The Warden of the Plains Part 4

As he entered the lodge an expression of evil satisfaction beamed from the faces of his older wives. At first he took no notice, then suddenly his heart was filled with foreboding. He looked and saw that the place usually occupied by Asokoa was vacant. Inquiring the reason of her absence, he learned that on the previous evening she had gone to visit a woman in one of the adjoining lodges and had not returned.

Running Deer turned and went out, quiet, dignified and sullen, determined to punish the delinquent for her unfaithfulness. Mounting his horse, which stood where he had left it a few moments before, he rode swiftly to the coulee where his band of horses were feeding, and found his wife's among them. Asokoa must be ill or something serious must have befallen her; her horse was still among the band, and she could not have left the camps. He went hurriedly from lodge to lodge making anxious inquiries, but could find no tidings of his missing wife. Then widening his circle of search, he went from camp to camp, yet found no trace of her until he reached the lodges of Eagle Rib.

Two horses had been taken from the chief's band, and Saotan had not been seen since the previous day. Burning with indignation, his former love changed to bitter hatred, and vowing vengeance on the young man who had supplanted him in the affections of Asokoa, he strode to the chief and demanded his daughter, but Eagle Rib could give him no information of the whereabouts of the fugitive couple.

Several months had pa.s.sed, and Running Deer's anger had cooled. He had given up all search for the lost ones; he hated the names they bore, and would not permit them to be mentioned in his presence. He had apparently forgotten them when a messenger arrived to announce their discovery among the Piegan tribe, one of the same confederacy as the Bloods and Blackfeet.

Weary of exile and anxious to dwell once more among their own people in their old home, Saotan and Asokoa had returned, preferring to risk the punishment which might be inflicted for their wrong-doing. They sought refuge in the lodge of Eagle Rib, where they hoped to be protected by the influence of the chief. But law and custom is stronger than the individual, and the demands of justice are more powerful among the savage tribes than in any other organization or race of men. The chief might r.e.t.a.r.d the operations of the Indian laws, but he could not overcome them.

Night had fallen upon the camp and the dwellers in the lodges were retired to rest, when three men entered and seized Asokoa. A band of men waited on horseback outside. These were the Black Soldiers, the policemen of the camp, enrolled to maintain order and execute justice.

They had entered the camp so quietly that no one had heard their approach.

Asokoa uttered no complaint or cry as they dragged her out, although in times of pain or trouble the Indian women are generally loud in their lamentations. Deceived by her quiet acquiescence, the men mounted her on one of the horses and allowed her to ride behind them on the way to the place of judgment. The night was dark, and as they pa.s.sed a clump of bushes Asokoa slid off the horse, and, crouching down in the shadows till her guards were at some distance, fled back again to her father-in-law's lodge. The Black Soldiers rode on, unsuspecting any misfortune, and had almost reached their destination before they discovered that the Indian beauty had eluded them. They returned at once to recapture her, but as they once more entered the lodge and demanded her of the chief, she stooped down and made her escape by crawling under the leather flap of the lodge, which Eagle Rib had taken the precaution to leave unfastened. Then she sped away in the darkness until she was joined by Saotan, who mounted her on his horse, and together they crossed the river, and by hard riding reached the shelter of the home of a white friend before the early dawn broke.

Negotiations were entered into between Eagle Rib and Running Deer for an amicable settlement of the matter. The angry husband had felt so embittered against the woman who had never loved him that he had himself sharpened the knife, determined to inflict the usual punishment for unfaithfulness, that of cutting off the nose. Many instances of such mutilation are in existence in the Indian camps.

The two old men talked the matter over fully, and at last a settlement was agreed upon. Running Deer accepted five horses and a gun as compensation, and Saotan and Asokoa were free to return once more and live in peace among their own people. The days which followed the return of the lovers were very happy ones. Love dwelt in the lodge that was made beautiful by Asokoa; she lived for Saotan and adorned his home with every ornament and device that love could suggest. On his part, Saotan loved her so supremely that he never brought another woman to his lodge to share his love or supplant her in his loving attentions.

A dark-eyed babe came to gladden their hearts, a beautiful boy who Asokoa said should grow up and be like his father. They rejoiced together in the possession of this treasure, and when a few months later the destroying angel came and s.n.a.t.c.hed their darling from their arms they mourned together over their darkened home.

Saotan and Asokoa had dwelt in perfect happiness for three years when a war expedition was organized to go southward and retaliate upon their enemies for the depredations the tribe had suffered at their hands.

Two of these young men had been killed, and the desire was to kill their enemies, that the young men's spirits might rest in the happy spirit land.

The war party had chosen Saotan as their leader, and he was obliged to bid Asokoa a reluctant farewell. The affectionate wife gazed long and sadly after his retreating form as he rode away over the plains. They were not going to wage open warfare, but secretly to return with scalps as compensation for the loss of some of their own young men, and Asokoa's heart was heavy with foreboding of evil.

At the expiration of two weeks the Indians in the camps looked for the return of Saotan and his party. Four weeks had gone and there were no tidings. Two young men were sent out to trace them and learn the cause of delay. Meanwhile the sole topic of conversation in the lodges was the long absence of Saotan. Various rumors were circulated, but the truth concerning their fate could not be learned. Small parties of Piegans, Blackfeet and Sarcees called at the camps, but none brought any tidings of the missing men.

After many days of anxious waiting, the search party returned. Long before they reached the camp the people descried them on the distant hills, riding slowly, and their horses appearing to be tired out. The people ran to meet them, the women anxious to hear what news they brought. They listened for the songs of exultation, but alas! heard only that wail of sorrow which strikes terror to the Indian woman's heart.

The chiefs gathered in one of the lodges to listen to the story of the young men. They had ridden five nights on their journey, searching carefully for any trace of Saotan and his men. Not an Indian was to be seen anywhere; the country appeared to be deserted, and they thought it would be wise to return. A short consultation was held, and as they walked their horses slowly they came to the bank of a small stream where they noticed a branch was broken from a tree overhanging the water. Searching more closely, they found marks of horses' feet, and following the tracks, they came upon a spot where it was evident a battle had been fought, for near at hand lay the skeletons of Saotan and his men. The Indians who had slain them had taken their scalp-locks, their arms and ornaments, and the buzzard, coyote and wolf had stripped the bones; but there were enough fragments of clothing scattered about to enable the young men to recognize that the remains were those of Saotan and the party who had gone out so full of hope and confidence so short a time before.

As the young men related their sorrowful tale, the chiefs' countenances betokened the direst anger, and while they muttered and plotted revenge, the women slipped away to carry the story of widowhood, pain and degradation to Asokoa. Overwhelmed with grief for her loss, the poor woman thought only that Saotan could never return to her again, and did not realize that the medicine-women were already on their way to perform the ceremonies of mourning for the dead.

These women laid their hands upon her, and in a few moments the long black hair that had been her glory fell in ma.s.ses to the ground. Her neatly embroidered garments were then removed and the oldest and most worn subst.i.tuted; then, laying the bereaved woman's hand on a block of wood, one of the medicine-women took a knife, and using a deer's-horn sc.r.a.per as a hammer, severed one of the fingers at the first joint.

Her legs were next denuded of the handsome leggings, and the flesh gashed with a knife from the knees to the feet. The blood clotted as it trickled down and was allowed to remain.

Asokoa submitted willingly to all these inflictions of pain and mutilation; it was the custom, and she felt that she was only doing as she should to prove the reality of her grief for the loss of her husband by enduring it all without a murmur. A few of the old women sat with her in the lodge as companions in her grief; then as the sun sank in the western sky, Asokoa wandered out over the prairie, weeping bitterly and uttering the wailing cry of bereavement, "Saotan, come back to me! Saotan, come back to me!" But no voice replied, as the wailing cadences floated on the evening air.

When the darkness fell, the mourner returned, the people evading contact with her as she pa.s.sed by the lodges. An hour or two of sleeplessness spent in the lodge and the early dawn found her repeating the same sad wail for the dead. The people mourned with her, but said little; young and old hung their heads as she pa.s.sed them. Some of the women shed tears of sympathy and the men spoke often of the death of Saotan the brave, and murmured vengeance on the enemy who had slain him.

The days of Asokoa's mourning were long, and at first there seemed nothing left for her but death; but time, that healer of many wounds, was here in the Indian camp as elsewhere. Asokoa was too handsome and young, of too good birth and pleasant a disposition, to remain long without a suitor. Sekimi, a dignified warrior, took her to his lodge to be his wife, and for a long time was contented and happy with her alone. He could not have had a better wife. Asokoa was devoted to her home, and kept the lodge well and comfortable for husband.

Some months had pa.s.sed when she noticed that Sekimi seemed to lose interest in his home, to be dull and restless. Asokoa did not despair, but sang her sweetest songs, cooked the daintiest morsels, prepared the choicest meals, and endeavored by every means within her reach to wean him from his melancholy and make him happy. Some burden rested heavily on his heart and blinded him to all the winning ways of his faithful and beautiful wife.

Sekimi rose early on one bright summer day, and after taking his morning meal hastily went out. He turned his steps to where his band of horses were feeding, and selecting three of the best, rode away.

Asokoa had a quiet day, no visitor coming to the lodge. When evening closed in she heard the sound of hors.e.m.e.n riding toward the camp, and as they drew near she heard the notes of a low, sweet song and readily distinguished her husband's voice among the others. Sekimi was returning happy; the burden laid upon his spirits was removed, and Asokoa, fully content, hastened to prepare some special dainty for his evening meal and be ready to welcome him.

In a short time the horses stopped at the lodge door, and the tones of a woman chatting gaily made Asokoa's heart beat with apprehension.

Sekimi entered, and speaking haughtily, bade Asokoa set food before them. Greater sorrow had never fallen upon Asokoa. Her love and pride were hurt by the knowledge that she had been superseded by another; love drew tears to her eyes, but pride forbade them to fall.

The days which followed the arrival of the new wife were a dull round of drudgery and sorrow, but Asokoa went about her work in silence. She was left much alone, and in time grew accustomed to her sad lot.

Always patient, she bore her trials with even greater patience and submission than ever, but the handsome Indian woman was not so erect as formerly and the glow of health had long fled from her cheeks. The old women watched her sadly and tried to cheer her; the children clung to her, and leaning against her knees as she sat beside the river, listened to the tales she loved to tell them. As health failed, when too weak to leave the lodge she would lie still for hours, suffering but never complaining.

The long July and August days pa.s.sed, and the cool air of autumn brought some relief to the dying woman. The medicine-men beat their drums and sang their songs for her with great energy, but Asokoa begged them to cease; she wished only for quiet and peace.

The leaves were falling from the trees on the distant bluffs when the end came. The old chief, the father who had looked with such love and pride on the face of his child as it hung in the hammock, sat sorrowful at the door of the lodge waiting for the approach of the death-angel.

As the sun sank behind the distant mountains, Asokoa raised her hand, and pointing to some object which seemed to hold the fixed gaze of her eyes, her lips moved. As if gathering her remaining strength for a last effort, she cried, "Saotan!" and with the name of her best-loved on her lips Asokoa's released spirit took its flight.

THE SKY PILOT.

Broadcloth and pemmican seldom met together in the far West during the old buffalo days. Occasionally, though, a "sky pilot" dressed in prairie garb found his way to the trading posts or the mining camps of the old-timers, where he was hospitably entertained and sometimes handsomely remunerated. There were few attractions for men of culture and refinement in such a life; only that to be found in a free and easy life on the western plains, strengthened by the desire to do good and the a.s.surance of success which always accompanies every earnest toiler who obeys the behests of his Master.

Parson Morris was a Methodist preacher of the old school, with few tastes, yet withal a man of culture and sterling worth. He had not only seen the inside of a college, but he was a good cla.s.sical scholar.

Few could handle the Greek Testament better than he, or were better versed in the standards of Methodist theology. When a lad he had found peace at the ancient "penitent bench," and the first prayer that fell from his lips was the simple but very expressive sentence, "Lord, make me a missionary!" This missionary zeal had been fed by reading the life of John Hunt of Fiji and current missionary literature.

During his college course the keen eye of one of the church leaders recognized the fitness of the young man for the mission field, and a messenger was sent to request his consent to go into the work of bringing the heathen to Christ. His heart had been set upon going to j.a.pan, but the voice of destiny sent him to the western plains of Canada, where under the shadow of the majestic mountains he unfurled the banner of the Prince of Peace.

Parson Morris must, like all wise men, take a partner with him to his western home, one with whom to share his toil and his joy; for, although there were many who sought to deter him from engaging in such a fruitless task as striving to lead Indians or frontiersmen to the feet of Christ, he antic.i.p.ated success, and his heart was therefore full of joy. It would have been needless for him to have gone forth upon his mission if he had not been buoyant in spirit and deeply impressed with the great work he had undertaken.

The friends of the young missionary and his wife felt their departure keenly, and some kind-hearted souls deeply sympathized with them, and spoke to them as if they had been banished by some edict of the Almighty to dwell in lone banishment in some desert wilderness. The young parson received a handsome gift from his ministerial friends, and Nancy, the parson's bride, was made the recipient of several valuable presents from her college friends.

While attending the session of Conference the Rev. John Boswell offered his congratulations to the missionary, adding: "It does seem a pity that a man possessed of such good talents as you should become a missionary to the Indians. You would do well on the best fields of the East."

The simple answer was, "I feel that I ought to go!"

Two days before starting upon the missionary journey an interesting though scarcely encouraging missive was received offering good-will, and containing a newspaper clipping detailing the hanging of a Cree Indian for the inhuman act of murdering, cooking and eating his own family!

Some of these kind friends who sent this letter were numbered amongst the most generous contributors to the missionary cause, and prayed most earnestly for its success.

The solemn moment of parting came, and many tears were shed, many words of regret spoken. The parson felt depressed when thus surrounded by so many gloomy countenances, but he naturally turned aside in search of one or two kindred spirits, and as he stood upon the railroad station platform there came a vision before his eyes, one which filled them with tears. It was that of the heathen waiting in thousands with outstretched arms calling for help, while not a soul appeared to hear the cry which ascended to heaven and arrested the angels in their mission of mercy and love. The great responsibility of helping men toward a n.o.bler life rested heavily upon the heart of Parson Morris, and as he talked to his friends, hearing and answering their questions, his heart was far away on those distant plains.

Their journey lay through the pleasant farms and shady woodlands in northern Ontario, then up the lakes of the north, across stormy Lake Superior, over the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota, until the Missouri was reached, when a halt was made to await the steamer. One week was spent in the city of Bismarck, at that time a small village characterized by all the roughness of western civilization.

There were large ox-trains composed of three and four heavily laden wagons, drawn by eighteen or twenty head of oxen, on their way to the Black Hills, the land of mineral wealth and lawlessness.

On Sunday the cowboys ran their horses wildly up and down the princ.i.p.al streets, firing their revolvers into the air. A theatre was in full progress, and all the stores were doing a thriving business.

Parson Morris and his friends held a service in a public hall, and while the heads of the worshippers were bowed in devotion their souls were called to earth again by the sudden entrance of a man who shouted, "Is this a fire meeting?"

Perceiving his mistake he retreated.

Up the muddy Missouri the pilgrims continued their journey, past the extensive Cactus plains, winding in and out of the sand-bars and snags which filled the river, crawling slowly through the rapids, pa.s.sing vast herds of buffalo and bands of Indians, until after ten days'

sailing in the famous river steamer, the _Key West_, they landed at Benton, the head of navigation. Dirt, drink and depravity were the chief features of the village in the buffalo days. Money was abundant, and so were gamblers. The main street was lined with taverns and gambling-h.e.l.ls, and every morning the street was almost paved with playing cards. Here were men of quality and culture mingling with the sc.u.m of society around the tables. Brawls were common occurrences, and not infrequently were attended with the death of one or more of the partic.i.p.ants.

At Benton an outfit was purchased, and Parson Morris with his wife Nancy embarked in a "prairie schooner" for their home across the plains. Bidding farewell to the last evidences of civilization, they began their march. Alkali lands were abundant and water was scarce; indeed, water fit to drink was seldom found, and frequently the travellers had to seek a stagnant pool, containing not more than a pailful of slimy liquid. By filtering it through a handkerchief the water was strained and freed from most of its obnoxious ingredients.