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14 THE SUNDAY CALL. THRT CSAGE BTk QONNCRS. bert Howard Russell. N is fret- Injuns,” ob- tlem in re- , “I bet- Osage Bill at thar ere squaw mes plumb e: Y them ous con- n aros 1 kicked to- place, which ts. of and might camp eight I'm in- nors In the only an’ stock for the medi- ain’t mone 1 back into in about a month »* sharp amo: with a dab of his most tor s because Black 7 squaw of his se Big Divide, meb- two months prior. Black Dog's has got deait down to the turn grief an’ tears, a war danc s rings in a_war dance It don't allers about to sprad- blood. Like I bone to the end vites the Osage iv'ties. of the game, that school, has to get in on the ccorin’ to the rool pore Bill, jest back from got to in. Or he has his choicé be- tween bein’ fined a pony, vr takin’ a lick- in’ with mule whips in the enthoosiastic hands of a brace of Kettle tenders, whose delight as well as dooty it is to mete out sald pu Bill can’t afford to go shy a ¥ as he’s loath to accept them larr he wistfully organizes to in at tne baile. An' as thers, blankets an’ breech- a war dance—the same s clothes that a-way, an’ ooles plumb severe: costoomes ) be what Colonel Sterrett de- n the Coyote once as de rigorous paleface garments an’ e'f after the breezy fashion of tends the war dance an’ shines. be praised by the medicine men der bucks for quittin’ his paleface a din’ that eld-time blanket an’ an’ saloobrious—which s their feel in his four 'm’'nary—he adneres to se into aboriginal ways ; he gets up ag'inst third day after Black Dog's Bill, all paint, blankets ' about Pawhus- njun tashion. Bill an’ sizes Bill_does he Black Dog war t they have no rcast dog at that asks Dan Boggs, that evenin’ nces to Peets. don't eat no dogs. ‘It's different with Utes a whole lot,” Dan. ‘“Which Utes regyards dogs nty fav'rable, deemin’ of 'em as a mighty sucyoolent dish. The time I'm with the Utes, they pulls off a_ shindig “tea dance” it is, an’ as what Huggins uld call on the programmes of his Bird ‘age Op'ry House “a star feacher,” they ups an’ roasts a white dog. That canine is shore fat. They lays him on his broad, he’pless back an’ shets off his wind with & stick cross-wise of his neck that a-way, en’ two bucks pressin’ on the ends. W] he’s good an' dead, an’ all without no suffoosion of blood, the Utes singes his fur off in a fire an’ then bakes him as he kes of that dog—some. for said repast, full tooth- like it's flapjacks—I but when I'm in em an’ strings dop’t gorge my Rome, I plays their sy v chips with the Romans, so I takes a C sort o' eats baked dog with the Otherwise I'd hurt their sensibill- I ain’t out to harrow up no en- tire tribe an’ me playin’ a lone hand.’ ‘That agent questions Bill as to them on of old Black Dog. n he pints akes his head a heap d approbatif. - them blankets get back into your mb sudden ts up with the divers trowsers a_whole lot rdened Inj But you're been to school an’ learned about the vir- choos of pants. Nacherally, I looks for you to set examples.’ “It's then Biil gets high an’ puts it up he’ll wear clothes to suit himse'f. denounces trowsers as foolish in their con- struction an’ fallacious Bill allows they've a heap bad_scheme, trowsers is; an’ then he defles the agent. Bill stands pat on blankets an’ feathers. “ “Which you will, will you! remarks this agent. ““Then he claps Bill in irons a heap de- cisive an’ plants him up ag’'in the high face of a rock bluff which has been frown- in’ down on Bird River ever since Adam makes his first camp. Then jthis earnest agent, puttin’ a hammer intd Bill's hand, sets him to breakin' rock. “ “Which the issue is trowsers,’ gays this yere obdurate agent sport; ‘an’ I'll keep you-all whackin’ away at them bowlders while the cliff lasts onless you yields. Thar's none of you young Osage bucks goin’ to bluff me, an’ that's whatever.’ “Bill breaks rocks two days. Osages comes an’ perches about, sympa- They exhorts him to be firm; they gives it out cold in Osage that he's a patriot. “Bill’s willin’ to be a Osage patriot as the game is commonly dealt, love of country done takes the form of them noble sentiments Wwhich yeretofore bubbles in Bill's breast sort o’ commences to pall on Bill a lot, an’ he ain’t none shore but what tro By second drink time—oniy the gov'ment surveys Bill. ut when his rs is right. savages don't drink none, barrin’ nose paint on account of it makin’ ‘em too gala an’ exyooberant—by second drink tirhe the second evenin’ down_his hand—pitches his hammer into the diskyard that a-way; an' when crosses up with him, Bill's that abject an’ tame, he even wears a necktie. When Biil yields the agent meets him half way, an’ him an’ Bill rigs a deal whereby Bill ar- rays himse'f Osage fashion whenever his hand’s crowded, formal, Other times Bill inhabits trowsers; an’ blankets an’ feathers is rooled out. “Shore, I talks with Bill's father, old Crooked Claw. This yere savage s the sage land as a fighter. No, that outfit ain’t been on the warpath for twenty years, when I sees 'em; then with Boggs' old pards, the Utes, old Crooked Claw if he likes war. He al- lows that, nacherally, he dotes on car- es forth to battle as joobilant rd to a shootin’ match. That by tribal cus- ace-kyard of is, Crooked Claw goes curvin' off to war, joyful, at first. Later, he says, his glee is a heap subdooed because of the big chances he's takin'. " Then he lugs out ’leven skelps, all Ute, an’ elootidates. This yere first maverick,’ says Crook- ed Claw—of course, I gives him in the American tongue, not bein’ equal to that reedic’lous broken Osage he talks—'this yere maverick,’ an’ he strokes the braided ha'r of a_old an’' smoke-dried Ip, ‘is easy. The chances that a-way evén, Number two, of course, is twice as hard; an’ when I snags onto number three—1 downs that hold-up over by the base of Fishers Peak—the chances has done mounted to three to one ag'in me. So it goes on, gettin’ bAgher an’ higher, ontil when I 'corrals my ‘leventh, iU's shore ’leven to one he wins cnless he's got killin’s of his own to stand off mine. Which don't reckon none he ha though,’ says Crooked Claw. curlin’ his nose plenty contemptuous. ‘He's heap big squ coward; an’ would hide from me like & cuail. 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, so after that I goes careful an’ slow. I sends in my young mfen; but sort o' hankers an’ hungers about the suburbs of the racket myse'f, takin’' no resks, an’ on the prowl for a cinch—some sech pick- up as a sleeper, mebby.. But my 'leventh is my last, that a-way; the Great Father gets tired ‘with us an’ he sends his walk- a-heaps an’ buffalo soldiers—these yere savages calls them niggers ‘“buffalo sol- diers,” bein’ they're that woolly—an’ makes us quit. Which we’d a-had the Utes too dead to skin if it ain't for them obnoxious walk-a-heaps an’ buffalo sol- diers that time.” “An’ at this old Crooked Claw tosses the bunch of Ute top-knots to one of his squaws, fills up his redstone pipe with kinnikinnick an’ begins to smoke, logkin’ as complacent as a Missouri catfish-door’ in’ a Joone rise. Which I tells this anec- dote so as you-all gains a sidelight on how idiotic them savages counts up the odds of a game. “This yere Bill Connors has now been wanderin’ through this vale of tears for mebby she's twenty odd years, an’ accord- in' to Osage tennets, Bill's doo a whole lot to get wedded. No, Bill don't make no move; he comports himse'f lethargic; which the reesponsibilties of them nup- tials 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 most likely 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’ of Injuns, ‘or mebby it's because he’s that callous he don’t care, or that idle an’ shiftless he won't take trouble none for himse'f.’ “ “Whatever's the reason,’ says Texas, heavin’ a sigh, ‘thar’s much to be said in praise of them customs. If they only ob- tains among the Whites, thar's one sport, not onknown to me, who would shore have passed up some heartaches. You can bet a poss, no fam’ly of mine would ever pick out the lady who beats me for that divorce back in Laredo, to be no spouse of Texas Thompson. Said household’s got too much savey to make sech imbecile breaks.” ‘“While as I states, a Os: don’t select that squaw of his, still T allers entertains & theery that he sort o' saveys what he’s ag'inst, an’ that no he'pmeet gets sawed off on him blind, Whicn I figgers, for all he don’t 1ét on, this yere is the sityooation in the marital adventures of Bill. His fam’ly picks this Saucy Willow out for Bill; but it’s two to onc he signs up the lady-to some discreet member of his out- fit before ever they p'ints out to make the play. “€aucy Willow for a savage is prett; pretty as a pinto ho: rt o' savage sunburst. Which her parent, old Strike Axe, is a morose but common form of Osage, plumb strong financial, with « bunch of cattle an’ more'n two hundred ponies. Bill ge his first glimpse afte he comes back school of thi lovely Saucy Willow at a dance. This ain’t no war dance, nor any cer'monious, splurge; it's 'merely a informal merry: makin’, all innocent an’ free, same as i usual with us, say, at the Wolfviile dance hall. Shore, them Osages lacks.guitdrs an’ fiddles, an’ thar’s no barkeep nor nose pafnt—none, in trooth, of them fav'rable adjuncts that makes a e¢venin’ in Hamil- ton’s hurdy-gurdy a season of purest so- clal elevation that a-way. An' yet they pulls off their fandango with a heap of nerve, an’ I've no doubt they shore en- Joys it. ““For two hours before sundown the ket- tle tenders is howlin’ an’ callin’ the dance throughout the Osage camp. Thar's to be & full moon, an' the dance—the Ingraska it is—a dance them 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 hiiarity. You-all might see 'em all over camp, for it's August weather an’ the walls of the tents an’ tepees is looped up to let in the cool, daubin’ the ochre on their faces an’ braidin’ the feath. ers into their ha'r. This organizin’ for a baile ain’t no bagatelle, an’ two hours is the least wherein any seé'f-respectin’ buck, who's out to-make a center shot on . the admiration of the squaws an’ envy of rival bucks, can lay claim on them pig- ments, so he paints away at his face, plenty careful an’ acc'rate, sizin’ up re- sults meanwhile in a_baby lookin'-glass. At last he's done, radiant as a rainbow, an' after garterin’ each laig with a beit of sleighbells jest below the knee he reg- yards himse'f with a fav'rable eye an’ al- lows he's doo to make a impression. :*EBach buck arrives at the Round-House with his blanket wropped over his head, 80 as not to blind the onwary with his splendors. “It's mebby second drink time after sun-down an' " the _full moon is swingin’ aboyve plenty 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 none on the proposed activities—occupies the other half, squattin’ on ghe ground. Some of ‘em packs their papgoses, tied on a fancy- ribboned. highly beaded board, an’ this they makes a ‘cradle of by restin’ one end on the ground an’ the other on thelr foot, rockin’ the same with a motion of the foot. Thar's a half hoop over the head-end of these yere papoose boards, hung with bells for the papoose to get infantile action on that a-way an’ amoose his leesure. ““The bucks settin’ about their side of the Round-House still wrops themse'fls in their blankets, so as not to dazzle them squaws to death prematoor. At last the music peals forth. What is she? The music confines itse'f to a bass drum— paleface drum it is—which is staked out / hor’'zontal about a foot high from the grass, in the center. The orchestra is a epit ‘buck with a rag-wrop ho beats the dru hantin’ ime a highly pensif refra f dozen Ath no pa te distract ‘em, sort o' camps s yere virchewoso with the ragstick, an yoonites their girlish howls with his. No, you-all can put down a bet it don’t r mind you none of nightingales or mockin birds; but them savages likes it. Which nply allow In said But to me, they're more cale’- lated to loco a henhawk than to furnish ation for a dunce. tunk! tunk! tunk! goes this yere ragistick buclk, while the” squaws 4 yah! y ' all ple make no mistake! the bucks stiffen to their feet an’ cast off the blankets. Feath- ers, paint, an’ bells! they blaze an’ tinkle in the moonlight with a subdooced but sav- age elegance. Then they skates out onto the grass, stilt-laig, an’ each buck for himse'f. They go skootin’ about an’ weave an’ turn an’ twist among each qlh- er like these yere water-bugs jigsin’ it on the surface of some pond. Sometimes a buck'll lay his nose along the ground while he dances—sleigh bells jipglin’, feathers tossin’! Then he'll straighten up ontil he looks like he’s eight foot tall. All throw themse'fs loose with a heap of heart an’ sperit. “It's jest as well they does. If you-all looks clost you observes a brace of bucks, an’ each packin’ a blacksnake whip. Them's kettle tenders—floor managin’ the baile they be; an’ if a buck who's dancin’ that a-way gets preeoccupied thinkin’ of something else an' takes to prancin’ an’ dancin' some listless, the way them kettle ténders pours the leather into him to remind him his fits of abstraction is bad form don’t bother 'em a bit. An’ it ain’t no bad idee; said kettle tenders shore promotes what Colonel Sterett calls the ‘elan’ of tHe other dancin’ bucks no end. B “‘After yaur eyes gets used to all this w'irlin’ an’ skatinan’ shootin’ an’ weav- in’ 4n an’ out, you notes two bucks, paint- ed to a finish an’ feathered to the stars! who simply out-skoots an’' out-w'irls an’ out-skates them fellow bucks of theirs like four to one. They gets their nose a little lower one time, an’ then stands higher in the air another, than is possi- ble to the next best buck. Them c¢nthoo- siasts ain’t. Osages at all; which they're niggers a whole lot—fuli-blooded Sene- gambians they be, who's done j'ine& the tribe. These Round-House festivals with the paint, the feathers an’ the bells, shore fills their top'cal hearts plumb full; an’ forgettin’ all about the white foiks an’ their ways, they're, ondcubted, the big~ gest Injuns to shake a heel that night. “‘Saucy Willow is up oy the damaged rag-stick buck, lendin’ a mouthful or two of cl'ar, bell-like alto yelps to the ha mony of the evenin’. Bill, who's a won- der in feathers an’ bells, an’ whose color scheme_would drive a temp'rance lectur- er to drink, while zippin’ about in the moonlight, gets his eye on her. Mighty likely. Bill's smitten, but he don’t let on none; the fam'ly like I relates former, allers ropin’ up a gent's bride. " It's good bettin’ this yere Saucy Willow counts up Biil. If she does, however—no more than does Biil—she never tips her hand. The Saucy Willow yelps on onconcerned, like her only dream of life is to show the coyotes what vocal failures they be. “It's a week after this yere Ingraska dance an’ Bill's fam'ly.hold a round-up c Bill out a squaw. He an't present avin’ the sense to go uanderti: ay Injun poker with some Osage e hears has money over on Gr 3 eek. Bill's family a herd that a-w. buttin’ in on the d 2 Shor % the squaws has as ; as the bucks among Injuns. They owns their own ponies an backs their cwn play, an’ is as big a Injun as in’ for that nmacheral dif- e between squaw dootie: one keeps hile hunts—or war times, protec herds an’ plunder, while the other fac the foe. You hears that I is anybody go s much hard labor 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! “Anyhow, all of Bill's fam’ly comes trailin’ in to this yere powwow about pickin' out a squaw for Bill. Besided Crooked Claw, thar's Bill's widow aunt, the Wild Cat—she’s plumb cunnin’, the ‘Wild Cat is, an’ {s just then bein’ cel'brated among the Osages for smokin’ ponies with Black B'ar, a old buck, an’ smokin’ Black Bear out of his two best cayouses—an’ besides them 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, incloosif of Bill's mother, who’ called The Silent Comanche, an’ is takin’ the play plumb steady an’ livin’ up to her name. “These 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 onmar- ried buck is a menace; at this the others grunts agreement. Then they turns in to make a grand round-up of ail the el'gible voung squaws. Which they shorely shows up them belles a whole lot. 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 gets a_speshul an’ onusual run for her money. But it's settled final, that while the Saucy Wil- low ain’t none too_good, still she's the best they can do. The Saucy Willow be- longs to the Elk clan, while Bill belongs to the B'ar clan, an’ ghat at least is c’rrect. Injuns don’t believe in in-breedin’ so they allers marries out of their clan that a-way. “As soon as they settles on the Saucy willow as Bill's squaw they turns loose to make up the ‘price.’ The Wild Cat, who's rich, donatés a kettle, a side of beef, an’ them two cayou outen the ediotic Black B'ar that time. The rest chucks in accordin’ to their ans, Crooked Claw comin’ up strong with tén ponies; an Bill's mother, the Si- jent Comanche, showin’ down with a bolt of calico, two buffalo robes, a sack of flour an’ a lookin’ glass. This yere plun- der is to go to the Saucy Wiilow'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 them nuptials when all is done. “When Bill's outfit's fully organized an’ ready to deal tt picks out some Saucy W lookin® partic’lar but they Crooked Who-steps-hig union_down, an’ riotin’ along nan-who-slc pillage. out the five brc from Strike Axe “Then some old s outfit iss loose. I Willow i squaw, an’_poy toat they d Saucy Willow in’ sech nig “But the C mayed phiegmatic an’ now they Tobes, skillets an’ eight wagons. Axe squaw onties takin’ 'em by thei clost to the Strike Ax fyin’ the oked biuft for t & as some feasible, a With this sign, the Crooked Cl: comes caper: the htm(, up to an’ simp: house an’ home price ong the Strike Axe buneh, s n o second an’ th “Mebby she's dawns toe lookin since Jjectin’ rites out The Sazucy willow is off alon: recesses Str she’s visible, geant proper the Strike cos, ribbo pounds of b ) aight 'As Saucy Willow trip, thar s t be, but on ti I e of Squaw behind the move get act young Iem SBaucy Wi . an’ the of her pot. ace. Crooked Cl: while Bil able but d rootin’ abc remarks E undie or of a roll o fam'lies goes ach other, r's never a begins. Son, you em besotted Osages ed Claw’'s or to eat " that in entitled to t ey mows away 1s of beef to a buck— P n out credit a w about twent thirteenth comes plenty utter. “This last I knows—I'm knockin’ about Pawhusky at the time—for the next day I sees the medicine men givin’' some suf- ferer one of them aboriginal steam baths. They're on the bank of Bird River. e bent down three or four small saplin’s for the framework of a tent like, an’ thar’s piled on 'em blankets an’' robes a foot deep, so she’s plumb alrtight. Thar's a fire goin’, an’ they're heatin’ rocks, same as Colonel Sterett tells about that time when they baptizes his grand- father into the church. When the rock: is redhot they takes 'em, one by one, an’ drops ’em into a bucket of water to make ber steam a whole lot. Then they shoves this yere impromptoo coldron inside the little Tobe house, where, as I'm aware— for I onderstands the signs from the start —thar’s a sick buck quiled up awaitin’ re- lef. This yere invalid buck stays in thar mighty likely twenty minutes. The water bolls an’ bubbles, an’ the steam gets that abundant, not to say urgent, inside, she shore half 1ifts the robes an’ blankets at the aiges to escape. The aflin’ buck in the sweat tent stays ontil he can’t stay ne more, an’ then, with a yowl, he comes burstin’ forth, a reek of sweat, an’ goes wallowin’ into the coolin’ waters of Bird River. It's the Sixkiller; that weddin’ feast comes mighty near downin’ him— gives him a ‘bad heart,’ an’ he ondergoes this steam bath medicinal. trayed from that weddin’. ed in fullest feather, the Saucy Willow is fetched into the ring an’ given a platter ¢ ck with the rest. They eats awhile. Then one of the bucks, lookin’ about like he's amazed, says: “Wherever is the Jack Rabbit? that bein’ Bill's Osage title. But Bill ain’'t thar none. Crooked Claw shakes his head, an’ puts it up mosf likely Bil's rummagin’ “But we're Bein’ now re-arrz about 1o ot knowin’ enough to come this a brace of bucks an’ W starts up an’ reckons th they cuts Bill's trail. thar's the imbecile Bfll settin’ off on a rock a quarter of a mile, with his back to the camp an’ the footure, that a-way. The two buc ’ the squaw, who makes up the explorin’ expedition, herds Bill into camp, an’ st him out, shoulder to shoulder, with little Saucy Willow. Neither Bill nor the little Saucy Willow su'gests by word. screech or glance that the’ 's whatever is the game or the 4 eats on, takin’ no notice of T any of them gluttons who Both T bout an’ see {if 1ey goes out an’ arn to bat ple, 3 wouid rely y a mule whip it ‘em one with the butt of u're only present to be ex ted b; hibitions. At . howeve: :»s{ ience of the audlence is plumb played, both Bill an’ the little Satcy Wil low gives a start surprise. Which they’re pretendin’ to be start to_find they're feedin’ off the sam i Thar you be; that makes '’ squaw’ 3 e r, in_Osage the¥ can print their rs. Bill Conners,” while %gl_}mdvzgws an’ I:pends the little Saucy i s annooity on ™ day stead of Strike Ayxe ik o et