Cogewea, the Half-Blood

cap the irony of it all, he brings the ‘glad tidings’ of an endlessly burning hell where we are roasted for emulating his ‘superior’ examples.

“Smoking is the only ideal of our race that the Caucasian has deemed worthy of perpetuation. This, perhaps, is because it has been considered the worst of our vices. But the Shoyahpee converted it into vice. We did not use strong, straight tobacco and virus-infected wrappers. We employed a very mild and almost, if not entirely harmless mixture of bark and leaves, and among some of the tribes, a minute amount of tobacco; such as you see Stemteemä now smoking. Southern Indians used more of this narcotic plant than did their northern cousins, and here in the far northwest, we had none of it. Often the smoking material was slightly oiled by rubbing it with buffalo, or other melted fats. This was especially true of the plains Indians. The process improved the flavor and also augmented the fire-holding qualities.”

Further dissertation by Cogewea was interrupted by the Stemteemä, who, putting aside her pipe, spoke in a low guttural tone. She was ready to begin her story.

XIV

The Dead Man’s Vision

I beheld too, in that vision
All the secrets of the future,
Of the distant days that shall be.
I beheld the westward marches,
Of the unknown, crowded nations.

Hiawatha

“This was long ago,” began Stemteemä, “many many snows. It happened in the time of my grandfather, when he was a young chief of the powerful Schu-ayl-p^k18 and the Okanogans. This story I am telling you is true. It was given me by my father who favored me among his many children. I was his youngest child from his youngest wife, who was cherished among his twelve wives. He told me the tales that were sacred to his tribe; honored me with them, trusted me. Treasured by my forefathers, I value them. I know that they would want them kept only to their own people if they were here. But they are gone and for me the sunset of the last evening is approaching and I must not carry with me this history.

“In that time the pale face and his vices had not reached us. The country was wild and the Great Spirit was kind to the tribes. Berries grew on the fruit-bushes in abundance, while game and fish were plentiful. Buffaloes were to be killed on these plains, all ample for food, robes and lodge-sheltering. There were so many that the prairies showed black like the shadows from passing clouds.

“My ancestors were warriors and medicine men; the one brave and fearless, the other wise in the wisdom of spirits. My grandfather and father could not have become chiefs had they not been courageous from small to great things. A leader must be a good hunter. He must not know the word ‘fear.’ He must endure the hardships of war, waged every spring and fall against the fierce Blackfeet and Sioux. If favored by the Great Spirit, he would win the battle and return from war more beloved by his tribe. Ponies were taken from the enemy, and their best looking women brought home to become wives. Any others were killed, or some times retained as slaves. A warrior’s ability and bravery was estimated by the number of captured ponies or scalps he could display in the village. These evidenced that he had met the foe, that he was not boasting the lie. This was why scalping was practiced by all the tribes.

“Always, the falling of the first snow was the sign that the Great Spirit was calling. The tribesmen then ceased hunting the buffalo, deer, elk, moose and antelope. Gathering in the village, everything was laid aside for the ‘Spirit’s Days,’ which were fourteen sundowns. They danced in worship to the Spirit, to continue His favors to the tribe; that the trees, the grass and herbs be perpetual; that the deer and all game be plentiful the coming season and that the red salmon again swarm up the Swa-net^k-qah. I am old and I am wondering why the salmon no longer come as when I was a child. The stream then throbbed with the big fish.

“We have been told that it is wrong to pray to the Great Spirit as we were taught. But since we adopted prayers to the white man’s God-spirit, we have died from pestilences which he brought. Even the buffalo are no more; gone to the shadowy Hunting Grounds of the hereafter, with the warriors of old. I shall soon follow, where the pale face can not dispossess us, for he will not be there. He will no longer lure our children from us with his smooth tongue and books, which here serves to make them bad by imitating the destroyers of our race.

“With this whitening of the first snow⁠—this calling of the Spirit⁠—the medicine man had built a great lodge of poles and bark, or of dressed skins. A long fire-hearth was in the center, that the dancing might be lighted at night, as well as give warmth for the people. These lodges I have myself seen before the Black Robes stopped us from such worship of the Indian Spirit.

“They danced for fourteen sundowns, thankful for the past successful season, for health and victory in war. Each hunter and warrior supplicated that he again be permitted to see the new life of spring. All that time, day and night they danced, as long as strength lasted. Some of the warriors did not sleep. This was to show their endurance, their ability to stand the rigors of the warpath and the chase. It was at one of these dances that this story I am telling you, happened.

“Berries, game and fish had been abundant and the people had plenty of dried foods for the winter moons. They danced the fourteen sundowns, when suddenly and without any illness, one