The Indian: On the Battle-Field and in the Wigwam

Louis some weeks after I did, bringing later intelligence from them, assuring me that the Dog had at length been overtaken and killed, near the Black-hills, and that the affair might now for ever be considered as settled.

THE DEATH OF CANONCHET

ANONCHET was the sachem of the powerful tribe of Narragansetts, who inhabited a part of New England claimed by the government of Connecticut. In the war between the Indians and the colonists, which began in 1675, and is commonly called “King Philip’s war,” the Narragansetts were led by their own wrongs and the arts of Philip to join in the Indian confederacy. But they suffered severely for their hostility. Their fort was attacked by a large force of colonists, under Governor Winslow, and the greater part of them perished by the guns of the English, or in the flames of the burning fort.

The remnant of the Narragansetts fled, under the command of Canonchet and Punno-quin, both of whom were filled with inveterate hatred of the colonists. Canonchet was the son of the celebrated Miantonomoh, and the remembrance of his father’s fate rankled in his breast, and rendered him fierce and cruel beyond his nature. The Narragansetts reached the Wachusetts hills in safety, where they united with the Nipmucks and other friendly tribes. But they were in a destitute condition, and Canonchet was obliged to make great exertions to supply them with food, in order to keep them faithful to him.

Early in April, 1676, he proposed the daring design of an expedition to Seekonk, to procure seed corn to plant along the Connecticut river, where he had taken refuge. At the head of about fifty men, he marched towards Seekonk, and soon reached Black Stone river. There he encamped, and imagining that no colonial force was nearer than Plymouth, dismissed twenty of his men.

On the 27th of March, Captain Dennison had left Stonington, with a body of troops, on an exploring expedition, in search of Indians. When near Seekonk, he captured two squaws, who informed him of Canonchet’s encampment. The captain quickened his march, and as Canonchet’s men, instead of giving the alarm, fled in different directions, the colonists were in his camp before he knew of their approach. The chief, seeing his men run, sent out two or three to ascertain the cause. One of these returned to the wigwam, crying out that the English were upon them.

Canochet fled. While running around the hill near his camp, he was recognized by the Nanticks, who commenced a vigorous pursuit. The chase was long and exciting. One by one, the chief threw off’ his blanket, his silver-laced coat, and his belt of peag. His pursuers gained upon him; and giving up all hope of reaching the woods, he hurried towards the river. Monopoide, a Pequot, noted for his swiftness, pursued in such a way as to force the chief to cross or be caught. Canonchet plunged into the stream, and swam for the opposite shore. The English, filled with rage and fearful of being baffled, hurried to the river’s bank, in order to shoot him if an opportunity offered; but Canonchet would have escaped, had not an accident occurred, which, to use his own words, “made his heart and bowels turn within, so that he became like a rotten stick, and void of strength.” As he reached a shallow part of the stream, he began to wade, when his foot struck against a stone, and he fell into the water. His gun became useless.

Monopoide, seeing the accident, leaped into the water, and daringly swam towards the chief, who was probably intimidated by superstition. When seized, Canonchet did not resist, although he was a man of great size, strength, and courage. A young man, named Staunton, now approached and asked the chief some questions in regard to his conduct during the war. For a while Canonchet treated him with silent contempt. But when the other had ceased, he replied, “You much child – no understand matters of war. Let your brother or chief come, him I will answer.”

Canonchet was then brought before Dennison. The latter offered the chief his life on condition that he would induce his nation to submit. But he rejected the offer with contempt. He was commanded to comply. He answered that killing him would not end the war. Some of the soldiers reminded him that he had threatened to burn the English in their houses; and that in spite of a late treaty, he had boasted that he would not give up a Wampanoag, or the paring of the nail of a Wampanoag. He replied that others were as forward for the war as himself, and that he wished to hear no more about it.

Dennison, filled with joy at his good fortune, soon after returned to Stonington. Canonchet was not kept long in suspense, in regard to his fate. The officers decided that he should be shot. The sentence was announced to him, and his reply was, “I like it well. I shall die before my heart is soft, or I shall say any thing unworthy of myself.” When charged with cruelty and treachery, he reminded his foes that they had killed his father, and burned his people at Narragansett. Through all his captivity, Canonchet evinced a pride of soul that danger could not fright nor suffering bend.

The “last of the Narragansetts,” as Canonchet has been termed, was led out to die, “and that all might share in the glory of destroying so great a prince, and come under the obligation of fidelity, each to the other, the Pequots shot him, the Mohegans cut off his head, and quartered his body, and the Nan-ticks made the fire and burned his quarters; and as a token of fidelity to the English, presented his head to the council at Hartford.”

The modern reader views the detail of this execution with disgust. But the colonists then thought them wise and just.

The death of Canonchet was a severe loss to the Indians. Endowed with a high and generous spirit, he had obtained a great and rare influence-among his own and other tribes, and could at any time summon to the aid of Philip, many faithful and efficient men. He bound men to his interest by appealing to their love of what is great and heroic, rather than their fears, and of all Philip’s captains, he was the most skilful leader, and the bravest warrior. Notwithstanding his treaty with the English, he refused to give up the fugitive Wampanoags to them; but this refusal was owing as much to humanity of feeling as to a violation of his word. The records of his conduct while free and among his tribe, and while a captive with the whites, lead us to lament the fate of so able, so noble, and generous a man.

CHURCH AND THE NARRAGANSETT

FTER the great destruction of the Narragansett Indians, in King Philip’s War, by the Connecticut forces, the remnant of the tribe were pursued in all directions. Winslow, with the main body of the troops, advanced rapidly towards the Nipmuck country. During the pursuit, the celebrated Captain Benjamin Church met with a singular and almost fatal adventure.

Church had been removed with the other wounded to the Narragansett’s fort. But partially recovered, and being very restless, he had again joined the army, and was persuaded by Winslow to aid him in the pursuit of the Narragansetts. On the route they reached an Indian town, situated on a small island, which was surrounded by a swamp. The water in the swamp was frozen, which prevented the soldiers from charging the wigwam. A spirited fire of musketry commenced, under cover of which the troops began to cross the ice. The Indians defended themselves until the assailants reached the island, when they broke and fled. A Mohegan, friendly to the English joined in the pursuit, and capturing one of the enemy, who had been wounded in the leg, brought him to Winslow.

Winslow examined him, but could not draw from him the wished for knowledge concerning the designs of his countrymen. The captive was threatened; he said he had revealed all he knew. Many standing, around demanded that he should be tortured; but by the advice of Church, the demand was refused. The army commenced its march. But as the Narragansett’s wound prevented him from keeping pace with the troops, it was resolved to “knock him in the head.” The Mohegan who captured him was appointed his executioner. Church, taking no delight in such things, withdrew.

The Mohegan, elated with the honor conferred upon him, advanced towards his victim, flourishing his tomahawk, and evincing, by distortions of limb and feature, the extremity of his satisfaction. Suddenly, he aimed a tremendous blow at the prisoner’s head, but the latter skilfully dodged it, and the hatchet flying from the Mohegan’s hand, “had like to have done execution, where it was not designed.” Seizing the favorable moment, the Narragansett broke from those who held him, and ran for his life. Taking the same direction that Church had done, he unexpectedly ran directly upon him. Church grappled with him; a short but furious scuffle ensued, but the Narragansett, being destitute of clothing, slipped from his adversary’s grasp, and again ran. Church followed, the Indian stumbled and fell, and the bold volunteer again seized him. They fought and wrestled until the Indian slipped through Church’s hands, and set out upon his third race. Church was close behind him, “grasping occasionally at his hair,” which was all the hold could be taken of him.

They soon reached a wide surface of ice, which being in some places hollow, caused a rumbling noise, which induced Church to hope that some of his friends might hear it and come to his relief. Unfortunately for the Indian, it began to grow dark, and while running at full speed, he came abreast of a fallen tree of great thickness. Why he did not overleap it is not known; but having probably became intimidated, he suddenly stopped and cried aloud for aid. Church was soon upon him. The Indian seized him by the hair, and tried to break his neck. Church also laid hold of his adversary’s hair with both hands, repaying twist for twist. While in this attitude, hanging by each other’s hair, the volunteer contrived to butt the Indian vigorously with his head in the face.

While this sharp scuffle was in progress, the ice was heard crackling at a distance, and soon after some person ran towards them. The combatants were kept in suspense, as the darkness prevented the new comer from being seen. The stranger reached them, and without speaking a word began to feel first Church and then the Indian. Amid the same ominous silence, he raised his hatchet, and sunk it in the head of the savage. It was the Mohegan who had acted as executioner. Overjoyed at having gratified his cruelty, he hugged Church again and again, thanked him for having caught his prisoner, and conducted him in triumph to the camp. Throughout this struggle for life, Church acted with his usual dauntless spirit, and the capture of the Narragansett was owing entirely to his persevering courage. The Indian was unjustly put to death, he being fully entitled to be considered as a prisoner of war. But the colonists thought by appointing a Mohegan to be his executioner, to heighten the friendly feeling existing between that tribe and the English.

THE DEATH OF KING PHILIP

HEN the famous King Philip had lost the greater part of his warriors in the struggle for life and death between them and the English, and he himself was hunted like a wild beast from place to place, he formed the strange resolve of visiting the ancient haunt of his ancestors at Mount Hope, With a few of his best friends he retired into that swamp which was destined to be a prison for him. His retreat was betrayed to Captain Church, by an Indian deserter, whose brother Philip had killed in a fit of passion.

Church, accompanied by Major Sandford, and Captain Golding, and about twenty men, prepared to follow the great chief to the swamp. He crossed Trip’s ferry in the evening, and about midnight, a consultation was held as to the best mode of attack. Church offered Golding a small force that he might go in advance and discover the real situation of Philip. Golding promptly accepted it. Church then instructed him to be careful in his approach to the enemy, and be sure not to show himself until by daylight, that they might know their own men from the enemy; to creep as close to the ground as possible, until they came quite near to the swamp, in order to fire upon the Indians as soon as they arose; and that when the enemy should start for the swamp, he should pursue them with speed. He was to shout as loud as he could, for the ambuscade would receive orders to fire upon any one who should approach in silence. A colonist and an Indian were placed behind each shelter. The arrangements made it impossible for any one to pass from the swamp without being seen.

The swamp in which Philip was concealed is thus described by Carne. – “It was a fit retreat for a despairing man, being one of those waste and dismal places to which few ever wandered, covered with rank and dense vegetation. The moist soil was almost hidden by the cypress and other trees, that spread their gloomy shades over the treacherous shallows and pools’ beneath. In the few drier parts, oaks and pines grew, and, between them, a brushwood so thick that the savage could hardly penetrate: on the long, rich grass of these parts, wild cattle fed, unassailed by the hand of man, save when they ventured beyond the confines of the swamp. There were wolves, deer, and other animals; and wilder men, it was said, were seen here; it was supposed that the children of some of the Indians had either been lost or left there, and had thus grown up like denizens of this wild. Here the baffled chieftain gathered his little band around him, like a lion baited by the hunters, sullenly seeking his gloomy thickets only to spring forth more fatally. His love was turned to agony; his wife was in the land of his enemies; and would they spare her beauty? His only son, the heir of a long line, must bow his head to their yoke; his chief warriors had all fallen, and he could not trust the few who were still with him.”

Early on the moaning of the 12th of August, Church approached Major Sandford, and taking him by the hand, said that he had placed his men so that it was scarcely possible for Philip to escape. At this moment, a single shot was heard in the distance, and a ball whistled through the air over their heads. Church imagined that it had been fired by accident; but before he could speak, an entire volley was discharged.

The battle had been hastened by the indiscretion of Golding. An Indian, having retired at some distance from his companions, stood for a while looking around him, and as Golding supposed, directly at him. The captain immediately fired; and his men poured a volley into the Indian camp, which, as the savages were asleep, passed clear over them. Philip’s men, thus unexpectedly aroused, ran into the swamp, and the chief, throwing his belt and powder horn over his head, seized his gun and fled. Unaware of the ambush, he ran directly towards one of Church’s men. When he was quite near, the colonist levelled his gun, but missed fire. He bade the Indian fire, which he did with effect, one of the balls passing through the sachem’s heart, and another through his lungs. He bounded into the air and fell upon his face in the mud.

The battle continued, though the Indians fought against great odds. They were rallied and encouraged to stand, by an old chief, who frequently repeated in a loud voice, the exclamation, “Iootash,” a sort of war-cry in time of danger. Church, surprised by the boldness of this chief, and the loudness of his voice, asked his Indian servant, Peter, who it was. He answered that it was Philip’s great captain, Annawon, “calling on his soldiers to stand to it, and fight stoutly.” But the efforts of the chief failed; the greater part of the men, discovering that a part of the swamp was not surrounded, made their escape.

Alderman, the Indian who had shot Philip, immediately informed Church of his exploit; but the captain told him to keep silence until they had driven all the Indians from the swamp. The skirmishing continued until sun rise, when Annawon and the few who remained with him, escaped. In this encounter five Indians were killed, among whom was a son of the great Philip.

Church, glad of having accomplished the main object of the expedition, thought it useless to pursue the fugitives, and hence collected his men in the place where the Indians had passed the night. Here he informed them of Philip’s death, which was greeted with three loud cheers; after which the sachem’s body was dragged from the mud to the upland. In the moment of victory, Church forgot the magnanimity which had hitherto distinguished him, and joined in the jests, with which his men insulted the corpse of the man, at whose name they had formerly trembled. The captain ordered him to be beheaded and quartered, which was accomplished by an old Indian executioner, the pieces being hung on trees. One of the hands which had been scarred by the splitting of a pistol, was given to Alderman “to show to such gentlemen as would bestow gratuitous alms upon him, and accordingly, he got many a penny by it,” The head was placed in a conspicuous part of the town of Plymouth, where it remained many years.

The war was considered as ended with the death of the leading spirit on the part of the Indians. It had been one of extermination upon both sides, but the red men had suffered far more than the English. The character of Philip has been frequently drawn by able pens, and full justice has been rendered to his memory. Activity, courage, skill in war and diplomacy, were the remarkable features of his well-known character. His ends were lofty and startling, and he was wise in the choice of means. To great qualities of mind, he added the strongest feelings, and no part of his life excites our sympathies more than his latter days, when, bereft of friends and relations, he returned, broken-hearted, to the haunts of his youth. His hatred of the English, was early and lasting – founded upon just cause, and followed up with unrelenting cruelty. He was a savage, untaught in the arts and refinements of civilization, and in estimating his character this should be considered. Then will it be clear, that Philip was one of the greatest of Indians and the noblest of the unlearned children of the forest.

THE RAIN MAKERS

HE Mandans, have dignitaries whom they call “rain makers,” and “rain stoppers,” because they believe in their powers to bring rain in case of drought, or to stop the rain when too strong and violent. Catlin gives a very interesting account of an instance in which the powers of these men were tested.

The Mandans, says Catlin, raise a great deal of corn; but sometimes a most disastrous drought visits the land, destructive to their promised harvest. Such was the case when I arrived at the Mandan village, on the steamboat Yellow Stone. Rain had not fallen for many a day, and the dear little girls and ugly old squaws, altogether, (all of whom had fields of corn,) were groaning and crying to their lords, and imploring them to intercede for rain, that their little patches, which were now turning pale and yellow, might not be withered, and they be deprived of the customary annual festivity, and the joyful occasion of the “roasting ears,” and the “green corn dance.”

The chiefs and doctors sympathized with the distress of the women, and recommended patience. Great deliberation, they said, was necessary in these cases; and though they resolved on making the attempt to produce rain for the benefit of the corn; yet they very wisely resolved that to begin too soon might ensure their entire defeat in the endeavor: and that the longer they put it off, the more certain they would be of ultimate success. So, after a few days of further delay, when the importunities of the women had become clamorous, and even mournful, and almost insupportable, the medicine-men assembled in the council-house, with all their mystery apparatus about them – with an abundance of wild sage, and other aromatic herbs, with a fire prepared to burn them, that their savory odors might be sent forth to the Great Spirit. The lodge was closed to all the villagers, except some ten or fifteen young men, who were willing to hazard the dreadful alternative of making it rain, or suffer the everlasting disgrace of having made a fruitless essay.

They, only, were allowed as witnesses to the hocus focus and conjurations devised by the doctors inside of the medicine lodge; and they were called up by lot, each one in his turn, to spend a day upon the top of the lodge, to test the potency of his medicine; or, in other words, to see how far his voice might be heard and obeyed amongst the clouds of the heavens; whilst the doctors were burning incense in the wigwam below, and with their songs and prayers to the Great Spirit for success, were sending forth grateful fumes and odors to Him “who lives in the sun and commands the thunders of Heaven.” Wah-kee, (the shield,) was the first who ascended the wigwam at sun rise; and he stood all day, and looked foolish, as he was counting over and over his string of mystery-beads – the whole village were assembled around him, and praying for his success. Not a cloud appeared – the day was calm and hot; and at the setting of the sun, he descended from the lodge and went home – “his medicine was not good,” nor can he ever be a medicineman.

Om-pah, (the elk,) was the next; he ascended the lodge at sunrise the next morning. His body was entirely naked, being covered with yellow clay. On his left arm he carried a beautiful shield, and a long lance in his right; and on his head the skin of a raven, the bird that soars amidst the clouds, and above the lightning’s glare – he flourished his shield and brandished his lance, and raised his voice, but in vain; for at sun set the ground was dry, and the sky was clear; the squaws were crying, and their corn was withering at its roots.

War-rah-pa, (the beaver,) was the next; he also spent his breath in vain upon the empty air, and came down at night – and Wak-a-dah-ha-hee, (the white buffalo’s hair,) took the stand the next morning. He was a small, but beautifully proportioned young man. He was dressed in a tunic, and leggings of the skins of the mountain-sheep, splendidly garnished with the quills of the porcupine, and fringed with locks of hair taken by his own hand from the heads of his enemies. On his arm he carried his shield, made of the buffalo’s hide – its boss was the head of the war-eagle – and its front was ornamented with “red chains of lightning.” In his left hand he clinched his sinewy bow and one single arrow. The villagers were all gathered about him; when he threw up a feather to decide on the course of the wind, and he commenced thus: “My friends! people of the pheasants! you see me here a sacrifice – I shall this day relieve you from great distress, and bring joy amongst you; or I shall descend from this lodge when the sun goes down, and live amongst the dogs and old women all my days. My friends! you saw which way the feather flew, and I hold my shield this day in the direction where the wind comes – the lightning on my shield will draw a great cloud, and the arrow, which is selected from my quiver, and which is feathered with the quill of the white swan, will make a hole in it. My friends! this hole in the lodge at my feet, shows me the medicine-men, who are seated in the lodge below me and crying to the Great Spirit and through it comes and passes into my nose delightful odors, which you see rising in the smoke to the Great Spirit above, who rides in the clouds and commands the winds! Three days they have sat here, my friends, and nothing has been done to relieve your distress. On the first day was Wah-kee, (the shield,) he could do nothing; he counted his beads and came down – his medicine was not good – his name was bad, and it kept off the rain. The next was Om-pah, (the elk;) on his head the raven was seen, who flies above the storm, and he failed. War-rah-pa, (the beaver,) was the next, my friends; the beaver lives under the water, and he never wants it to rain. My friends! I see you are in great distress, and nothing has yet been done; this shield belonged to my father the White Buffalo; and the lightning you see on it is red; it was taken from a black cloud, and that cloud will come over us to-day. I am the White Buffalo’s Hair – and am the son of my father.”

It happened on this memorable day about noon, that the steamboat Yellow Stone, on her first trip up the Missouri river, approached and landed at the Mandan village. I was lucky enough to be a passenger on this boat, and helped to fire a salute of twenty guns of twelve pounds calibre, when we first came in sight of the village, some three or four miles below. These guns introduced a new sound into this strange country, which the Mandans first supposed to be thunder; and the young man upon the lodge, who turned it to good account, was gathering fame in rounds of applause, which were repeated and echoed through the whole village; all eyes were centred upon him – chiefs envied him – mother’s hearts were beating high whilst they were decorating and leading up their fair daughters to offer him in marriage, on his signal success. The medicine-men had left the lodge, and came out to bestow upon him the envied title of “medicine-man, or doctor,” which he had so deservedly won – wreaths were prepared to decorate his brows, and eagles’ plumes and calumets were in readiness for him; his friends were all rejoiced – his enemies wore on their faces a silent gloom and hatred; and his old sweethearts, who had formerly cast him off, gazed intently upon him, as they glowed with the burning fever of repentance.

During all this excitement, Wak-a-dah-hahee kept his position, assuming the most commanding and threatening attitudes; brandishing his shield in-= the direction of the thunder, although there was not a cloud to be seen, until he, poor fellow, being elevated above the rest of the village, espied, to his inexpressible amazement, the steamboat ploughing its way up the windings of the river below; puffing her steam from her pipes, and sending forth the thunder from a twelve-pounder on her deck!

The White Buffalo’s Hair stood motionless and turned pale, he looked awhile, and turned to the chief and to the multitude, and addressed them with a trembling lip – “My friends, we will get no rain! there are, you see, no clouds; but my medicine is great – I have brought a thunder boat! look and see it! the thunder you hear is out of her mouth, and the lightning which you see is on the waters!”

At this intelligence, the whole village flew to the tops of their wigwams, or to the bank of the river, from whence the steamer was in full view, and ploughing along, to their utter dismay and confusion.

In this promiscuous throng of chiefs, doctors, women, children, and dogs, was mingled Wak-a-dah-ha-hee, (the white buffalo’s hair,) having descended from his high place to mingle with the frightened throng.

Dismayed at the approach of so strange and unaccountable an object, the Mandans stood their ground but a few moments; when, by an order of the chiefs, all hands were ensconced within the piquets of the village, and all the warriors armed for desperate defence. A few moments brought the boat in front of the village, and all was still and quiet as death; not a Mandan was to be seen upon the banks. The steamer was moored, and three or four of the chiefs soon after, walked boldly down the bank and on to her deck, with a spear in one hand and the calumet or pipe of peace in the other. The moment they stepped on board, they met (to their great surprise and joy) their old friend, Major Sanford, their agent, which circumstance put an end to all their fears. The villagers were soon apprized of the fact, and the whole race of the beautiful and friendly Mandans was paraded on the bank of the river, in front of the boat.

The “rain maker,” whose apprehensions of a public calamity brought upon the nation by his extraordinary medicine, had, for the better security of his person from apprehended vengeance, secreted himself in some secure place, and was the last to come forward, and the last to be convinced that the visitation was a friendly one from the white people; and that his medicine had not in the least been instrumental in bringing it about. This information, though received by him with much caution and suspicion, at length gave him much relief, and quieted his mind as to his danger. Yet still in his breast there was a rankling thorn, though he escaped the dreaded vengeance which he had a few moments before apprehended as at hand; as he had the mortification and disgrace of having failed in his mysterious operations. He set up, however, (during the day, in his conversation about the strange arrival,) his medicines, as the cause of its approach; asserting every where and to every body, that he knew of its coming, and that he had by his magic brought the occurrence about. This plea, however, did not get him much audience; and in fact, every thing else was pretty much swallowed up in the guttural talk, and bustle, and gossip about the mysteries of the thunder boat; and so passed the day, until just at the approach of evening, when the “White Buffalo’s Hair,” more watchful of such matters on this occasion than most others, observed that a black cloud had been jutting up in the horizon, and was almost directly over the village! In an instant his shield was on his arm, and his bow in his hand, and he again upon the lodge! stiffened and braced to the last sinew, he stood, with his face and shield presented to the cloud, and his bow drawn. He drew the eyes of the whole village upon him as he vaunted forth his super-human powers, and at the same time commanding the cloud to come nearer, that he might draw down its contents upon the heads and the cornfields of the Mandans! In this wise he stood, waving his shield over his head, stamping his foot and frowning as he drew his bow and threatening the heavens, commanding it to rain – his bow was bent, and the arrow drawn to its head, was sent to the clond, and he exclaimed, “My friends, it is done! Wak-a-dah-ha-hee’s arrow has entered the black clond, and the Mandans will be wet with the waters of the skies!” His predictions were true; in a few moments the clouds were over the village, and the rain fell in torrents. He stood for some time wielding his weapons and presenting his shield to the sky, while he boasted of his power and the efficacy of his medicine, to those who had been about him, and were now driven to the shelter of their wigwams. He, at length, finished his vaunts and threats, and descended from his high place, (in which he had been perfectly drenched,) prepared to receive the honors and the homage that were due to one so potent in his mysteries; and to receive the style and title of “medicine-man.” This is one of a hundred different modes in which a man in Indian countries acquires the honorable appellation.

This man had “made it rain,” and of course was to receive more than usual honors, as he had done much more than ordinary men could do. All eyes were upon him, and all were ready to admit that he was skilled in the magic art; and must be so nearly allied to the Great or Evil Spirit, that he must needs be a man of great and powerful influence in the nation, and was entitled to the style of doctor or medicine-man.

During the memorable night of which I have just spoken, the steamboat remained by the side of the Mandan village, and the rain that had commenced falling continued to pour down its torrents until midnight; black thunder roared, and vivid lightning flashed until the heavens appeared to be lit up with one unceasing and appalling glare. In this frightful moment of consternation, a flash of lightning buried itself in one of the earth-covered lodges of the Mandans, and killed a beautiful girl. Here was food and fuel fresh for their superstitions; and a night of vast tumult and excitement ensued. The dreams of the new-made medicine-man were troubled, and he had dreadful apprehensions for the coming day; for he knew that he was subject to the irrevocable decree of the chiefs and doctors, who canvass every strange and unaccountable event, with close and superstitious scrutiny, and let their vengeance fall without mercy upon its immediate cause.

He looked upon his well-earned fame as likely to be withheld from him; and also considered that his life might perhaps be demanded as the forfeit for this girl’s death, which would certainly be charged upon him. He looked upon himself as culpable, and supposed the accident to have been occasioned by his criminal desertion of his post, when the steamboat was approaching the village. Morning came, and he soon learned from some of his friends, the opinions of the wise men; and also the nature of the tribunal that was preparing for him; he sent to the prairie for his three horses, which were brought in, and he mounted the medicine lodge, around which, in a few moments, the villagers were all assembled. “My friends,” said he, “I see you all around me, and I am before you; my medicine, you see, is great – it is too great; I am young, and was too fast – I knew not when to stop. The wigwam of Mah-siah is laid low, and many are the eyes that weep for Ko-ka, (the antelope;) Wak-a-dah-ha-hee gives three horses to gladden the hearts of those who weep for Ko-ka; his medicine was great – his arrow pierced the black cloud, and the lightning came, and the thunder-boat also! who says that the medicine of Wak-a-dah-ha-hee is not strong?”

At the end of this sentence an unanimous shout of approbation ran through the crowd, and the “Hair of the White Buffalo” descended amongst them, where he was greeted by shaken of the hand; and amongst whom he now lives and thrives under the familiar and honorable appellation of the “Big Double Medicine.”

THE BRIDE’S RESCUE

ANY years ago when the great valley of the Mississippi was rarely trodden by the white men, there lived upon the southern frontier of Kentucky, then nearly a wilderness, an old hunter, named Johnson. He was one of the pioneers of the region in which he had built his log cabin, and had long procured a comfortable subsistence for a wife and child by the aid of a good rifle and his snares. Mrs. Johnson had become accustomed to the privations of her situation; and her daughter, Sarah, having arrived at the age of young womanhood, contributed to relieve the monotony of a life in the wilderness. The cares of the family were slight. Their simple food and clothing were easily procured, and their wishes for the conveniences of civilized life had ceased, when it was found that they could not be gratified. In short, we may say, the Johnson family lived happily in their wilderness home.