The story of the girl’s courage and self-sacrifice was told and retold wherever Oneidas sat around their campfires, and will be handed down from grandparent to grandchild as long as there are Oneidas on this earth.
The Great Mystery changed Aliquipiso’s hair into woodbine, which the Oneidas call “running hairs” and which is a good medicine. From her body sprang honeysuckle, which to this day is known among her people as the “blood of brave women.”
—Based on the version told by W. W. Canfield in 1902.
THE SIEGE OF COURTHOUSE ROCK
[WHITE RIVER SIOUX]
Nebraska is green and flat, a part of the vast corn belt. There are farms everywhere, and silos, and the land does not look like the West at all. But as you travel on toward the setting sun, you find three great, wild rocks which rise out of the plains. First you come to Chimney Rock, towering like a giant needle on the prairie. It was a famous landmark for the settlers in their covered wagons as they traveled west on the Oregon trail or took the more southerly route to the Colorado goldfields.
Then you come to the twins—Courthouse Rock and Jailhouse Rock. Formed of yellowish stone, they are covered with yucca plants and sagebrush. Mud swallows nest in the rock faces. If you climb one of the twins, there is a wonderful view of the plains all around. And westward beyond the plains rise the chalk cliffs and the sandhills of Nebraska, home of many western Sioux.
A long time ago a Sioux war party surprised a war party of Pahani near Courthouse Rock. We Sioux had been fighting many battles with the Pahani. The whites had pushed nations like ours, whose homeland was further east near the Great Lakes, westward into the prairie and the hunting grounds of other tribes. Maybe the Pahani were there before us; who knows? At any rate, now we were hunting the same herds in the same place, and naturally we fought.
I guess there must have been more of us than of the Pahani, and they retreated to the top of Courthouse Rock to save themselves. Three sides of Courthouse Rock go straight up and down like the sides of a skyscraper. No one can climb them. Only the fourth side had a path to the top, and it could be easily defended by a few brave men.
Thus the Pahani were on the top and the Sioux at the foot of Courthouse Rock. The Sioux chief told his warriors: “It’s no use trying to storm it. Only three or four men can go up that path abreast, so even women and children could defend it. But the Pahani have no water, and soon they’ll run out of food. They can stay up there and starve or die of thirst, or they can come and fight us on the plain. When they climb down, we can kill them and count many coups on them.” The Sioux settled down to wait at the foot of the rock.
On the summit, as the Sioux chief expected, the Pahani suffered from hunger and thirst. They grew weak. Though there was little hope for them, they had a brave leader who could use his head. He knew that three sides of the rock were unguarded but that one would have to be a bird to climb down them. On one of the three steep sides, however, there was a round bulge jutting out from the rock face. “If we could fasten a rope to it, we could let ourselves down,” he thought. But the outcropping was too smooth, round, and wide to hold a lasso.
Then the Pahani leader tried his knife on the rock bulge. He found that the stone was soft enough for the knife to bite easily into, and he began patiently whittling a groove around the bulge. He and his men worked only at night so that the Sioux wouldn’t see what they were up to. After two nights they had carved the groove deep enough. When they tied all their rawhide ropes together, they found that the line would reach to the ground.
On the third night the Pahani leader tied one end of the rope around the bulge in the rock. He himself tested it by climbing all the way down and then up again, which took most of the night.
On the next and fourth night, he told his men: “Now we do it. Let the youngest go first.” The Pahani climbed down one by one, the youngest and least accomplished first, so that a large group could belay them, and the older and more experienced warriors later. The leader came down last. The Sioux did not notice them at all, and the whole party stole away.
The Sioux stayed at the foot of the rock for many days. They themselves grew hungry, because they had hunted out all the game. At last a young, brave warrior said: “They must be all dead up there. I’m fed up with waiting; I’ll go up and see.” He climbed the path to the top and shouted down that nobody was up there.
That time the joke was on us Sioux. It’s always good to tell a story honoring a brave enemy, especially when the story is true. Are there any Pahani listening?
—Told by Jenny Leading Cloud at White River, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1967.
Recorded by Richard Erdoes.
CHIEF ROMAN NOSE
LOSES HIS MEDICINE
[WHITE RIVER SIOUX]
The Lakota and the Shahiyela—the Sioux and the Cheyenne—have been good friends for a long time. Often they have fought shoulder to shoulder. They fought the white soldiers on the Bozeman Road, which we Indians called the Thieves’ Road because it was built to steal our land. They fought together on the Rosebud River, and the two tribes united to defeat Custer in the big battle of the Little Bighorn. Even now in a barroom brawl, a Sioux will always come to the aid of a Cheyenne and vice versa. We Sioux will never forget what brave fighters the Cheyenne used to be.
Over a hundred years ago the Cheyenne had a famous war chief whom the whites called Roman Nose. He had the fierce, proud face of a hawk, and his deeds were legendary. He always rode into battle with a long warbonnet trailing behind him. It was thick with eagle feathers, and each stood for a brave deed, a coup counted on the enemy.
Roman Nose had a powerful war medicine, a magic stone he carried tied to his hair on the back of his head. Before a fight he sprinkled his war shirt with sacred gopher dust and painted his horse with hailstone patterns. All these things, especially the magic stone, made him bulletproof. Of course he could be slain by a lance, a knife, or a tomahawk, but not with a gun. And nobody ever got the better of Roman Nose in hand-to-hand combat.
There was one thing about Roman Nose’s medicine: he was not allowed to touch anything made of metal when eating. He had to use horn or wooden spoons and eat from wooden or earthenware bowls. His meat had to be cooked in a buffalo’s pouch or in a clay pot, not in a white man’s iron kettle.
One day Roman Nose received word of a battle going on between white soldiers and Cheyenne warriors. The fight had been swaying back and forth for over a day. “Come and help us; we need you” was the message. Roman Nose called his warriors together. They had a hasty meal, and Roman Nose forgot about the laws of his medicine. Using a metal spoon and a white man’s steel knife, he ate buffalo meat cooked in an iron kettle.
The white soldiers had made a fort on a sandspit island in the middle of a river. They were shooting from behind and they had a new type of rifle which was better and could shoot faster and farther than the Indians’ arrows and old muzzle-loaders.
The Cheyenne were hurling themselves against the soldiers in attack after attack, but the water in some spots came up to the saddles of their horses and the river bottom was slippery. They could not ride up quickly on the enemy, and they faced murderous fire. Their attacks were repulsed, their losses heavy.
Roman Nose prepared for the fight by putting on his finest clothes, war shirt, and leggings. He painted his best horse, with hailstone designs, and he tied the pebble which made him bulletproof into his hair at the back of his head. But an old warrior stepped up to him and said: “You have eaten from an iron kettle with a metal spoon and a steel knife. Your medicine is powerless; you must not fight today. Purify yourself for four days so that your medicine will be good again.”
“But the fight is today, not in four days,” said Roman Nose. “I must lead my warriors. I will die, but only the mountains and the rocks are forever.” He put on his great warbonnet, sang his death song, and then charged. As he rode up to the whites’ cottonwood breastwork, a bullet hit him in the chest. He fell from his horse; his bo
dy was immediately lifted by his warriors, and the Cheyenne retreated with their dead chief. To honor him in death, to give him a fitting burial, was more important than to continue the battle.
All night the soldiers in their fort could hear the Cheyennes’ mourning songs, the keening of the women. They too knew that the great chief Roman Nose was dead. He had died as he had lived. He had shown that sometimes it is more important to act like a chief than to live to a great old age.
—Told by Jenny Leading Cloud at White River, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1967.
Recorded by Richard Erdoes.
BRAVE WOMAN COUNTS COUP
[WHITE RIVER SIOUX]
Over a hundred years ago, when many Sioux were still living in what now is Minnesota, there was a band of Hunkpapa Sioux at Spirit Lake under a chief called Tawa Makoce, meaning His Country. It was his country, too—Indian country, until the white soldiers with their cannon finally drove the Lakota tribes across the Mni Shoshay: The Big Muddy, the Missouri.
In his youth the chief had been one of the greatest warriors. Later, when his fighting days were over, he was known as a wise leader, invaluable in council, and as a great giver of feasts, a provider for the poor. The chief had three sons and one daughter. The sons tried to be warriors as mighty as their father, but that was a hard thing to do. Again and again they battled the Crow Indians with reckless bravery, exposing themselves in the front rank, fighting hand to hand, until one by one they all were killed. Now only his daughter was left to the sad old chief. Some say her name was Makhta. Others call her Winyan Ohitika, Brave Woman.
The girl was beautiful and proud. Many young men sent their fathers to the old chief with gifts of fine horses that were preliminary to marriage proposals. Among those who desired her for a wife was a young warrior named Red Horn, himself the son of a chief, who sent his father again and again to ask for her hand. But Brave Woman would not marry. “I will not take a husband,” she said, “until I have counted coup on the Crows to avenge my dead brothers.” Another young man who loved Brave Woman was Wanblee Cikala, or Little Eagle. He was too shy to declare his love, because he was a poor boy who had never been able to distinguish himself.
At this time the Kangi Oyate, the Crow nation, made a great effort to establish themselves along the banks of the upper Missouri in country which the Sioux considered their own. The Sioux decided to send out a strong war party to chase them back, and among the young men riding out were Red Horn and Little Eagle. “I shall ride with you,” Brave Woman said. She put on her best dress of white buckskin richly decorated with beads and porcupine quills, and around her neck she wore a choicer of dentalium shells. She went to the old chief. “Father,” she said, “I must go to the place where my brothers died. I must count coup for them. Tell me that I can go.”
The old chief wept with pride and sorrow. “You are my last child,” he said, “and I fear for you and for a lonely old age without children to comfort me. But your mind has long been made up. I see that you must go; do it quickly. Wear my warbonnet into battle. Go and do not look back.”
And so his daughter, taking her brothers’ weapons and her father’s warbonnet and best war pony, rode out with the warriors. They found an enemy village so huge that it seemed to contain the whole Crow nation—hundreds of men and thousands of horses. There were many more Crows than Sioux, but the Sioux attacked nevertheless. Brave Woman was a sight to stir the warriors to great deeds. To Red Horn she gave her oldest brother’s lance and shield. “Count coup for my dead brother,” she said. To Little Eagle she gave her second brother’s bow and arrows. “Count coup for him who owned these,” she told him. To another young warrior she gave her youngest brother’s war club. She herself carried only her father’s old, curved coupstick wrapped in otter fur.
At first Brave Woman held back from the fight. She supported the Sioux by singing brave-heart songs and by making the shrill, trembling war cry with which Indian women encourage their men. But when the Sioux, including her own warriors from the Hunkpapa band, were driven back by overwhelming numbers, she rode into the midst of the battle. She did not try to kill her enemies, but counted coup left and right, touching them with her coupstick. With a woman fighting so bravely among them, what Sioux warrior could think of retreat?
Still, the press of the Crows and their horses drove the Sioux back a second time. Brave Woman’s horse was hit by a musket bullet and went down. She was on foot, defenseless, when Red Horn passed her on his speckled pony. She was too proud to call out for help, and he pretended not to see her. Then Little Eagle came riding toward her out of the dust of battle. He dismounted and told her to get on his horse. She did, expecting him to climb up behind her, but he would not. “This horse is wounded and too weak to carry us both,” he said.
“I won’t leave you to be killed,” she told him. He took her brother’s bow and struck the horse sharply with it across the rump. The horse bolted, as he intended, and Little Eagle went back into battle on foot. Brave Woman herself rallied the warriors for a final charge, which they made with such fury that the Crows had to give way at last.
This was the battle in which the Crow nation was driven away from the Missouri for good. It was a great victory, but many brave young men died. Among them was Little Eagle, struck down with his face to the enemy. The Sioux warriors broke Red Horn’s bow, took his eagle feathers from him, and sent him home. But they placed the body of Little Eagle on a high scaffold on the spot where the enemy camp had been. They killed his horse to serve him in the land of many lodges. “Go willingly,” they told the horse. “Your master has need of you in the spirit world.”
Brave Woman gashed her arms and legs with a sharp knife. She cut her hair short and tore her white buckskin dress. Thus she mourned for Little Eagle. They had not been man and wife; in fact he had hardly dared speak to her or look at her, but now she asked everybody to treat her as if she were the young warrior’s widow. Brave Woman never took a husband, and she never ceased to mourn for Little Eagle. “I am his widow,” she told everyone. She died of old age. She had done a great thing, and her fame endures.
—Told by Jenny Leading Cloud at White River, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1967.
Recorded by Richard Erdoes.
[WHITE RIVER SIOUX]
This story of two warriors, of jealousy, and of eagles was first told by the great Mapiya Luta—Chief Red Cloud of the Oglalas.
Many lifetimes ago there lived two brave warriors. One was named Wanblee Gleshka, Spotted Eagle. The other was Kangi Sapa, Black Crow. They were friends but, as it happened, were also in love with the same girl, Zintkala Luta Win—Red Bird. She was beautiful as well as accomplished in tanning and quillwork, and she liked Spotted Eagle best, which made Black Crow unhappy and jealous.
Black Crow went to his friend and said: “Let’s go on a war party against the Pahani. Well get ourselves some fine horses and earn eagle feathers.”
“Good idea,” said Spotted Eagle, and the two young men purified themselves in a sweat bath. They got out their war medicine and their shields, painted their faces, and did all that warriors should do before a raid. Then they rode out against the Pahani.
The raid did not go well. The Pahani were watchful, and the young warriors could not get near the herd. Not only did they fail to capture any ponies, they even lost their own mounts while they were trying to creep up to the enemy’s herd. Spotted Eagle and Black Crow had a hard time escaping on foot because the Pahani were searching for them everywhere. At one time the two had to hide underwater in a lake and breathe through long, hollow reeds which were sticking up above the surface. But at least they were clever at hiding, and the Pahani finally gave up the hunt.
Traveling on foot made the trip home a long one. Their moccasins were tattered, their feet bleeding. At last they came to a high cliff. “Let’s go up there,” said Black Crow, “and find out whether the enemy is following us.” Clambering up, they looked over the countryside and saw that no one was on the
ir trail. But on a ledge far below them they spied a nest with two young eagles in it. “Let’s get those eagles, at least,” Black Crow said. There was no way to climb down the sheer rock wall, but Black Crow took his rawhide lariat, made a loop in it, put the rope around Spotted Eagle’s chest, and lowered him.
When his friend was on the ledge with the nest, Black Crow said to himself: “I can leave him there to die. When I come home alone, Red Bird will marry me.” He threw his end of the rope down and went away without looking back or listening to Spotted Eagle’s cries.
At last it dawned on Spotted Eagle that his friend had betrayed him, that he had been left to die. The lariat was much too short to lower himself to the ground; an abyss of three hundred feet lay beneath him. He was alone with the two young eagles, who screeched angrily at the strange, two-legged creature that had invaded their home.
Black Crow returned to his village. “Spotted Eagle died a warrior’s death,” he told the people. “The Pahanis killed him.” There was loud wailing throughout the village, because everybody had liked Spotted Eagle. Red Bird slashed her arms with a sharp knife and cut her hair to make her sorrow plain to all. But in the end because life must go on, she became Black Crow’s wife.
Spotted Eagle, however, did not die on his lonely ledge. The eagles got used to him, and the old eagles brought plenty of food—rabbits, prairie dogs, and sage hens—which he shared with the two chicks. Maybe it was the eagle medicine in his bundle which he carried on his chest that made the eagles accept him. Still, he had a very hard time on that ledge. It was so narrow that he had to tie himself to a little rock sticking out of the cliff to keep from falling off in his sleep. In this way he spent some uncomfortable weeks; after all, he was a human being and not a bird to whom a crack in the rock face is home.
AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS Page 31
