"'It's different with Utes a lot,' says Dan, 'Which Utes regyards dogs fav'rable, deemin' 'em a mighty sucyoolent an' nootritious dish. The time I'm with the Utes they pulls off a shindig, "tea dance" it is, an', as what Huggins would call "a star feacher" they ups an' roasts a white dog. That canine is mighty plethoric an' fat, an' they lays him on his broad, he'pless back an' shets off his wind with a stick cross-wise of his neck, an' two bucks pressin' on the ends. When he's good an' dead an' all without no suffoosion of blood, the Utes singes his fur off in a fire an' bakes him as he is. I partakes of that dog--some. I don't nacherally lay for said repast wide-jawed, full-toothed an' reemorseless, like it's flapjacks--I don't gorge myse'f none; but when I'm in Rome, I strings my chips with the Romans like the good book says, an' so I sort o' eats baked dog with the Utes. Otherwise, I'd hurt their sens'bilities; an' I ain't out to harrow up no entire tribe an' me playin' a lone hand.'

"That agent questions Bill as to the war-dance carryin's on of old Black Dog. Then he p'ints at Bill's blankets an' feathers an' shakes his head a heap disapprobative.

"'Shuck them blankets an' feathers,' says the agent, 'an' get back into your trousers a whole lot; an' be sudden about it, too. I puts up with the divers an' sundry rannikabooisms of old an' case-hardened Injuns who's savage an' ontaught. But you're different; you've been to school an' learned the virchoos of pants; wherefore, I looks for you to set examples.'

"It's then Bill gets high an' allows he'll wear clothes to suit himse'f.

Bill denounces trousers as foolish in their construction an' fallacious in their plan. Bill declar's they're a bad scheme, trousers is; an' so sayin' he defies the agent to do his worst. Bill stands pat on blankets an' feathers.

"'Which you will, will you!' remarks this agent.

"Then he claps Bill in irons mighty decisive, an' plants him up ag'in the high face of a rock bluff which has been frownin' down on Bird River since Adam makes his first camp. Havin' got Bill posed to his notion, this earnest agent, puttin' a hammer into Bill's rebellious hand, starts him to breakin' rock.

"'Which the issue is pants,' says the obdurate agent sport; 'an' I'll keep you-all whackin' away at them boulders while the cliff lasts onless you yields. Thar's none of you young bucks goin' to bluff me, an' that's whatever!'

"Bill breaks rocks two days. The other Osages comes an' perches about, sympathetic, an' surveys Bill. They exhorts him to be firm; they gives it out in Osage he's a patriot.

"Bill's willin' to be a patriot as the game is commonly dealt, but when his love of country takes the form of poundin' rocks, the n.o.ble sentiments which yeretofore bubbles in Bill's breast commences to pall on Bill an' he becomes none too sh.o.r.e but what trousers is right. By second drink time--only savages don't drink, a paternal gov'ment barrin'

nosepaint on account of it makin' 'em too fitfully exyooberant--by second drink time the second evenin' Bill lays down his hand--pitches his hammer into the diskyard as it were--an' when I crosses up with him, Bill's that abject he wears a necktie. When Bill yields, the agent meets him half way, an' him an' Bill rigs a deal whereby Bill arrays himse'f Osage fashion whenever his hand's crowded by tribal customs. Other times, Bill inhabits trousers; an' blankets an' feathers is rooled out.

"Sh.o.r.e, I talks with Bill's father, old Crooked Claw. This yere savage is the ace-kyard of Osage-land as a fighter. No, that outfit ain't been on the warpath for twenty years when I sees 'em then it's with Boggs' old pards, the Utes. I asks Crooked Claw if he likes war. He tells me that he dotes on carnage like a jaybird, an' goes forth to battle as joobilant as a drunkard to a shootin' match. That is, Crooked Claw used to go curvin' off to war, joyful, at first. Later his glee is subdooed because of the big chances he's takin'. Then he lugs out 'leven skelps, all Ute, an' eloocidates.

"'This first maverick,' says Crooked Claw--of course, I gives him in the American tongue, not bein' equal to the reedic'lous broken Osage he talks--'this yere first maverick,' an' he strokes the braided ha'r of a old an' smoke-dried skelp, 'is easy. The chances, that a-way, is even.

Number two is twice as hard; an' when I snags onto number three--I downs that hold-up over by the foot of Fisher's Peak--the chances has done mounted to be three to one ag'in me. So it goes gettin' higher an'

higher, ontil when I corrals my 'leventh, it's 'leven to one he wins onless he's got killin's of his own to stand off mine. I don't reckon none he has though,' says Crooked Claw, curlin' his nose contemptuous.

'He's heap big squaw--a coward; an' would hide from me like a quail. He looks big an' brave an' strong, but his heart is bad--he is a poor knife in a good sheath. So I don't waste a bullet on him, seein' his fear, but kills him with my war-axe. Still, he raises the chances ag'inst me to twelve to one, an' after that I goes careful an' slow. I sends in my young men; but for myse'f I sort o' hungers about the suburbs of the racket, takin' no resks an' on the prowl for a cinch,--some sech pick-up as a sleeper, mebby. But my 'leventh is my last; the Great Father in Washin'ton gets tired with us an' he sends his walk-a-heaps an' buffalo soldiers'--these savages calls n.i.g.g.e.rs 'buffalo soldiers,' bein' they're that woolly--'an' makes us love peace. Which we'd a-had the Utes too dead to skin if it ain't for the walk-a-heaps an' buffalo soldiers.'

"An' at this Crooked Claw tosses the bunch of Ute top-knots to one of his squaws, fills up his red-stone pipe with kinnikinick an' begins to smoke, lookin' as complacent as a catfish doorin' a Joone rise.

"Bill Connors has now been wanderin' through this vale of tears for mebby she's twenty odd years, an' accordin' to Osage tenets, Bill's doo to get wedded. No, Bill don't make no move; he comports himse'f lethargic; the reesponsibilities of the nuptials devolves on Bill's fam'ly.

"It's one of the excellentest things about a Injun that he don't pick out no wife personal, deemin' himse'f as too locoed to beat so difficult a game.

"Or mebby, as I observes to Texas Thompson one time in the Red Light when him an' me's discussin', or mebby it's because he's that callous he don't care, or that shiftless he won't take trouble.

"'Whatever's the reason,' says Texas, on that o'casion, heavin' a sigh, 'thar's much to be said in praise of the custom. If it only obtains among the whites thar's one sport not onknown to me who would have sh.o.r.e pa.s.sed up some heartaches. You can bet a hoss, no fam'ly of mine would pick out the lady who beats me for that divorce back in Laredo to be the spouse of Texas Thompson. Said household's got too much savey to make sech a break.'

"While a Osage don't select that squaw of his, still I allers entertains a theery that he sort o' saveys what he's ag'inst an' no he'pmeet gets sawed off on him objectionable an' blind. I figgers, for all he don't let on, that sech is the sityooation in the marital adventures of Bill.

His fam'ly picks the Saucy Willow out; but it's mighty likely he signs up the lady to some discreet member of his outfit before ever they goes in to make the play.

"Saucy Willow for a savage is pretty--pretty as a pinto hoss. Her parent, old Strike Axe, is a morose but common form of Osage, strong financial, with a big bunch of cattle an' more'n two hundred ponies.

Bill gets his first glimpse, after he comes back from school, of the lovely Saucy Willow at a dance. This ain't no war-dance nor any other ceremonious splurge; it's a informal merrymakin', innocent an' free, same as is usual with us at the Wolfville dance hall. Sh.o.r.e, Osages, lacks guitars an' fiddles, an' thar's no barkeep nor nosepaint--none, in trooth, of the fav'rable adjuncts wherewith we makes a evenin' in Hamilton's hurdygurdy a season of social elevation, an' yet they pulls off their fandangoes with a heap of verve, an' I've no doubt they sh.o.r.e enjoys themse'fs.

"For two hours before sundown the kettle-tenders is howlin' an' callin'

the dance throughout the Osage camp. Thar's to be a full moon, an' the dance--the _Ingraska_ it is; a dance the Osages buys from the Poncas for eight ponies--is to come off in a big, high-board corral called the 'Round House.'

"Followin' the first yell of the kettle-tenders, the young bucks begins to paint up for the hilarity. You might see 'em all over camp, for it's August weather an' the walls of the tents an' teepees is looped up to let in the cool, daubin' the ocher on their faces an' braidin' the feathers into their ha'r. This organisin' for a _baile_ ain't no bagatelle, an'

two hours is the least wherein any se'f-respectin' buck who's out to make a centre shot on the admiration of the squaws an' wake the envy of rival bucks, can lay on the pigments, so he paints away at his face, careful an' acc'rate, sizin' up results meanwhile in a jimcrow lookin' gla.s.s. At last he's as radiant as a rainbow, an' after garterin' each laig with a belt of sleigh-bells jest below the knee, he regyards himse'f with a fav'rable eye an' allows he's ondoubted the wildest wag in his set.

"Each buck arrives at the Round House with his blanket wropped over his head so as not to blind the onwary with his splendours. It's mebby second drink time after sundown an' the full moon is swingin' above effulgent. The bucks who's doo to dance sets about one side of the Round House on a board bench; the squaws--not bein' in on the proposed activities--occupies the other half, squattin' on the ground. Some of 'em packs their papooses tied on to a fancy-ribboned, highly beaded board, an' this they makes a cradle of by restin' one end on the ground an' the other on their toe, rockin' the same meanwhile with a motion of the foot. Thar's a half hoop over the head-end of these papoose boards, hung with bells for the papoose to get infantile action on an' amoose his leesure.

"The bucks settin' about their side of the Round House, still wrops themse'fs in their blankets so as not to dazzle the squaws to death preematoor. At last the music peals forth. The music confines itse'f to a ba.s.s drum--paleface drum it is--which is staked out hor'zontal about a foot high from the gra.s.s over in the centre. The orchestra is a decrepit buck with a rag-wropped stick; with this weepon he beats the drum, chantin' at the same time a pensive refrain.

"Mebby a half-dozen squaws, with no papooses yet to distract 'em, camps 'round this virchuoso with the rag-stick, an' yoonites their girlish howls with his. You-all can put down a bet it don't remind you none of nightingales or mockin' birds; but the Injuns likes it. Which their simple sperits wallows in said warblin's! But to my notion they're more calc'lated to loco a henhawk than furnish inspiration for a dance.

"'Tunk! tunk! tunk! tunk!' goes this rag-stick buck, while the squaws chorus along with, 'Hy-yah! hy-yah! hy-yah-yah-yah! Hy-yah! hy-yah!

hy-yah-yah-yah!' an' all grievous, an' make no mistake!

"At the first 'tunk!' the bucks stiffen to their feet and cast off the blankets. Feathers, paint, an' bells! they blaze an' tinkle in the moonlight with a subdooed but savage elegance. They skates out onto the gra.s.s, stilt-laig, an' each buck for himse'f. They go skootin' about, an' weave an' turn an' twist like these yere water-bugs jiggin' it on the surface of some pond. Sometimes a buck'll lay his nose along the ground while he dances--sleigh bells jinglin', feathers tossin'! Then he'll straighten up ontil he looks like he's eight foot tall; an' they sh.o.r.e throws themse'fs with a heap of heart an' sperit.

"It's as well they does. If you looks clost you observes a brace of bucks, and each packin' a black-snake whip. Them's kettle-tenders,--floor managin' the _baile_ they be; an' if a buck who's dancin' gets preeoccupied with thinkin' of something else an' takes to prancin' an' dancin' listless, the way the kettle-tenders pours the leather into him to remind him his fits of abstraction is bad form, is like a religious ceremony. An' it ain't no bad idee; said kettle-tenders sh.o.r.e promotes what Colonel Sterett calls the _elan_ of the dancin' bucks no end.

"After your eyes gets used to this whirlin' an' skatin' an' skootin' an'

weavin' in an' out, you notes two bucks, painted to a finish an'

feathered to the stars! who out-skoots an' out-whirls an' out-skates their fellow bucks like four to one. They gets their nose a little lower one time an' then stands higher in the air another, than is possible to the next best buck. Them enthoosiasts ain't Osages at all; which they're n.i.g.g.e.rs--full-blood Senegambians they be, who's done j'ined the tribe.

These Round House festivals with the paint, the feathers, an' the bells, fills their trop'cal hearts plumb full, an' forgettin' all about the white folks an' their gyarded ways, they're the biggest Injuns to warm a heel that night.

"Saucy Willow is up by the damaged rag-stick buck lendin' a mouthful or two of cl'ar, bell-like alto yelps to the harmony of the evenin'. Bill who's a wonder in feathers an' bells, an' whose colour-scheme would drive a temp'rance lecturer to drink, while zippin' about in the moonlight gets his eye on her. Mighty likely Bill's smitten; but he don't let on, the fam'ly like I relates, allers ropin' up a gent's bride. It's good bettin' this yere Saucy Willow counts up Bill. If she does, however,--no more than Bill,--she never tips her hand. The Saucy Willow yelps on onconcerned, like her only dream of bliss is to show the coyotes what vocal failures they be.

"It's a week after the _Ingraska_, an' Bill's fam'ly holds a round-up to pick Bill out a squaw. He ain't present, havin' the savey to go squanderin' off to play Injun poker with some Creek sports he hears has money over on the Polecat. Bill's fam'ly makes quite a herd, bucks an'

squaws b.u.t.tin' in on the discussion permiscus an' indiscrim'nate. Sh.o.r.e!

the squaws has as much to say as the bucks among Injuns. They owns their own ponies an' backs their own play an' is as big a Injun as anybody, allowin' for that nacheral difference between squaw dooties an' buck dooties--one keeps camp while the other hunts, or doorin' war times when one protects the herds an' plunder while the other faces the foe. You hears that squaws is slaves? However is anybody goin' to be a slave where thar's as near nothin' to do in the way of work as is possible an'

let a hooman live? Son, thar ain't as much hard labour done in a Injun camp in a week--ain't as much to do as gets transacted at one of them rooral oyster suppers to raise money for the preacher!

"Bill's fam'ly comes trailin' in to this powwow about pickin' out a squaw for Bill. Besides Crooked Claw, thar's Bill's widow aunt, the Wild Cat--she's plumb cunnin', the Wild Cat is, an' jest then bein' cel'brated among the Osages for smokin' ponies with Black B'ar, a old buck, an'

smokin' Black B'ar out of his two best cayouses. Besides these two, thar's The-man-who-bleeds, The-man-who-sleeps, Tom Six-killer, The-man-who-steps-high, an' a dozen other squaws an' bucks, incloosive of Bill's mother who's called the Silent Comanche, an' is takin' the play a heap steady an' livin' up to her name.

"The folks sets 'round an' smokes Crooked Claw's kinnikinick. Then the Wild Cat starts in to deal the game. She says it's time Bill's married, as a onmarried buck is a menace; at this the others grunts agreement.

Then they all turns in to overhaul the el'gible young squaws. Which they sh.o.r.e shows up them belles! One after the other they're drug over the coals. At last the Wild Cat mentions the Saucy Willow jest as every savage present knows will be done soon or late from the jump. The Saucy Willow obtains a speshul an' onusual run for her money. But it's settled final that while the Saucy Willow ain't none too good, she's the best they can do. The Saucy Willow belongs to the Elk clan, while Bill belongs to the B'ar clan, an' that at least is c'rrect. Injuns don't believe in inbreedin' so they allers marries out of their clan.

"As soon as they settles on the Saucy Willow as Bill's squaw, they turns in to make up the 'price.' The Wild Cat, who's rich, donates a kettle, a side of beef, an' the two cayouses she smokes outen the besotted Black B'ar. The rest chucks in accordin' to their means, Crooked Claw comin'

up strong with ten ponies; an' Bill's mother, the Silent Comanche, showin' down with a bolt of calico, two buffalo robes, a sack of flour an' a lookin' gla.s.s. This plunder is to go to the Saucy Willow's folks as a 'price' for the squaw. No, they don't win on the play; the Saucy Willow's parents is out _dinero_ on the nuptials when all is done. They has to give Bill their wickeyup.

"When Bill's outfit's fully ready to deal for blood they picks out some bright afternoon. The Saucy Willow's fam'ly is goin' about lookin'

partic'lar harmless an' innocent; but they're c.o.o.ny enough to be in camp that day. A procession starts from the Crooked Claw camp. Thar's The-man-who-steps-high at the head b'arin' a flag, union down, an'

riotin' along behind is Tom Six-killer, The-man-who-sleeps, the Wild Cat and others leadin' five ponies an' packin' kettles, flour, beef, an'

sim'lar pillage. They lays it all down an' stakes out the broncos about fifty yards from Strike Axe's camp an' withdraws.

"Then some old squaw of the Strike Axe outfit issues forth an' throws the broncos loose. That's to show that the Saucy Willow is a onusual excellent young squaw an' pop'lar with her folks, an' they don't aim to shake her social standin' by acceptin' sech n.i.g.g.ard terms.

"But the Crooked Claw outfit ain't dismayed, an' takes this rebuff phlegmatic. It's only so much ettyquette; an' now it's disposed of they reorganise to lead ag'in to win. This time they goes the limit, an'

brings up fifteen ponies an' stacks in besides with blankets, robes, beef, flour, calico, kettles, skillets, and looking-gla.s.ses enough to fill eight waggons. This trip the old Strike Axe squaw onties the fifteen ponies an' takin' 'em by their ropes brings 'em in clost to the Strike Axe camp, tharby notifyin' the Crooked Claw band that their bluff for the Saucy Willow is regyarded as feasible an' the nuptials goes.

With this sign, the Crooked Claws comes caperin' up to the Strike Axes an' the latter fam'ly proceeds to rustle a profoosion of grub; an' with that they all turns in an' eats old Strike Axe outen house an' home. The 'price' is split up among the Strike Axe bunch, shares goin' even to second an' third cousins.

"Mebby she's a week later when dawns the weddin' day. Bill, who's been lookin' a heap numb ever since these rites becomes acoote, goes projectin' off alone onto the prairie. The Saucy Willow is hid in the deepest corner of Strike Axe's teepee; which if she's visible, however, you'd be sh.o.r.e amazed at the foolish expression she wears, but all as shy an' artless as a yearlin' antelope.

"But it grows time to wind it up, an' one of the Strike Axe bucks climbs into the saddle an' rides half way towards the camp of Crooked Claw.

Strike Axe an' Crooked Claw in antic'pation of these entanglements has done pitched their camps about half a mile apart so as to give the pageant spread an' distances. When he's half way, the Strike Axe buck fronts up an' slams loose with his Winchester; it's a signal the _baile_ is on.