PART VII.
DRIFTING CRANE: THE INDIAN AND THE PIONEER
Before them, surely, sullenly and slow, The desperate and cheated Indians go.
DRIFTING CRANE.
The people of Boomtown invariably spoke of Henry Wilson as the oldestsettler in the Jim Valley, as he was of Buster County; but the Easternman, with his ideas of an "old settler," was surprised as he met theshort, silent, middle-aged man, who was very loath to tell anythingabout himself, and about whom many strange and thrilling stories weretold by good story-tellers. In 1879 he was the only settler in the upperpart of the valley, living alone on the banks of the Elm, a slow,tortuous stream pulsing lazily down the valley, too small to be called ariver and too long to be called a creek. For two years, it is said,Wilson had only the company of his cattle, especially during thewinter-time, and now and then a visit from an Indian, or a trapper aftermink and musk-rats.
Between his ranch and the settlements in Eastern Dakota there was thewedge-shaped reservation known as the Sisseton Indian Reserve, on whichwere stationed the customary agency and company of soldiers. But, ofcourse, at that time the Indians were not restricted closely to thebounds of the reserve, but ranged freely over the vast and beautifulprairie lying between the coteaux or ranges of low hills which mark out"the Jim Valley." The valley was unsurveyed for the most part, and theIndians naturally felt a sort of proprietorship in it, and when Wilsondrove his cattle down into the valley and squatted, the chief, DriftingCrane, welcomed him, as a host might, to an abundant feast whosehospitality was presumed upon, but who felt the need of sustaining hisreputation as a host, and submitted graciously.
The Indians during the first summer got to know Wilson, and liked himfor his silence, his courage, his generosity; but the older men ponderedupon the matter a great deal and watched with grave faces to see himploughing up the sod for his garden. There was something strange in thissolitary man thus deserting his kindred, coming here to live alone withhis cattle; they could not understand it. What they said in thosepathetic, dimly lighted lodges will never be known; but when wintercame, and the new-comer did not drive his cattle back over the hills asthey thought he would, then the old chieftains took long counsel uponit. Night after night they smoked upon it, and at last Drifting Cranesaid to two of his young men: "Go ask this cattleman why he remains inthe cold and snow with his cattle. Ask him why he does not drive hiscattle home."
This was in March, and one evening a couple of days later, as Wilson wasabout re-entering his shanty at the close of his day's work, he wasconfronted by two stalwart Indians, who greeted him pleasantly.
"How d'e do? How d'e do?" he said in reply. "Come in. Come in and take asnack."
The Indians entered and sat silently while he put some food on thetable. They hardly spoke till after they had eaten. The Indian is alwayshungry, for the reason that his food supply is insufficient and hisclothing poor. When they sat on the cracker-boxes and soap-boxes whichserved as seats, they spoke. They told him of the chieftain's message.They said they had come to assist him in driving his cattle back acrossthe hills; that he must go.
To all this talk in the Indian's epigrammatic way, and in the dialectwhich has never been written, the rancher replied almost as briefly:"You go back and tell Drifting Crane that I like this place; that I'mhere to stay; that I don't want any help to drive my cattle. I'm on thelands of the Great Father at Washington, and Drifting Crane ain't gotany say about it. Now that sizes the whole thing up. I ain't gotanything against you nor against him, but I'm a settler; that's myconstitution; and now I'm settled I'm going to stay."
While the Indians discussed his words between themselves he made a bedof blankets on the floor and said: "I never turn anybody out. A whiteman is just as good as an Indian as long as he behaves himself as well.You can bunk here."
The Indians didn't understand his words fully, but they did understandhis gesture, and they smiled and accepted the courtesy, so like theirown rude hospitality. Then they all smoked a pipe of tobacco in silence,and at last Wilson turned in and went serenely off to sleep, hearing themutter of the Indians lying before the fire.
In the morning he gave them as good a breakfast as he had--bacon andpotatoes, with coffee and crackers. Then he shook hands, saying: "Comeagain. I ain't got anything against you. You've done y'r duty. Now goback and tell your chief what I've said. I'm at home every day. Goodday."
The Indians smiled kindly, and drawing their blankets over their arms,went away toward the east.
During April and May two or three reconnoitering parties of land-huntersdrifted over the hills and found him out. He was glad to see them, for,to tell the truth, the solitude of his life was telling on him. Thewinter had been severe, and he had hardly caught a glimpse of a whiteface during the three midwinter months, and his provisions were scanty.
These parties brought great news. One of them was the advance surveyingparty for a great Northern railroad, and they said a line of road was tobe surveyed during the summer if their report was favorable.
"Well, what d'ye think of it?" Wilson asked, with a smile.
"Think! It's immense!" said a small man in the party, whom the restcalled Judge Balser. "Why, they'll be a town of four thousandinhabitants in this valley before snow flies. We'll send the surveyorsright over the divide next month."
They sent some papers to Wilson a few weeks later, which he devoured asa hungry dog might devour a plate of bacon. The papers were full of thewonderful resources of the Jim Valley. It spoke of the nutritiousgrasses for stock. It spoke of the successful venture of the lonelysettler Wilson, how his stock fattened upon the winter grasses withoutshelter, etc., what vegetables he grew, etc., etc.
Wilson was reading this paper for the sixth time one evening in May. Hehad laid off his boots, his pipe was freshly filled, and he sat in thedoorway in vast content, unmindful of the glory of color that filled thewestern sky, and the superb evening chorus of the prairie-chickens,holding conventions on every hillock. He felt something touch him on theshoulder, and looked up to see a tall Indian gazing down upon him with alook of strange pride and gravity. Wilson sprang to his feet and heldout his hand.
"Drifting Crane, how d'e do?"
The Indian bowed, but did not take the settler's hand. Drifting Cranewould have been called old if he had been a white man, and there was alook of age in the fixed lines of his powerful, strongly modeled face,but no suspicion of weakness in the splendid poise of his broad,muscular body. There was a smileless gravity about his lips and eyeswhich was very impressive.
"I'm glad to see you. Come in and get something to eat," said Wilson,after a moment's pause.
The chief entered the cabin and took a seat near the door. He took a cupof milk and some meat and bread silently, and ate while listening to thetalk of the settler.
"I don't brag on my biscuits, chief, but they _eat_, if a man is hungryenough. An' the milk's all right. I suppose you've come to see why Iain't moseying back over the divide?"
The chief, after a long pause, began to speak in a low, slow voice, asif choosing his words. He spoke in broken English, of course, but hisspeech was very direct and plain, and had none of those absurd figuresof rhetoric which romancers invariably put into the mouths of Indians.His voice was almost lion-like in its depth, and yet was not unpleasant.It was easy to see that he was a chief by virtue of his own personality.
"Cattleman, my young men brought me bad message from you. They broughtyour words to me, saying he will not go away."
"That's about the way the thing stands," replied Wilson, in response tothe question that was in the old chief's steady eyes. "I'm here to stay.This ain't your land. This is Uncle Sam's land, and part of it'll bemine as soon as the surveyors come to measure it off."
"Who gave it away?" asked the chief. "My people were cheated out of it.They didn't know what they were doing."
"I can't help that. That's for Congress to say. That's the business ofthe Great Father at Washington." Wilson's voice changed. He knew andli
ked the chief; he didn't want to offend him. "They ain't no use makinga fuss, chief. You won't gain anything."
There was a look of deep sorrow in the old man's face. At last he spokeagain: "The cattleman is welcome; but he must go, because whenever onewhite man goes and calls it good, the others come. Drifting Crane hasseen it far in the east, twice. The white men come thick as the grass.They tear up the sod. They build houses. They scare the buffalo away.They spoil my young men with whisky. Already they begin to climb theeastern hills. Soon they will fill the valley, and Drifting Crane andhis people will be surrounded. The sod will all be black."
"I hope you're right," was the rancher's grim reply.
"But they will not come if the cattleman go back to say the water is notgood. There is no grass, and the Indians own the land."
Wilson smiled at the childish faith of the chief. "Won't do,chief--won't do. That won't do any good. I might as well stay."
The chief rose. He was touched by the settler's laugh; his eyes flashed;his voice took on a sterner note. "The white man _must_ go!"
Wilson rose also. He was not a large man, but he was a very resoluteone. "I shan't go!" he said, through his clinched teeth. Each manunderstood the tones of the other perfectly.
It was a thrilling, a significant scene. It was in absolute truth themeeting of the modern vidette of civilization with one of the rear-guardof retreating barbarism. Each man was a type; each was wrong, and eachwas right. The Indian as true and noble from the barbaric point of viewas the white man. He was a warrior and hunter--made so by circumstancesover which he had no control. Guiltless as the panther, because war toa savage is the necessity of life.
The settler represented the unflagging energy and fearless heart of theAmerican pioneer. Narrow-minded, partly brutalized by hard labor and alonely life, yet an admirable figure for all that. As he looked into theIndian's face he seemed to grow in height. He felt behind him all theweight of the millions of westward-moving settlers; he stood therepresentative of an unborn State. He took down a rifle from thewall--the magazine rifle, most modern of guns; he patted the stock,pulled the crank, throwing a shell into view.
"You know this thing, chief?"
The Indian nodded slightly.
"Well, I'll go when--this--is--empty."
"But my young men are many."
"So are the white men--my brothers."
The chief's head dropped forward. Wilson, ashamed of his boasting, putthe rifle back on the wall.
"I'm not here to fight. You can kill me any time. You could 'a' killedme to-night, but it wouldn't do any good. It 'ud only make it worse foryou. Why, they'll be a town in here bigger'n all your tribe before twograss from now. It ain't no use, Drifting Crane; it's _got_ to be. Youan' I can't help n'r hinder it. I know just how you feel about it, butI tell yeh it ain't no use to fight."
Drifting Crane turned his head and gazed out on the western sky, stillred with the light of the fallen sun. His face was rigid as bronze, butthere was a dreaming, prophetic look in his eyes. A lump came into thesettler's throat; for the first time in his life he got a glimpse of theinfinite despair of the Indian. He forgot that Drifting Crane was therepresentative of a "vagabond race;" he saw in him, or rather _felt_ inhim, something almost magnetic. He was a _man_, and a man of sorrows.The settler's voice was husky when he spoke again, and his lipstrembled.
"Chief, I'd go to-morrow if it 'ud do any good, but it won't--not aparticle. You know that, when you stop to think a minute. What good didit do to massa_cree_ all them settlers at New Ulm? What good will it doto murder me and a hundred others? Not a bit. A thousand others wouldtake our places. So I might just as well stay, and we might just as wellkeep good friends. Killin' is out o' fashion; don't do any good."
There was a twitching about the stern mouth of the Indian chief. Heunderstood all too well the irresistible logic of the pioneer. He kepthis martial attitude, but his broad chest heaved painfully, and his eyesgrew dim. At last he said: "Good-by. Cattleman right; Drifting Cranewrong. Shake hands. Good-by." He turned and strode away.
The rancher watched him till he mounted his pony, picketed down by theriver; watched him as, with drooping head and rein flung loose upon theneck of his horse, he rode away into the dusk, hungry, weary anddespairing, to face his problem alone. Again, for the thousandth time,the impotence of the Indian's arm and the hopelessness of his fate wereshown as perfectly as if two armies had met and soaked the beautifulprairie sod with blood.
"This is all wrong," muttered the settler. "There's land enough for usall, or ought to be. I don't understand---- Well, I'll leave it to UncleSam anyway." He ended with a sigh.
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