The Otoes, once occupying the region at the mouth of the Platte, were a very brave and interesting tribe. When first known to the whites, in the early part of the century, the chief of the nation was I-e-tan, a man of great courage, excellent judgment, and crafty, as are always the most intelligent of the North American savages. His leading attributes were penetration of character, close observation of everything that occurred, and a determination to carry out his ideas, which were remarkable in their development. An old regular army officer, long since dead, who knew I-e-tan well and spoke his language, said that he had known him to form estimates of men, judicious, if not accurate, from half an hour's acquaintance, and without understanding a word that was spoken. But beneath his calm exterior there burned a lava of impetuous passions, which, when strongly moved, burst forth with a fierce and blind violence.

I-e-tan had the advantage of a fine and commanding figure, so remarkable, indeed, that once at a dinner, on a public occasion, at Jefferson Barracks, his health was drunk, with a complimentary allusion to the lines from Shakespeare:

A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man.

In a deep carousal which took place one night in the village, in 1822, his brother, a fine fellow, named Blue-eyes (that colour being rare[42] among the Indians), had the misfortune to bite off a small piece of I-e-tan's nose. So soon as he became sensible of this irreparable injury, to which, as an Indian, he was, perhaps, even more sensitive than a white man, I-e-tan burned with a mortal resentment. He retired, telling his brother that he would kill him. He got a rifle, returned, and deliberately shot him through the heart. He had found Blue-eyes leaning with folded arms against a pillar of his lodge, and thus, with a heroic stoicism, which has been rightly attributed as a characteristic of the race, without a murmur, or the quiver of a muscle, he submitted to his cruel fate.

Then was I-e-tan seized with a violent remorse, and exhibited the redeeming traits of repentance and inconsolable grief, and of greatness, in the very constancy of the absorbing sentiment. He retired from all intercourse with his race, abstaining wholly from drink, for which he had a propensity, and, as if under a vow, he went naked for nearly two years. He also meditated suicide, and was probably only prevented from committing it by the influence of a white friend. He sought honourable death in desperate encounters with all the enemies he could find, and in this period acquired his name, or title, from a very destructive attack he made upon a party of another tribe. He lived a year or two with the Pawnees, acquiring perfectly their difficult language, and attaining a great influence over them, which he never lost. After several years of such penance, I-e-tan revisited the villages of his nation, and, in 1830, on the death of La Criniere, his elder brother, succeeded him as principal chief.

I-e-tan married many of the finest girls of his own and neighbouring tribes, but never had any children. Latterly one of his wives presented him with a male child, which was born with teeth. I-e-tan pronounced it a special interposition of the Great Spirit, of which this extraordinary sign was proof.

I-e-tan was the last chief who could so far resist the ruinous influence of the increasing communication of his tribe with the villanous, the worse than barbarous, whites of the extreme frontier as to keep the young men under a tolerable control, but his death proved a signal for license and disorder.

Intemperance was the great fault in I-e-tan's character, and the cause of his greatest misfortune and crime. It led to his violent death. The circumstances of this tragedy are worthy of record, if only that they develop some strong traits of aboriginal character. They are as follows: In April, 1837, accompanied by his two youngest wives, at a trading-house at the mouth of the Platte, he indulged in one of his most violent fits of drunkenness, and in this condition, on a dark and inclement night, drove his wives out of doors. Two men of his tribe, who witnessed these circumstances, persuaded the women to fly in their company. One of these men had formerly been dangerously stabbed by I-e-tan. Actuated by hatred, calculating the chief's power was on the decline, and depending on the strength of their connections, which were influential, the seducers became tired of living out in hunting-camps and elsewhere, and determined to return to the village and face it out. Such cases of elopement are not very frequent; but after a much longer absence the parties generally become silently reconciled, if necessary, through the arrangement of friends. I-e-tan said, however, that it was not only a personal insult and injury, but an evidence of defiance of his power, and that he would live or die the chief of the Otoes. His enemies had prepared their friends for resistance, and I-e-tan armed himself for the conflict. He sought and found the young men in the skirts of the village, near some trees where their supporters were concealed. I-e-tan addressed the man whom he had formerly wounded: “Stand aside! I do not wish to kill you; I have perhaps injured you enough.” The fellow immediately fled. He then fired upon the other, and missed him. As the white man was about to return the fire, he was shot down by a nephew of I-e-tan's from a great distance. I-e-tan then drew a pistol, jumped astride his fallen enemy, and was about to blow out his brains, when the interpreter, Dorian, hoping even then to stop bloodshed, struck up his pistol, which was discharged in the air, and seized him around the body and arms. At this instant the wounded man, writhing in the agony of death, discharged his rifle at random. The ball shattered Dorian's arm and broke both of I-e-tan's, but the latter, being then unloosened, sprang and stamped upon the body, and called upon his sister, an old woman, to beat out his brains. This she did with an axe, with which she had come running with his friends and nephews from the village. At this instant—Dorian being out of the way—a volley was fired at I-e-tan, and five balls penetrated his body. Then his nephews, coming too late to his support, took swift vengeance. They fired at his now flying enemies, and, although they were in motion, nearly two hundred yards distant, three of them fell dead.

I-e-tan was conveyed to his lodge in the village, where being surrounded by many relations and friends, he deplored the condition of the nation, and warned them against the dangers to which it was exposed. He assured them most positively that if he willed it, he could continue to live, but that many of the Otoes had become such dogs that he was weary of governing them, and that his arms being broken, he could no longer be a great warrior. He gave some messages for his friend, the agent, who was expected at the village, and then turning to a bystander, told him he had heard that day that he had a bottle of whiskey, and ordered him to bring it. This being done, he caused it to be poured down his throat, and when drunk he sang his death song and died.

The Pawnees were the next considerable tribe on the Salt Lake Trail, west of the Otoes. The Pawnee territory, as late as sixty years ago, extended from the Niobrara, south to the Arkansas. This territory embraced a large portion of what is now Kansas and Nebraska, but it must not be supposed for a moment that they held undisputed possession of this territory. On their north a constant war was waged against them by the Dakotas, or Sioux, while on the south every tribe, comprising the Osages, the Comanches, the Arapahoes, and the Kiowas, were equally relentless in their hostility. In fact, as far back as their history and traditions date, the Pawnees were constantly on the defensive against the almost numberless hereditary enemies by which they were surrounded. No greater proof of their prowess is needed than the statement that during all the years of their continual warfare, they held possession of their vast and phenomenally rich hunting-grounds. In 1833, by treaty they surrendered to the United States all of their territory south of the Platte River. In 1858 they gave up their remaining territory, excepting a strip thirty miles long and fifteen miles wide upon the Loup Fork of the Platte. In 1874 they sold this last of their original possessions to the United States and were placed upon a Reservation in the Indian Territory.

In the traditions of the several bands it is related that the Pawnees originally came from the south.

The tribal mark of the Pawnee is a scalp-lock, nearly erect, having the appearance of a horn. In order to keep it in its upright position, it was filled with vermilion or some other pigment. It is claimed by those who have made a special study of this tribe that the name Pawnee is derived from pa-rik-i, a horn.

Lewis and Clarke found them above the mouth of the Cheyenne River. Both these early explorers state in their Itinerary that the Pawnee women were very handsome. At that date they were very friendly toward the United States, and remained so for a great many years. Seventeen or eighteen years afterward they became fearfully hostile. This remarkable change in their attitude toward the government has been attributed to the action of the Northwestern Fur Company, which spared no efforts to divert the trade of the Pawnee region from the Missouri Fur Company. Their first outbreak was in 1823, when they made a raid upon some boats of the last-mentioned company, killing and wounding a number of their men. In consequence of this overt act, an expedition under Colonel Leavenworth, in conjunction with six hundred friendly Dakotas, was organized at Council Bluffs, and sent against them. In August of that same year a treaty of peace was made with them, but nine years afterward Catlin found them so hostile that it was dangerous to attempt any intercourse with them.[43]

All of the early French writers have much to say of the Pawnees, but there is not space in this book to quote the many interesting facts contained in their writings. Their number in the early years of the century, according to various authors, differs materially, one enumerating them as high as twenty-five thousand, another as low as six thousand. In 1838 the tribe suffered terribly from smallpox, which it is alleged was communicated to it by Dakota women they had taken as prisoners. The mortality among the grown persons was not very great, but that of the children was enormous. In 1879, according to the official census of the Indian Bureau, the tribe had been reduced to one thousand four hundred and forty.

One eminent author, Mr. John B. Dunbar, very correctly says: The causes of this continual decrease are several. The most constantly acting influence has been the deadly warfare with surrounding tribes. Probably not a year in this century has been without losses from this source, though only occasionally have they been marked with considerable disasters. In 1832 the Ski-di band suffered a severe defeat on the Arkansas from the Comanches. In 1847 a Dakota war-party, numbering over seven hundred, attacked a village occupied by two hundred and sixteen Pawnees, and succeeded in killing eighty-three. In 1854 a party of one hundred and thirteen were cut off by an overwhelming body of Cheyennes and Kiowas, and killed almost to a man. In 1873 a hunting party of about four hundred, two hundred and thirteen of whom were men, on the Republican, while in the act of killing a herd of buffalo, were attacked by nearly six hundred Dakota warriors, and eighty-six were killed. But the usual policy of their enemies has been to cut off individuals, or small scattered parties, while engaged in the chase or in tilling isolated corn patches. Losses of this kind, trifling when taken singly, have in the aggregate borne heavily on the tribe. It would seem that such losses, annually recurring, should have taught them to be more on their guard. But let it be remembered that the struggle has not been in one direction, against one enemy. The Dakotas, Crows, Kiowas, Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Comanches, Osages, and Kansans have faithfully aided each other, though undesignedly in the main, in this crusade of extermination against the Pawnees. It has been, in the most emphatic sense, a struggle of the one against the many. With the possible exception of the Dakotas, there is much reason to believe that the animosity of these tribes has been acerbated by the galling tradition of disastrous defeats which Pawnee prowess had inflicted upon themselves in past generations. To them the last seventy years have been a carnival of revenge.

The Pawnees once were a great people. They had everything that heart could wish. Their corn and buffalo gave them food, clothing, and shelter. They were very light-hearted and contented when at peace; in war they were cunning, fierce, and generally successful. Their very name was a terror to their enemies.

When the Pawnees of the Platte were sorely afflicted with smallpox, and when they were visited by their agent, he depicts in his report the most horrible scenes. The poor wretches were utterly ignorant of any remedy or alleviation. Some sank themselves to the mouth in the river, and awaited death which was thus hastened. The living could not always protect the dying and dead from the wolves. Their chief, Capote Bleu, once exclaimed to an American officer: “Oh my father, how many glorious battles we might have fought, and not lost so many men!”

The Pawnees were probably the most degraded, in point of morals, of all the Western tribes; they were held in such contempt by the other tribes that none would make treaties with them. They were populous at one time, and were the most inveterate enemies of the whites, killing them wherever they met.

The Pawnees in reality comprised five bands, which constituted the entire nation: The Grand Pawnee Band; the Republican Pawnee Band; Pawnee Loups, or Wolf Pawnees; Pawnee Picts, or Tattooed Pawnees; and Black Pawnees. Each land was independent and under its own chief, but for mutual defence, or in other cases of urgent necessity, they united in one body, and in the early days on the plains could raise from thirty to forty thousand warriors.

They were, perhaps, the most cruel of all Indian nations. They evinced a demoniacal delight in inflicting the most exquisite tortures upon their captives. They were impure, both in their ordinary conversation and in their daily conduct. Still, they had some redeeming qualities. The recognition of the claims of their relations might be emulated by our higher civilization; so impressed upon their natures was the duty to those who were related to them, that their language contains a proverb: “Ca-si-ri pi-rus, he wi-ti ti-ruk-ta-pi-di-hu-ru—Why, even the worms, they love each other—much more should men.” They were also very hospitable, very sociable, and fond of telling stories. They really had a literature of stories and songs, which, if they could be gathered in their entirety, would make a large volume.

One form of sacrifice formerly practised in the tribe, or rather in one band—for the other bands emphatically disclaimed any share in the barbarous rite—stood apart in unhappy prominence. This was the offering of human sacrifices (their captives); not burning them as an expression of embittered revenge, but sacrificing them as a religious ordinance. What the origin of this terrible practice was the Pawnees could never definitely explain. The rite was of long standing evidently. The sacrifice was made to the morning star, “O-pir-i-kut,” which, with the Ski-di, especially, was an object of superstitious veneration. It was always about corn-planting time, and the design of the bloody ordeal was to conciliate that being and secure a good crop; hence it has been supposed that the morning star was regarded by them as presiding over agriculture, but it was not so. They sacrificed to that star simply because they feared it, imagining that it exerted a malign influence if not well disposed. The sacrifice, however, was not an annual one; it was only made when special occurrences were interpreted as calling for it. The victim was usually a girl, or young woman, taken from their enemies. The more beautiful the unfortunate was, the more acceptable the offering. When it had been determined in a council of the band to make the sacrifice, the person was selected, if possible, some months beforehand, and placed in charge of the medicine-men, who treated her with the utmost kindness. She was fed plentifully that she might become fleshy, and kept in entire ignorance of her impending doom. During this time she was made to eat alone, lest having by chance eaten with any one of the band, she would by the law of hospitality become that person's guest, and he be bound to protect her. On the morning of the day finally fixed for the ordeal, she was led from lodge to lodge throughout the village, begging wood and paint, not knowing that these articles were for her own immolation. Whenever a stick of wood or portion of red or black paint was given her, it was taken by the medicine-men attending, and sent to the spot selected for the final rite. A sufficient quantity of these materials having been collected, the ceremony was begun by a solemn conclave of all the medicine-men. Smoking the great medicine pipe, displaying the contents of the medicine bundle, dancing, praying, etc., were repeated at different stages of the proceedings. A framework of two posts, about four and a half feet apart, was set in the ground, and to them two horizontal crosspieces, at a height of two and seven feet, were firmly fastened. Between the posts a slow fire was built. At nightfall the victim was disrobed and the torture began. After the sickening sight had continued long enough, an old man, previously appointed, discharged an arrow at the heart of the unfortunate, and freed her from further torture. The medicine-men forthwith cut open the chest, took out the heart, and burned it. The smoke rising from the fire in which it was burning was supposed to possess wonderful virtues, and implements of war, hunting, and agriculture were passed through it to insure success in their use. The flesh was hacked from the body, buried in the corn patches, thrown to the dogs, or disposed of in any way that caprice might direct. The skeleton was allowed to remain in position till, loosened by decay, it fell to the ground.[44]

The last time this sacrifice was made, according to official reports,
was sixty years ago (April, 1838). Dunbar relates this last reported
sacrifice as follows:
The winter previous to the date given, the Ski-di, soon after
starting on their hunt, had a successful fight with a band of
Ogallalla Sioux, killed several men and took over twenty
children. Fearing that the Sioux, according to their tactics,
would retaliate by coming upon them in overwhelming force,
they returned for safety to their village before taking
a sufficient number of buffalo. With little to eat, they
lived miserably, lost many of their ponies from scarcity of
forage, and, worst of all, one of the captives proved to have
the smallpox, which rapidly spread through the band, and in
the spring was communicated to the rest of the tribe.
All these accumulated misfortunes the Ski-di attributed to
the anger of the morning star, and accordingly they resolved
to propitiate its favour by a repetition of the sacrifice,
though in direct violation of a stipulation made two years
before that the sacrifice should not occur again.

In connection with its abolition, the oft-told story of Pit-a-le-shar-u is recalled. Sa-re-cer-ish, second chief of the Cau-i band, was a man of unusually humane disposition, and had strenuously endeavoured to secure the suppression of the practice. In the spring of 1817 the Ski-di arranged to sacrifice a Comanche girl. After Sa-re-cer-ish had essayed in vain to dissuade them, Pit-a-le-shar-u, a young man about twenty years of age, of almost giant stature, and already famed as a great brave, conceived the bold design of rescuing her. On the day set for the rite he actually cut the girl loose, after she had been tied to the stakes, placed her upon a horse that he had in readiness, and hurried her away across the prairies till they were come within a day's journey of her people's village. There, after giving necessary directions as to her course, he dismissed her, himself returning to the Pawnees. The suddenness and intrepidity of his movements, and his known prowess, were no doubt all that saved him from death at the moment of the rescue and after his return. Twice afterward he presumed to interfere. In one instance, soon after the foregoing, he assisted in securing by purchase the ransom of a Spanish boy, who had been set apart for sacrifice. Several years later, about 1831, he aided in the attempted rescue of a girl. The resistance on this occasion was so determined that even after the girl had been bought and was mounted upon a horse behind Major Daugherty, at that time general agent, to be taken from the Ski-di village, she was shot by one of the medicine-men. The magnanimous conduct of Sa-re-cer-ish and Pit-a-le-shar-u in this matter stands almost unexampled in Indian annals.

The Pawnees were essentially a religious people, if one may be allowed to use the term in connection with a tribe whose morals were at such a low ebb. They worshipped Ti-ra-wa, who is in and of everything. Differing from many tribes, who adore material things, the Pawnees simply regarded certain localities as sacred—they became so only because they were blessed by the Divine presence. Ti-ra-wa was not personified; he was as intangible as the God of the Christian. The sacred nature of the Pawnee deity extended to all animal nature —the fish that swim in the rivers, the birds that fly in the air, and all the beasts which roam over the prairie were believed by the Pawnee to possess intelligence, knowledge, and power far beyond that of man. They were not, however, considered as gods; their miraculous attributes were given to them by their ruler, whose servants they were, and who often made them the medium of his communications to man. They were his messengers, his angels, and their powers were always used for good. Prayers were made to them in time of need, but rather pleading for their intercession with Ti-ra-wa than directly to them. All important undertakings were preceded by a prayer for help, and success in their undertakings was acknowledged by grateful offerings to the ruler. The victorious warrior frequently sacrificed the scalp torn from the head of his enemy, which was burned with much elaborate mummery by the medicine-men, and he who brought back from a raid many horses always gave one to the chief medicine-man as a thank-offering to Ti-ra-wa.

The Pawnees entertained feelings of reverence and humility only toward their god; they really did not love him, but looked to him for help at all times. The young braves were particularly exhorted to humble themselves before Ti-ra-wa, to pray to him, and to look to One Above, to ask help from him.

During Monroe's administration, a very influential and physically powerful Indian named Two Axe, chief counsellor of the Pawnee Loups, went to pay a visit to the “Great Father,” the President of the United States. Two Axe was over six feet high and well proportioned, of athletic build, and as straight as an arrow. He had been delegated to go to Washington by his tribe to make a treaty with the government.

Having been introduced to the President, the latter made known to him, through the interpreter, the substance of a proposal. The keen-witted Indian, perceiving that the treaty taught “all Turkey” to the white man, and “all Crow” to his tribe, sat patiently during the reading of the document. When it was finished, he rose with all his native dignity, and in a vein of true Indian eloquence, in which he was unsurpassed, declared that the treaty had been conceived in injustice and born in duplicity; that many treaties had been signed by Indians of their “Great Father's” concoction, wherein they had bartered away the graves of their ancestors for a few worthless trinkets, and afterward their hearts cried out for their folly; that such Indians were fools and women. He expressed very freely his opinion of the President and the whites generally, and concluded by declaring that he would sign no paper which would ever cause his own breast or those of his people to sorrow.

Accordingly, Two Axe broke up the council abruptly, and returned to his home without making any treaty with his “Great Father” at all.

The folk-lore stories and songs of the Pawnees are full of pathos, humour, and thrilling incidents. The legend of the Dun Horse is comparable in its enchantment to the stories of Aladdin and his wonderful lamp.

Many years ago there lived in the Pawnee tribe an old woman and her grandson, a boy about sixteen years old. These people had no relations, and were very poor. Indeed, they were so miserably poor that they were despised by the rest of the tribe. They had nothing of their own, and always, after the village started to move the camp from one place to another, these two would stay behind the rest, to look over the old ground and pick up anything that the other Indians had thrown away as worn out or useless. In this way they would sometimes get pieces of robes, worn-out moccasins with holes in them, and bits of meat.

Now it happened one day, after the tribe had moved away from the camp, that this old woman and her boy were following along the trail behind the rest, when they came to a miserable, old, worn-out horse, which they supposed had been abandoned by some Indians. He was thin and exhausted, was blind of one eye, had a sore back, and one of his fore legs was very much swollen. In fact, he was so worthless that none of the Pawnees had been willing to take the trouble to try to drive him along with them. But when the old woman and her boy came along, the boy said: “Come now, we will take this old horse, for we can make him carry our pack.” So the old woman put her pack on the horse and drove him along, but he limped and could only go very slowly.

The tribe moved up on the North Platte, until they came to Court-house Rock. The two poor Indians followed them, and camped with the others. One day while they were here, the young men who had been sent out for buffalo came hurrying into camp and told the chiefs that a large herd of buffalo were near, and that among them was a spotted calf.

The head chief of the Pawnees had a very beautiful daughter, and when he heard about the spotted calf, he ordered his old crier to go about through the village, and call out that the man who should kill the spotted calf should have his daughter for wife. For a spotted robe is “Ti-war-uks-ti” (Big Medicine).

The buffalo were feeding about four miles from the village, and the chiefs decided that the charge should be made from there. In this way the man who had the fastest horse would be the most likely to kill the calf. Then all the warriors and men picked out their best and fastest horses, and made ready to start. Among those who prepared for the charge was the poor boy, on the old dun horse. But when they saw him, all the rich young braves on their fast horses pointed at him and said: “Oh, see; there is the horse that is going to catch the spotted calf”; and they laughed at him so that the poor boy was ashamed, and rode off to one side of the crowd, where he could not hear their jokes and laughter.

When he had ridden off some little way, the horse stopped, and turned his head around and spoke to the boy. He said: “Take me down to the creek, and plaster me all over with mud. Cover my head, and neck, and body, and legs.” When the boy heard the horse speak, he was afraid; but he did as he was told. Then the horse said: “Now mount, but do not ride back to the warriors who laugh at you because you have such a poor horse. Stay right here, until the word is given to charge.” So the boy stayed there.

And presently all the fine horses were drawn up in line and pranced about, and were so eager to go that their riders could hardly hold them in. At last the old crier gave the word, “Loo-ah” (go). Then the Pawnees all leaned forward on their horses and yelled, and away they went. Suddenly, away off to the right, was seen the old dun horse. He did not seem to run. He seemed to sail along like a bird. He passed all the fastest horses, and in a moment he was among the buffalo. First he picked out the spotted calf, and charging up alongside of it, straight flew the arrow. The calf fell. The boy drew another arrow and killed a fat cow that was running by. Then he dismounted and began to skin the spotted calf before any of the other warriors came up. But when the rider got off the old dun horse, how changed he was! He pranced about and could hardly stand still near the dead buffalo. His back was all right again; his legs were well and fine; and both his eyes were clear and bright.

The boy skinned the calf and cow that he had killed, and then he packed the meat on the horse and put the spotted robe on top of the load, and started back to camp on foot, leading the dun horse. But even with his heavy load the horse pranced all the while, and was scared at everything he saw. On the way to camp, one of the rich young chiefs of the tribe rode up to the boy, and offered him twelve good horses for the spotted robe, so that he could marry the head chief's daughter, but the boy laughed at him and would not sell the robe.

Now, while the boy walked to the camp leading the dun horse, most of the warriors rode back, and one of those that came first to the village went to the old woman and said to her: “Your grandson has killed the spotted calf.” And the old woman said: “Why do you come to tell me this? You ought to be ashamed to make fun of my boy because he is poor.” The warrior rode away, saying, “What I have told you is true.” After a while another brave rode up to the old woman, and said to her: “Your grandson has killed the spotted calf.” Then the old woman began to cry, she felt so badly because every one made fun of her boy because he was poor.

Pretty soon the boy came along, leading the horse up to the lodge where he and his grandmother lived. It was a little lodge, just big enough for two, and was made of old pieces of skin that the old woman had picked up, and was tied together with strings of rawhide and sinew. It was the meanest and worst lodge in the village. When the old woman saw her boy leading the dun horse with a load of meat and the robes on it, she was very much surprised. The boy said to her: “Here, I have brought you plenty of meat to eat, and here is a robe that you may have for yourself. Take the meat off the horse.” Then the old woman laughed, for her heart was glad. But when she went to take the meat from the horse's back, he snorted and jumped about, and acted like a wild horse. The old woman looked at him and wondered, and could hardly believe that it was the same horse. So the boy had to take off the meat, for the horse would not let the old woman come near him.

That night the horse again spoke to the boy, and said: “Wa-ti-hes Chah-ra-rat-wa-ta.” To-morrow the Sioux are coming in a large war-party. They will attack the village, and you will have a great battle. Now, when the Sioux are drawn up in line of battle, and are all ready to fight, you jump on me, and ride as hard as you can, right into the middle of the Sioux, and up to their head chief, their greatest warrior, and count coup on him, and kill him, and then ride back. Do this four times, and count coup on four of the bravest Sioux, and kill them, but don't go again. If you go the fifth time, maybe you will be killed, or else you will lose me. “La-ku-ta-chix” (remember). The boy promised.

The next day it happened as the horse had said, and the Sioux came down and formed in line of battle. Then the boy took his bow and arrows, and jumped on the dun horse, and charged into the midst of them. And when the Sioux saw that he was going to strike their head chief, they all shot their arrows at him, and the arrows flew so thickly across each other that they darkened the sky, but none of them hit the boy, and he counted coup on the chief and killed him, and then rode back. After that he charged again among the Sioux, where they were gathered the thickest, and counted coup on their bravest warrior and killed him. And then twice more, until he had gone four times as the horse had told him.

But the Sioux and the Pawnees kept on fighting, and the boy stood around and watched the battle. At last he said to himself, “I have been four times and have killed four Sioux; why may I not go again?” So he jumped on the dun horse and charged again. But when he got among the Sioux, one Sioux warrior drew an arrow and shot. The arrow struck the dun horse behind the fore legs and pierced him through. And the horse fell down dead. But the boy jumped off and fought his way through the Sioux and ran away as fast as he could to the Pawnees. Now, as soon as the horse was killed, the Sioux said to each other, “This horse was like a man. He was brave. He was not like a horse.” And they took their knives and hatchets and hacked the dun horse and gashed his flesh, and cut him into small pieces.

The Pawnees and Sioux fought all day long, but toward night the Sioux broke and fled.

The boy felt very badly that he had lost his horse, and after the fight was over he went out from the village to where it had taken place to mourn for his horse. He went to the spot where the horse lay, and gathered up all the pieces of flesh which the Sioux had cut off, and the legs and hoofs, and put them all together in a pile. Then he went off to the top of a hill near by and sat down and drew his robe over his head, and began to mourn for his horse.

As he sat there, he heard a great wind storm coming up, and it passed over him with a loud rushing sound, and after the wind came a rain. The boy looked down from where he sat to the pile of flesh and bones, which was all that was left of the horse, and he could just see it through the rain. And the rain passed by, and his heart was very heavy and he kept on mourning.

And pretty soon came another rushing wind, and after it a rain; and as he looked through the driving rain toward the spot where the pieces lay, he thought that they seemed to come together and take shape, and that the pile looked like a horse lying down, but he could not see very well for the thick rain.

After this came a third storm like the others; and now when he looked toward the horse he thought he saw its tail move from side to side two or three times, and that it lifted its head from the ground. The boy was afraid and wanted to run away, but he stayed. And as he waited, there came another storm. And while the rain fell, looking through the rain, the boy saw the horse raise himself up on his fore legs and look about. Then the dun horse stood up.

The boy left the place where he had been sitting on the hilltop, and went down to him. When the boy had come near to him the horse spoke and said, “You have seen how it has been this day; and from this you will know how it will be after this. But Ti-ra-wa has been good, and he let me come to life back to you. After this do what I tell you; not any more, not any less.” Then the horse said, “Now lead me far off, far away from the camp, behind that big hill, and leave me there to-night, and in the morning come for me”; and the boy did as he was told.

And when he went for the horse in the morning, he found with him a beautiful white gelding, much more handsome than any horse in the tribe. That night the dun horse told the boy to take him again to the place behind the big hill and to come for him the next morning; and when the boy went for him again, he found a beautiful black gelding. And so for ten nights he left the horse among the hills, and each morning he found a different-coloured horse, a bay, a roan, a gray, a blue, a spotted horse, and all of them finer than any horses that the Pawnees had ever had in the tribe before.

Now the boy was rich, and he married the beautiful daughter of the head chief, and when he became older he was made head chief himself. He had many children by his beautiful wife, and one day, when his oldest boy died, he wrapped him in his spotted calf robe and buried him in it. He always took good care of his old grandmother, and kept her in his own lodge until she died. The dun horse was never ridden except at feasts and when they were going to have a doctors' dance, but he was always led about with the chief wherever he went. The horse lived in the village for many years, until he became very old, and at last he died.