Thus died Mahto-Tatonka, but he left behind him a goodly army of descendants, to perpetuate his renown and avenge his fate.Besides daughters he had thirty sons, a number which need not stagger the credulity of those who are best acquainted with Indian usages and practices.We saw many of them, all marked by the same dark complexion and the same peculiar cast of features.Of these our visitor, young Mahto-Tatonka, was the eldest, and some reported him as likely to succeed to his father's honors.Though he appeared not more than twenty-one years old, he had oftener struck the enemy, and stolen more horses and more squaws than any young man in the village.
We of the civilized world are not apt to attach much credit to the latter species of exploits; but horse-stealing is well known as an avenue to distinction on the prairies, and the other kind of depredation is esteemed equally meritorious.Not that the act can confer fame from its own intrinsic merits.Any one can steal a squaw, and if he chooses afterward to make an adequate present to her rightful proprietor, the easy husband for the most part rests content, his vengeance falls asleep, and all danger from that quarter is averted.Yet this is esteemed but a pitiful and mean-spirited transaction.The danger is averted, but the glory of the achievement also is lost.Mahto-Tatonka proceeded after a more gallant and dashing fashion.Out of several dozen squaws whom he had stolen, he could boast that he had never paid for one, but snapping his fingers in the face of the injured husband, had defied the extremity of his indignation, and no one yet had dared to lay the finger of violence upon him.He was following close in the footsteps of his father.
The young men and the young squaws, each in their way, admired him.
The one would always follow him to war, and he was esteemed to have unrivaled charm in the eyes of the other.Perhaps his impunity may excite some wonder.An arrow shot from a ravine, a stab given in the dark, require no great valor, and are especially suited to the Indian genius; but Mahto-Tatonka had a strong protection.It was not alone his courage and audacious will that enabled him to career so dashingly among his compeers.His enemies did not forget that he was one of thirty warlike brethren, all growing up to manhood.Should they wreak their anger upon him, many keen eyes would be ever upon them, many fierce hearts would thirst for their blood.The avenger would dog their footsteps everywhere.To kill Mahto-Tatonka would be no better than an act of suicide.
Though he found such favor in the eyes of the fair, he was no dandy.
As among us those of highest worth and breeding are most simple in manner and attire, so our aspiring young friend was indifferent to the gaudy trappings and ornaments of his companions.He was content to rest his chances of success upon his own warlike merits.He never arrayed himself in gaudy blanket and glittering necklaces, but left his statue-like form, limbed like an Apollo of bronze, to win its way to favor.His voice was singularly deep and strong.It sounded from his chest like the deep notes of an organ.Yet after all, he was but an Indian.See him as he lies there in the sun before our tent, kicking his heels in the air and cracking jokes with his brother.
Does he look like a hero? See him now in the hour of his glory, when at sunset the whole village empties itself to behold him, for to-morrow their favorite young partisan goes out against the enemy.His superb headdress is adorned with a crest of the war eagle's feathers, rising in a waving ridge above his brow, and sweeping far behind him.
His round white shield hangs at his breast, with feathers radiating from the center like a star.His quiver is at his back; his tall lance in his hand, the iron point flashing against the declining sun, while the long scalp-locks of his enemies flutter from the shaft.
Thus, gorgeous as a champion in his panoply, he rides round and round within the great circle of lodges, balancing with a graceful buoyancy to the free movements of his war horse, while with a sedate brow he sings his song to the Great Spirit.Young rival warriors look askance at him; vermilion-cheeked girls gaze in admiration, boys whoop and scream in a thrill of delight, and old women yell forth his name and proclaim his praises from lodge to lodge.
Mahto-Tatonka, to come back to him, was the best of all our Indian friends.Hour after hour and day after day, when swarms of savages of every age, sex, and degree beset our camp, he would lie in our tent, his lynx eye ever open to guard our property from pillage.
The Whirlwind invited us one day to his lodge.The feast was finished, and the pipe began to circulate.It was a remarkably large and fine one, and I expressed my admiration of its form and dimensions.
"If the Meneaska likes the pipe," asked The Whirlwind, "why does he not keep it?"Such a pipe among the Ogallalla is valued at the price of a horse.Aprincely gift, thinks the reader, and worthy of a chieftain and a warrior.The Whirlwind's generosity rose to no such pitch.He gave me the pipe, confidently expecting that I in return should make him a present of equal or superior value.This is the implied condition of every gift among the Indians as among the Orientals, and should it not be complied with the present is usually reclaimed by the giver.
So I arranged upon a gaudy calico handkerchief, an assortment of vermilion, tobacco, knives, and gunpowder, and summoning the chief to camp, assured him of my friendship and begged his acceptance of a slight token of it.Ejaculating HOW! HOW! he folded up the offerings and withdrew to his lodge.
Several days passed and we and the Indians remained encamped side by side.They could not decide whether or not to go to war.Toward evening, scores of them would surround our tent, a picturesque group.
