and pale with terror, exclaimed, “It is a spirit, it is white as the snow that covers our prairies in the winter. It looked at me and spoke not.” For a short time, his fears infected the others, but after a while several determined to go and bring a more satisfactory report to their chief. They returned with the body, as it seemed only, of a white man; worn to a skeleton, with his feet cut and bleeding, unable to speak from exhaustion; nothing but the beating of his heart told that he lived.

The Indian women dressed his feet, and gave him food, wiped the blood from his limbs, and, after a consultation, they agreed to send word to the missionaries at Traverse des Sioux, that there was a white man sick and suffering with them.

The missionaries came immediately; took the man to their home, and with kind nursing he was soon able to account for the miserable situation in which he had been found.

“We left the state of Missouri,” said the man, whose name was Bennett, “for the purpose of carrying cattle to Fort Snelling. My companions’ names were Watson and Turner. We did not know the road, but supposed a map would guide us, with what information we could get on the way. We lost our way, however, and were eagerly looking for some person who could set us right. Early one morning some Sioux came up with us, and seemed inclined to join our party. One of them left hastily as if sent on a message; after a while a number of warriors, accompanied by the Indian who had left the first party, came towards us. Their leader had a dark countenance, and seemed to have great influence over them. We tried to make them understand that we had lost our way; we showed them the map, but they did not comprehend us.

“After angrily addressing his men for a few moments, the leader shot Watson through the shoulder, and another sent an arrow through his body and killed him. They then struck Watson’s brother and wounded him.

“In the mean time the other Indians had been killing our cattle; and some of the animals having run away, they made Watson, who was sadly bruised with the blows he had received from them, mount a horse and go with them to hunt the rest of the cattle. We never heard of him again. The Indians say he disappeared from among the bushes, and they could not find him; but the probability is that they killed him. Some seemed to wish to kill Turner and myself but after a while they told us to go, giving us our horses and a little food. We determined to retrace our steps. It was the best thing we could do; but our horses gave out, and we were obliged to leave them and proceed on foot.

“We were soon out of provisions, and having no means of killing game, our hearts began to fail us. Turner was unwell, and on arriving at a branch of Crow river, about one hundred miles northwest of Fort Snelling, he found himself unable to swim. I tried to carry him across on my back, but could not do it; he was drowned, and I barely succeeded in reaching the shore. After resting, I proceeded on my journey. When I came in sight of the Indian village, much as I needed food and rest, I dreaded to show myself, for fear of meeting Watson’s fate. I was spared the necessity of deciding. I fainted and fell to the ground. They found me, and proved kinder than I anticipated.

“Why they should have molested us I know not. There is something in it that I do not understand.”

But it is easily explained. Sullen Face supposed them to belong to the party that had killed his friends, and through this error he had shed innocent blood.

Who that has seen Fort Snelling will not bear testimony to its beautiful situation! Whichever way we turn, nature calls for our admiration. But beautiful as it is by day, it is at night that its majesty and loveliness speak to the soul. Look to the north, (while the Aurora Borealis is flashing above us, and the sound of the waters of St. Anthony’s Falls meets the ear,) the high bluffs of the Mississippi seem to guard its waters as they glide along. To the south, the St. Peter’s has wandered off, preferring gentle prairies to rugged cliffs. To the east we see the “meeting of the waters;” gladly as the returning child meets the welcoming smile of the parent, do the waves of the St. Peter’s flow into the Mississippi. On the west, there is prairie far as the eye can reach.

But it is to the free only that nature is beautiful. Can the prisoner gaze with pleasure on the brightness of the sky, or listen to the rippling of the waves? they make him feel his fetters the more.

I am here, with my heavy chain! And I look on a torrent sweeping by. And an eagle rushing to the sky, And a host to its battle plain. Must I pine in my fetters here! With the wild wave’s foam and the free bird’s flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight, And the trumpet in mine ear?

The summer of 1845 found Sullen Face a prisoner at Fort Snelling. Government having been informed of the murder of Watson by two Dahcotah Indians, orders were received at Fort Snelling that two companies should proceed to the Sisseton country, and take the murderers, that they might be tried by the laws of the United States.

Now for excitement, the charm of garrison life. Officers are of course always ready to “go where glory waits” them, but who ever heard of one being ready to go when the order came?

Alas! for the young officer who has a wife to leave; it will be weeks before he meets again her gentle smile!

Still more alas for him who has no wife at all! for he has not a shirt with buttons on it, and most of what he has are in the wash. He will have to borrow of Selden; but here’s the difficulty, Selden is going too, and is worse off than himself. But no matter! what with pins and twine and trusting to chance, they will get along.

Then the married men are inquiring for tin reflectors, for hard bread, though healthy, is never tempting. India rubber cloaks are in requisition too.

Those who are going, claim the doctor in case of accidents. Those who stay, their wives at least, want him for fear of measles; while the disciple of Esculapius, though he knows there will be better cooking if he remain at home, is certain there will be food for fun if he go. It is soon decided the doctor goes.

Then the privates share in the pleasure of the day. How should a soldier be employed but in active service? besides, what a capital chance to desert! One, who is tired of calling “All’s well” through the long night, with only the rocks and trees to hear him, hopes that it will be his happy fate to find out there is danger near, and to give the alarm, Another vows, that if trouble wont come, why he will bring it by quarrelling with the first rascally Indian he meets. All is ready. Rations are put up for the men; hams, buffalo tongues, pies and cake for the officers. The battalion marches out to the sound of the drum and fife; they are soon down the hill they enter their boats; hand-kerchiefs are waved from the fort, caps are raised and flourished over the water; they are almost out of sight they are gone.

When the troops reached their destination, Sullen Face and Forked Horn were not there, but the chief gave them three of his warriors, (who were with the party of Sullen Face at the time of the murder,) promising that when the two murderers returned they would come to Fort Snelling, and give themselves up.

There was nothing then to prevent the immediate return of our troops. Their tramp had been a delightful one, and so far success had crowned their expedition. They were in the highest spirits. But a little incident occurred on their return, that was rather calculated to show the transitoriness of earthly joys. One dark night, when those who were awake were thinking, and those who slept were dreaming of their welcome home, there was evidently a disturbance. The sleepers roused themselves; guns were discharged. What could it be?

The cause was soon ascertained. To speak poetically, the birds had flown in plain language, the prisoners had run away. They were not bound, their honor had been trusted to; but you cannot place much reliance on the honor of an Indian with a prison in prospect. I doubt if a white man could be trusted under such circumstances. True, there was a guard, but, as I said, ’twas a dark night.

The troops returned in fine health, covered with dust and fleas, if not with glory.

It is time to return to Sullen Face. He and Forked Horn, on their return to the village, were informed of what had occurred during their absence. They offered to fulfill the engagement of the chief, and accompanied by others of the band, they started for Fort Snelling. The wife of Sullen Face had insisted upon accompanying him, and influenced by a presentiment that he should never return to his native village, he allowed her to do so. Their little boy quite forgot his fatigue as he listened to his father’s voice, and held his hand. When they were near the fort, notice of their approach was sent to the commanding officer.

The entire force of the garrison marched out to receive the prisoners. A large number of Indians assembled to witness the scene their gay dresses and wild appearance adding to its interest.

Sullen Face and Forked Horn, with the Sioux who had accompanied them, advanced to meet the battalion. The little boy dressed as a warrior, his war-eagle plumes waving proudly over his head, held his father’s hand. In a moment the iron grasp of the soldier was on the prisoner’s shoulder; they entered the gate of the fort; and he, who had felt that the winds of Heaven were not more free than a Dahcotah warrior, was now a prisoner in the power of the white man. But he entered not his cell until he had sung a warrior’s song. Should his enemies think that he feared them? Had he not yielded himself up?

It was hard to be composed in parting with his wife and child. “Go my son,” he said, “you will soon be old enough to kill the buffalo for your mother.” But to his wife he only said, “I have done no wrong, and fear not the power of my enemies.” The Sissetons returned to the village, leaving the prisoners at Fort Snelling, until they should be sent to Dubuque for trial.

They frequently walked about the fort, accompanied by a guard. Sullen Face seemed to be indifferent to his fate, and was impressed with the idea that he never would return to his home. “Beautiful country!” said he, as he gazed towards the point where the waters of the Mississippi and St. Peter’s meet. “I shall never look upon you again, the waters of the rivers unite, but I have parted forever from country and friends. My spirit tells me so. Then welcome death! they guard me now with sword and bayonet, but the soul of the Dahcotah is free.”

After their removal to Dubuque, the two prisoners from Fort Snelling, with others who had been concerned in the murder, suffered much from sickness. Sullen Face would not complain, but the others tried to induce him to make his escape. He, at first, refused to do so, but finding his companions determined upon going, he at last consented.

Their plans succeeded, and after leaving the immediate neighborhood, they broke their shackles with stones. They were obliged, however, to hide themselves for a time among the rocks, to elude the sheriff and his party. They were not taken, and as soon as they deemed it prudent, they resumed their route.

Two of the prisoners died near Prairie du Chien. Sullen Face, Forked Horn, and another Sioux, pursued their journey with difficulty, for they were near perishing from want of food. They found a place where the Winnebagoes had encamped, and they parched the corn that lay scattered on the ground.

Disease had taken a strong hold upon the frame of Sullen Face; he constantly required the assistance of his companions. When they were near Prairie le Gros, he became so ill that he was unable to proceed. He insisted upon his friends leaving him; this they at first refused to do, but fearing that they would be found and carried back to prison, they consented and the dying warrior found himself alone.

Some Indians who were passing by saw him and gently carried him to their wigwam. But he heeded not their kindness. Death had dimmed the brightness of his eye, and his fast-failing strength told of the long journey to the spirits’ land.

“It was not thus,” he said, “that I thought to die! Where are the warriors of the Sissetons? Do they listen to my death song?” I hoped to have triumphed over the white man, but his power has prevailed. My spirit drooped within his hated walls? But hark! there is music in my ears ’tis the voice of the sister of my youth “Come with me my brother, we wait for you in the house of the spirits! we will sit by the banks of a lake more beautiful than that by which we wandered in our childhood; you will roam over the hunting grounds of your forefathers, and there the white man may never come.”

His eyes are closing fast in death, but his lips murmur “Wenona! I come! I come!”

12: The Indians fear that from envy or jealousy some person may cast a fatal spell upon them to produce sickness, or even death. This superstition seems almost identical with the Obi or Obeat of the West India negroes.

Dahcotah; Or Life and Legends of the Sioux Around Fort Snelling
By Mrs. Mary Eastman

Ênts!X’s grandmother was Upê’qciuc. She always asked him to go elk hunting. Early every morning he started, but he killed only chipmunks and squirrels; sometimes he killed mice. Oftentimes he went and stayed on a prairie. He shouted: “Come down from the woods, elk! we will fight, we will dance.” Down came the rabbit. “You are the one I have called, your ears are like spoons with long handles.” Then the rabbit cried and went back. Then he called again: “Come down from the woods, elk! we will fight, we will dance.” Down came a deer. “You are the one I have called, your eyes are like huckleberries.” Then the deer cried and went back. He called again: “Come down from the woods, elk! we will fight, we will dance.” Down came a female elk. “You are the one whom I have called!” He called again: “Come down from the woods, elk! we will fight, we will dance.” Then a male elk came down. Now Êntsx danced and sang: “Where shall I go into him? Where shall I go into him? I think I will go into his mouth. No, he will spit and I shall get full of saliva. I think I will go into his nostrils. No he will snort and I shall get full of mucus. I think I will go into his ear. No, he will shake himself and I shall fall down. I think I shall go into his anus. No, he will defecate and I shall get full of excrements.” After some time he entered his anus. Now he cut his stomach to pieces. After a little while the elk fell down and died. Then Êntsx skinned and dissected it. He cut off the hind-legs; he cut off the fore-legs. He cut off the head, the neck, the ribs, and the rump bone. Then he went home. When he came to his grandmother he said: “I killed an elk, grandmother!” “Perhaps it was a mouse.” “No, it has horns, it has horns, it is an elk.” “Then perhaps it was a snail.” “No, no, I killed an elk, an elk.” “Perhaps it was a chipmunk.” “No, no, I killed an elk, an elk.” “Perhaps it was a squirrel.” Then she got tired and they went into the woods. They arrived at the place where the elk lay. Êntsx asked: “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its head?” “It will pull me down headlong, grandson.” “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its neck?” “It will pull me down headlong, grandson.” “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its hind-legs?” “They will pull me down headlong, grandson.” “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its fore-legs?” “They will pull me down headlong, grandson.” “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its breast?” “It will pull me down headlong, grandson.” “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its back?” “It will pull me down headlong, grandson.” “What do you want to carry, grandmother? Do you want to carry its rump bone?” “Tie it tip, tie it up, grandson.” Then he tied it up, she put it up, she raised it on her back. The old woman ran ahead of her grandson, who carried the rest of the elk. They went home. After a little while he came near his grandmother, who had put her load on the ground and pushed it to and fro, singing at the same time.

He reached her and asked: “What are you doing there, grandmother?” “It pulled me down headlong, grandson.” Then she took it again on her back and ran. He went on. Then he saw her again sitting down and pushing her load to and fro and singing. [He asked:] “What are you doing there, grandmother?” “It pulled me down headlong, grandson.” Five times he overtook her, when they reached home.

[Êntsx said:] “Now go and bring some water, grandmother, we will boil the elk.” His grandmother took five buckets and went out. She went a short distance, urinated and filled all the buckets. Then she went home. Her grandson asked her: “Where did you get that water, grandmother?” She named a river. Then he took up another bucket and asked: Where did you get this water, grandmother?” “This I took from the upper fork of Bear creek,” she replied. Thus she named a new creek for each bucket.

Now they boiled the elk. The old woman turned her back toward the fire and made holes in Êntsx’s shell spoons, wooden spoons, and born dishes. When the food was done they took it away from the fire. Êntsx said: “Bring me my shell spoon which I used when I was a child.” “There is a hole in it, grandson.” “Then give me my wooden spoon which I used when I was a child.” “There is a hole in it, grandson.” “Then give me the spoon made of mountain-sheep horn.” “There is a hole in it, grandson.” “Then give me my toy canoes which I used when I was a child.” “There are holes in them, grandson.”

“Have they all holes?” he said. Then he took the boiling food and poured it over his grandmother,. She was scalded and her legs and arms became doubled up. Then he rolled her up in the elk skin, threw her into the river and she drifted down to a place where Winter Robin and Blue-Jay were fishing with a dipnet.

Robin saw an elk skin drifting down and said: “Ah! an elk comes down to me.” Then Blue-Jay said: “Robin, do you hear? they call us?” Then Robin said: “Ah! an elk comes down to me.” Then Blue-Jay said: “Ah! hahahaha.” Five times Robin said: “An elk comes down to me.” Then Blue-Jay understood what he said and called himself: “Ah! an elk comes down to me.” “Where does it come?” [Blue-Jay pointed out.] “Here, here, here” [pointing in all directions because he did not see it]. Then they saw the elk and took it. They put it into their canoe [and saw that] it was tied up. They unfastened the strings and [out came] their aunt. “Oh, behold our aunt!” “How shall we wail for her, Robin?” Then Robin sung: “O Êntsx, Êntsx, he killed her, he killed her, our aunt, our aunt.” “That is a good song,” said Blue-Jay. Now they went home, and when they came near their town they began to wail. Oh, the poor ones, how they do wail?” said the people. They sang: “Êntsx, Êntsx, he killed her, he killed her, our aunt, our aunt.” They landed and the people went down to see them. Then they carried the body of Upê’qciuc up to the house. They tried to cure her. After a while she recovered. Then they asked her: “What [?].” She named [a bird]. “She named the eldest one,” said Blue-Jay. “Pull his canoes into the water.” Again they asked her. She named Robin. “She named the eldest one,” said Blue-Jay. She named all the people. Last of all she named Blue-Jay. Now they launched his canoes and they went to make war upon Ênts!x. Two canoes full of people went.

They went a long distance and met two people asleep, a man and a woman. Blue-Jay went ashore. He took the man by his hair in his right hand and he took the woman in his left. Then he took them to his canoe and made them his slaves. When they traveled along these two persons were dancing [in Blue-Jay's canoe]. The latter said: “Robin! These two persons were our grandfather’s slaves; they always carried me on the, back and led you by the hand. They were our great-great-grandfather’s slaves.” “Iä-a, they are only your slaves. Do you think that I do not know my slaves?” replied Robin. “Pshaw! he is older than I am and does not remember it!” Now the two persons danced and sang: “Near the trees we always dance, watlala guyu, guyu, guyu, guyu.”

Then Blue-Jay said: “They always say: ‘Close to the trees, close to the trees’”. “Iä” replied Robin, “thus they will run away from you.” And indeed so it happened. [When they got a little farther they came to] a tree which hung over the water. [The man and the woman] jumped up and escaped by running [over the tree]. Blue-Jay ran in pursuit. He came inland. Then he called anah, anah. When he came back to the canoe his legs were full of blood [and he said to his brother Robin]: “Why did you not go inland? They nearly killed me. That man took hold of my head and the woman struck my legs.” [Robin laughed and replied:] “Iä, they were the squirrel and chipmunk whom you caught.”

They traveled on. They went a long distance and met one man who was sitting in his canoe. He fished with a dipnet. Blue-Jay said: “My nephew, you have a pretty canoe.” “I borrowed it.” “My nephew, you have a pretty paddle.” “I borrowed it.” “My nephew, you have a pretty bailer.” “I borrowed it.” “My nephew, you have a pretty dip-net.” “I borrowed it.” “My nephew, you have a pretty mat in your canoe.” “I borrowed it.” [Then Blue-Jay got angry and said:] “Do you borrow everything?” He took hold of his head and threw him into his canoe. He said: “Give me that rope and I will tie him.” [The man whom he had caught replied:] “I shall scratch your ropes to pieces.” [Then Blue-Jay said:] “Give me a rope of spruce limbs.” “I shall scratch it to pieces.” “What shall I take to tie him with? Give me strings of dentalia. “I shall scratch them to pieces. “Ha, ha, ha,” he cried then; “sea-grass, sea-grass!” “Give me sea-grass, give me sea-grass, quick Robin.” Now he tied the hands and the feet of that man. Then he threw him into the water. The water began to boil where they had thrown him down. [Blue-jay cried:] “O, my nephew, he scolds. I killed my nephew.” [Robin remarked:] “Iä, he is laughing at you here.” “Pshaw, a man does not laugh when he is thrown into the water” [said Blue-Jay].

Now the people went on, and after awhile they saw a person who held arrows in his hands. [He said:] “Tell me the news, Blue-Jay!” “I have nothing to tell you, only that I threw my relative down there into the water.” “I am the one,” said that person. “Iä,” cried Robin, “that is the one whom you threw into the water.”

They went on to Ênts!x’s house. They surrounded it and set it on fire. When it began to burn Ênts!x flew out through a knothole. When the, whole house was burnt, Blue-Jay found a [mink's] head. “Oh that is Ênts!x’s head!” he shouted. But Robin said: be went out already.” Now the people went home and left Ênts!x.

Chinook Texts, by Franz Boas; U.S. Bureau of American Ethnology, Bulletin no. 20; US Government Printing Office; [1894] and is now in the public domain.