CHAPTER XII.
Bill Connors of the Osages.
"Nacherally, if you-all is frettin' to hear about Injuns," observed theOld Cattleman in reply to my latest request, "I better onfold how OsageBill Connors gets his wife. Not that thar's trouble in roundin' up thissquaw; none whatever. She comes easy; all the same said tale elab'ratessome of them savage customs you're so cur'ous concernin'."
My companion arose and kicked together the logs in the fireplace. Thisfireplace was one of the great room's comforts as well as ornaments. Thelogs leaped into much accession of flame, and crackled into sparks, andthese went gossiping up the mighty chimney, their little fiery voicesmaking a low, soft roaring like the talk of bees.
"This chimley draws plenty successful," commented my friend. "Which italmost breaks even with a chimley I constructs once in my log camp on theUpper Red. That Red River floo is a wonder! Draw? Son, it could drawfour kyards an' make a flush. But that camp of mine on the Upper Red isover eight thousand foot above the sea as I'm informed by a passel ofsurveyor sports who comes romancin' through the hills with a spyglass onthree pegs; an' high altitoods allers proves a heap exileratin' to a fire.
"But speakin' of Bill Connors: In Wolfville--which them days is the onlypart of my c'reer whereof I'm proud an' reviews with onmixedsatisfaction--Doc Peets is, like you, inquis'tive touchin' Injuns. Peetsputs it up that some day he's doo to write books about 'em. Which in offhours, an' when we-all is more or less at leesure over our Valley Tan,Peets frequent comes explorin' 'round for details. Shore, I imparts allI saveys about Bill Connors, an' likewise sech other aborigines as livesin mem'ry; still, it shakes my estimates of Peets to find him eager overInjuns, they bein' low an' debasin' as topics. I says as much to Peets.
"'Never you-all mind about me,' says Peets. 'I knows so much about whitefolks it comes mighty clost to makin' me sick. I seeks tales of Injunsas a relief an' to promote a average in favor of the species.'
"This Bill Connors' is a good-lookin' young buck when I cuts his trail;straight as a pine an' strong an' tireless as a bronco. It's about sixyears after the philanthrofists ropes onto Bill an' drags him off to aschool. You-all onderstands about a philanthrofist--one of these sportswho's allers improvin' some party's condition in a way the party who'simproved don't like.
"'A philanthrofist,' says Colonel Sterett, one time when Dan Boggsdemands the explanation at his hands; 'a philanthrofist is a gent whoinsists on you givin' some other gent your money.'
"For myse'f, however, I regyards the Colonel's definition as too narrow.Troo philanthrofy has a heap of things to it that's jest as onreasonablean' which does not incloode the fiscal teachers mentioned by the Colonel.
"As I'm sayin'; these well-meanin' though darkened sports, thephilanthrofists, runs Bill down--it's mebby when he's fourteen, onlyInjuns don't keep tab on their years none--an' immures him in one of thegov'ment schools. It's thar Bill gets his name, 'Bill Connors.' Beforethat he cavorts about, free an' wild an' happy onder the Injun app'lationof the 'Jack Rabbit.'
"Shore! Bill's sire--a savage who's 'way up in the picture kyards, an'who's called 'Crooked Claw' because of his left hand bein' put out ofline with a Ute arrow through it long ago--gives his consent to Billj'inin' that sem'nary. Crooked Claw can't he'p himse'f; he's powerless;the Great Father in Washin'ton is backin' the play of the philanthrofists.
"'Which the Great Father is too many for Crooked Claw,' says this parent,commentin' on his helplessness. Bill's gone canterin' to his old gent toremonstrate, not hungerin' for learnin', an' Crooked Claw says this toBill: 'The Great Father is too many for Crooked Claw; an' too strong.You must go to school as the Great Father orders; it is right. Thelongest spear is right.'
"Bill is re-branded, 'Bill Connors,' an' then he's done bound down tothem books. After four years Bill gradyooates; he's got the limit an'the philanthrofists takes Bill's hobbles off an' throws him loose withthe idee that Bill will go back to his tribe folks an' teach 'em to read.Bill comes back, shore, an' is at once the Osage laughin'-stock forwearin' pale-face clothes. Also, the medicine men tells Bill he'll diefor talkin' paleface talk an' sportin' a paleface shirt, an' theseprophecies preys on Bill who's eager to live a heap an' ain't ready tocash in. Bill gets back to blankets an' feathers in about a month.
"Old Black Dog, a leadin' sharp among the Osages, is goin' about with adab of clay in his ha'r, and wearin' his most ornery blanket. That'sbecause Black Dog is in mournin' for a squaw who stampedes over the BigDivide, mebby it's two months prior. Black Dog's mournin' has got dealtdown to the turn like; an' windin' up his grief an' tears, Osage fashion,he out to give a war-dance. Shore; the savages rings in a war-dance onall sorts of cer'monies. It don't allers mean that they're hostile, an'about to spraddle forth on missions of blood. Like I states, Black Dog,who's gone to the end of his mournful lariat about the departed squaw,turns himse'f on for a war-dance; an' he nacherally invites the Osagenation to paint an' get in on the festiv'ties.
"Accordin' to the rooles, pore Bill, jest back from school, has got tocut in. Or he has his choice between bein' fined a pony or takin' alickin' with mule whips in the hands of a brace of kettle-tenders whosedelight as well as dooty it is to mete out the punishment. Bill can'tafford to go shy a pony, an' as he's loth to accept the larrupin's, hewistfully makes ready to shake a moccasin at the _baile_. An' as nothin'but feathers, blankets, an' breech-clouts goes at a war-dance--the samebein' Osage dress-clothes--Bill shucks his paleface garments an' arrayshimse'f after the breezy fashion of his ancestors. Bill attends the wardance an' shines. Also, bein' praised by the medicine men an' olderbucks for quittin' his paleface duds; an' findin' likewise the old-timeblanket an' breech-clout healthful an' saloobrious--which Bill forgetstheir feel in his four years at that sem'nary--he adheres to 'em. Thislapse into aboriginal ways brews trouble for Bill; he gets up ag'inst theagent.
"It's the third day after Black Dog's war-dance, an' Bill, all paint an'blankets an' feathers, is sa'nterin' about Pawhusky, takin' life easy an'Injun fashion. It's then the agent connects with Bill an' sizes him up.The agent asks Bill does he stand in on this yere Black Dog war-dance.
"'Don't they have no roast dog at that warjig?' asks Dan Boggs, when I'mrelatin' these reminiscences in the Red Light.
"'No,' I says; 'Osages don't eat no dogs.'
"'It's different with Utes a lot,' says Dan, 'Which Utes regyards dogsfav'rable, deemin' 'em a mighty sucyoolent an' nootritious dish. Thetime 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 whitedog. That canine is mighty plethoric an' fat, an' they lays him on hisbroad, he'pless back an' shets off his wind with a stick cross-wise ofhis neck, an' two bucks pressin' on the ends. When he's good an' deadan' all without no suffoosion of blood, the Utes singes his fur off in afire an' bakes him as he is. I partakes of that dog--some. I don'tnacherally 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, Istrings my chips with the Romans like the good book says, an' so I sorto' eats baked dog with the Utes. Otherwise, I'd hurt theirsens'bilities; an' I ain't out to harrow up no entire tribe an' meplayin' a lone hand.'
"That agent questions Bill as to the war-dance carryin's on of old BlackDog. Then he p'ints at Bill's blankets an' feathers an' shakes his heada heap disapprobative.
"'Shuck them blankets an' feathers,' says the agent, 'an' get back intoyour trousers a whole lot; an' be sudden about it, too. I puts up withthe divers an' sundry rannikabooisms of old an' case-hardened Injunswho's savage an' ontaught. But you're different; you've been to schoolan' learned the virchoos of pants; wherefore, I looks for you to setexamples.'
"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' fallaciousin their plan. Bill declar's they're a bad scheme, trousers is; an' sosayin' he defies the agent to do his worst. Bill st
ands pat on blanketsan' feathers.
"'Which you will, will you!' remarks this agent.
"Then he claps Bill in irons mighty decisive, an' plants him up ag'in thehigh face of a rock bluff which has been frownin' down on Bird Riversince Adam makes his first camp. Havin' got Bill posed to his notion,this earnest agent, puttin' a hammer into Bill's rebellious hand, startshim to breakin' rock.
"'Which the issue is pants,' says the obdurate agent sport; 'an' I'llkeep you-all whackin' away at them boulders while the cliff lasts onlessyou yields. Thar's none of you young bucks goin' to bluff me, an' that'swhatever!'
"Bill breaks rocks two days. The other Osages comes an' perches about,sympathetic, an' surveys Bill. They exhorts him to be firm; they givesit out in Osage he's a patriot.
"Bill's willin' to be a patriot as the game is commonly dealt, but whenhis love of country takes the form of poundin' rocks, the noblesentiments which yeretofore bubbles in Bill's breast commences to pall onBill an' he becomes none too shore but what trousers is right. By seconddrink time--only savages don't drink, a paternal gov'ment barrin'nosepaint on account of it makin' 'em too fitfully exyooberant--by seconddrink time the second evenin' Bill lays down his hand--pitches his hammerinto the diskyard as it were--an' when I crosses up with him, Bill's thatabject he wears a necktie. When Bill yields, the agent meets him halfway, an' him an' Bill rigs a deal whereby Bill arrays himse'f Osagefashion whenever his hand's crowded by tribal customs. Other times, Billinhabits trousers; an' blankets an' feathers is rooled out.
"Shore, I talks with Bill's father, old Crooked Claw. This yere savageis the ace-kyard of Osage-land as a fighter. No, that outfit ain't beenon the warpath for twenty years when I sees 'em then it's with Boggs' oldpards, the Utes. I asks Crooked Claw if he likes war. He tells me thathe dotes on carnage like a jaybird, an' goes forth to battle as joobilantas a drunkard to a shootin' match. That is, Crooked Claw used to gocurvin' off to war, joyful, at first. Later his glee is subdooed becauseof 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 theAmerican tongue, not bein' equal to the reedic'lous broken Osage hetalks--'this yere first maverick,' an' he strokes the braided ha'r of aold 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 downsthat hold-up over by the foot of Fisher's Peak--the chances has donemounted 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 winsonless he's got killin's of his own to stand off mine. I don't reckonnone 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. Helooks big an' brave an' strong, but his heart is bad--he is a poor knifein a good sheath. So I don't waste a bullet on him, seein' his fear, butkills him with my war-axe. Still, he raises the chances ag'inst me totwelve to one, an' after that I goes careful an' slow. I sends in myyoung men; but for myse'f I sort o' hungers about the suburbs of theracket, takin' no resks an' on the prowl for a cinch,--some sech pick-upas a sleeper, mebby. But my 'leventh is my last; the Great Father inWashin'ton gets tired with us an' he sends his walk-a-heaps an' buffalosoldiers'--these savages calls niggers 'buffalo soldiers,' bein' they'rethat woolly--'an' makes us love peace. Which we'd a-had the Utes toodead 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 hissquaws, 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 mebbyshe's twenty odd years, an' accordin' to Osage tenets, Bill's doo to getwedded. No, Bill don't make no move; he comports himse'f lethargic; thereesponsibilities of the nuptials devolves on Bill's fam'ly.
"It's one of the excellentest things about a Injun that he don't pick outno wife personal, deemin' himse'f as too locoed to beat so difficult agame.
"Or mebby, as I observes to Texas Thompson one time in the Red Light whenhim an' me's discussin', or mebby it's because he's that callous he don'tcare, 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 obtainsamong the whites thar's one sport not onknown to me who would have shorepassed up some heartaches. You can bet a hoss, no fam'ly of mine wouldpick out the lady who beats me for that divorce back in Laredo to be thespouse of Texas Thompson. Said household's got too much savey to makesech a break.'
"While a Osage don't select that squaw of his, still I allers entertainsa theery that he sort o' saveys what he's ag'inst an' no he'pmeet getssawed off on him objectionable an' blind. I figgers, for all he don'tlet 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 upthe lady to some discreet member of his outfit before ever they goes into make the play.
"Saucy Willow for a savage is pretty--pretty as a pinto hoss. Herparent, old Strike Axe, is a morose but common form of Osage, strongfinancial, with a big bunch of cattle an' more'n two hundred ponies.Bill gets his first glimpse, after he comes back from school, of thelovely Saucy Willow at a dance. This ain't no war-dance nor any otherceremonious splurge; it's a informal merrymakin', innocent an' free, sameas is usual with us at the Wolfville dance hall. Shore, Osages, lacksguitars an' fiddles, an' thar's no barkeep nor nosepaint--none, introoth, of the fav'rable adjuncts wherewith we makes a evenin' inHamilton's hurdygurdy a season of social elevation, an' yet they pullsoff their fandangoes with a heap of verve, an' I've no doubt they shoreenjoys 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' thedance--the _Ingraska_ it is; a dance the Osages buys from the Poncas foreight 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 beginsto paint up for the hilarity. You might see 'em all over camp, for it'sAugust weather an' the walls of the tents an' teepees is looped up to letin the cool, daubin' the ocher on their faces an' braidin' the feathersinto 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 makea centre shot on the admiration of the squaws an' wake the envy of rivalbucks, can lay on the pigments, so he paints away at his face, carefulan' acc'rate, sizin' up results meanwhile in a jimcrow lookin' glass. Atlast he's as radiant as a rainbow, an' after garterin' each laig with abelt of sleigh-bells jest below the knee, he regyards himse'f with afav'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 hishead so as not to blind the onwary with his splendours. It's mebbysecond drink time after sundown an' the full moon is swingin' aboveeffulgent. The bucks who's doo to dance sets about one side of the RoundHouse on a board bench; the squaws--not bein' in on the proposedactivities--occupies the other half, squattin' on the ground. Some of'em packs their papooses tied on to a fancy-ribboned, highly beadedboard, an' this they makes a cradle of by restin' one end on the groundan' the other on their toe, rockin' the same meanwhile with a motion ofthe 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 hisleesure.
"The bucks settin' about their side of the Round House, still wropsthemse'fs in their blankets so as not to dazzle the squaws to deathpreematoor. At last the music peals forth. The music confines itse'f toa bass drum--paleface drum it is--which is staked out hor'zontal about afoot high from the grass over in the centre. The orchestra is a decrepitbuck with a rag-wropped stick; with this weepon he beats the drum,chantin' at the same time a pensive refrain.
"Mebby a half-doz
en squaws, with no papooses yet to distract 'em, camps'round this virchuoso with the rag-stick, an' yoonites their girlishhowls with his. You-all can put down a bet it don't remind you none ofnightingales or mockin' birds; but the Injuns likes it. Which theirsimple sperits wallows in said warblin's! But to my notion they're morecalc'lated to loco a henhawk than furnish inspiration for a dance.
"'Tunk! tunk! tunk! tunk!' goes this rag-stick buck, while the squawschorus 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 theblankets. Feathers, paint, an' bells! they blaze an' tinkle in themoonlight with a subdooed but savage elegance. They skates out onto thegrass, 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 thesurface of some pond. Sometimes a buck'll lay his nose along the groundwhile he dances--sleigh bells jinglin', feathers tossin'! Then he'llstraighten up ontil he looks like he's eight foot tall; an' they shorethrows themse'fs with a heap of heart an' sperit.
"It's as well they does. If you looks clost you observes a brace ofbucks, and each packin' a black-snake whip. Them'skettle-tenders,--floor managin' the _baile_ they be; an' if a buck who'sdancin' gets preeoccupied with thinkin' of something else an' takes toprancin' an' dancin' listless, the way the kettle-tenders pours theleather into him to remind him his fits of abstraction is bad form, islike a religious ceremony. An' it ain't no bad idee; said kettle-tendersshore promotes what Colonel Sterett calls the _elan_ of the dancin' bucksno 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-skatestheir fellow bucks like four to one. They gets their nose a little lowerone time an' then stands higher in the air another, than is possible tothe next best buck. Them enthoosiasts ain't Osages at all; which they'reniggers--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 thewhite folks an' their gyarded ways, they're the biggest Injuns to warm aheel that night.
"Saucy Willow is up by the damaged rag-stick buck lendin' a mouthful ortwo of cl'ar, bell-like alto yelps to the harmony of the evenin'. Billwho's a wonder in feathers an' bells, an' whose colour-scheme would drivea temp'rance lecturer to drink, while zippin' about in the moonlight getshis eye on her. Mighty likely Bill's smitten; but he don't let on, thefam'ly like I relates, allers ropin' up a gent's bride. It's goodbettin' this yere Saucy Willow counts up Bill. If she does, however,--nomore than Bill,--she never tips her hand. The Saucy Willow yelps ononconcerned, like her only dream of bliss is to show the coyotes whatvocal failures they be.
"It's a week after the _Ingraska_, an' Bill's fam'ly holds a round-up topick Bill out a squaw. He ain't present, havin' the savey to gosquanderin' off to play Injun poker with some Creek sports he hears hasmoney over on the Polecat. Bill's fam'ly makes quite a herd, bucks an'squaws buttin' in on the discussion permiscus an' indiscrim'nate. Shore!the squaws has as much to say as the bucks among Injuns. They owns theirown ponies an' backs their own play an' is as big a Injun as anybody,allowin' for that nacheral difference between squaw dooties an' buckdooties--one keeps camp while the other hunts, or doorin' war times whenone protects the herds an' plunder while the other faces the foe. Youhears that squaws is slaves? However is anybody goin' to be a slavewhere 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 Injuncamp in a week--ain't as much to do as gets transacted at one of themrooral oyster suppers to raise money for the preacher!
"Bill's fam'ly comes trailin' in to this powwow about pickin' out a squawfor Bill. Besides Crooked Claw, thar's Bill's widow aunt, the WildCat--she's plumb cunnin', the Wild Cat is, an' jest then bein' cel'bratedamong 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 ofBill's mother who's called the Silent Comanche, an' is takin' the play aheap steady an' livin' up to her name.
"The folks sets 'round an' smokes Crooked Claw's kinnikinick. Then theWild 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 theyshore shows up them belles! One after the other they're drug over thecoals. At last the Wild Cat mentions the Saucy Willow jest as everysavage present knows will be done soon or late from the jump. The SaucyWillow obtains a speshul an' onusual run for her money. But it's settledfinal that while the Saucy Willow ain't none too good, she's the bestthey can do. The Saucy Willow belongs to the Elk clan, while Billbelongs to the B'ar clan, an' that at least is c'rrect. Injuns don'tbelieve in inbreedin' so they allers marries out of their clan.
"As soon as they settles on the Saucy Willow as Bill's squaw, they turnsin to make up the 'price.' The Wild Cat, who's rich, donates a kettle, aside of beef, an' the two cayouses she smokes outen the besotted BlackB'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 flouran' a lookin' glass. This plunder is to go to the Saucy Willow's folksas a 'price' for the squaw. No, they don't win on the play; the SaucyWillow's parents is out _dinero_ on the nuptials when all is done. Theyhas to give Bill their wickeyup.
"When Bill's outfit's fully ready to deal for blood they picks out somebright afternoon. The Saucy Willow's fam'ly is goin' about lookin'partic'lar harmless an' innocent; but they're coony enough to be in campthat day. A procession starts from the Crooked Claw camp. Thar'sThe-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 Catand others leadin' five ponies an' packin' kettles, flour, beef, an'sim'lar pillage. They lays it all down an' stakes out the broncos aboutfifty yards from Strike Axe's camp an' withdraws.
"Then some old squaw of the Strike Axe outfit issues forth an' throws thebroncos loose. That's to show that the Saucy Willow is a onusualexcellent young squaw an' pop'lar with her folks, an' they don't aim toshake her social standin' by acceptin' sech niggard terms.
"But the Crooked Claw outfit ain't dismayed, an' takes this rebuffphlegmatic. It's only so much ettyquette; an' now it's disposed of theyreorganise 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-glasses enough tofill eight waggons. This trip the old Strike Axe squaw onties thefifteen ponies an' takin' 'em by their ropes brings 'em in clost to theStrike Axe camp, tharby notifyin' the Crooked Claw band that their blufffor the Saucy Willow is regyarded as feasible an' the nuptials goes.With this sign, the Crooked Claws comes caperin' up to the Strike Axesan' the latter fam'ly proceeds to rustle a profoosion of grub; an' withthat 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 tosecond an' third cousins.
"Mebby she's a week later when dawns the weddin' day. Bill, who's beenlookin' a heap numb ever since these rites becomes acoote, goesprojectin' off alone onto the prairie. The Saucy Willow is hid in thedeepest corner of Strike Axe's teepee; which if she's visible, however,you'd be shore amazed at the foolish expression she wears, but all as shyan' artless as a yearlin' antelope.
"But it grows time to wind it up, an' one of the Strike Axe bucks climbsinto the saddle an' rides half way towards the camp of Crooked Claw.Strike Axe an' Crooked Claw in antic'pation of these entanglements hasdone 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 buckfronts up an' slams loose with his Winchester; it's a signal the _baile_is on.
"At the rifle crack, mounted on a pony that's the flower of the StrikeAxe herd, the Saucy Willow comes chargin' for the Crooked Claws like ashootin' star. The Saucy Willow is a sunburst of Osage richness! an' ispackin' about five hundred dollars' worth of blankets, feathers, beads,calicoes, ribbons, an' buckskins, not to mention six pounds of brass an'silver jewelry. Straight an' troo comes the Saucy Willow; skimmin' likea arrow an' as rapid as the wind!
"As Saucy Willow embarks on this expedition, thar starts to meether--afoot they be but on the run--Tom Six-killer an' a brace of squawcousins of Bill's. Nacherally, bein' he out-lopes the cousins, TomSix-killer runs up on the Saucy Willow first an' grabs her bronco by thebridle. The two young squaw cousins ain't far behind the Six-killer,for they can run like rabbits, an' they arrives all laughter an' cries,an' with one move searches the Saucy Willow outen the saddle. In lesstime than it takes to get action on a drink of licker the two youngsquaws has done stripped the Saucy Willow of every feather, bead an' rag,an' naked as when she's foaled they wrops her up, precious an' safe in ablanket an' packs her gleefully into the camp of Crooked Claw. Here theyre-dresses the Saucy Willow an' piles on the gew-gaws an' adornments,ontil if anything she's more gorgeous than former. The pony which theSaucy Willow rides goes to the Six-killer, while the two she-cousins, asto the balance of her apparel that a-way, divides the pot.
"An' now like a landslide upon the Crooked Claws comes the Strike Axehousehold. Which they're thar to the forty-'leventh cousin; savageskeepin' exact cases on relatives a mighty sight further than white folks.The Crooked Claw fam'ly is ready. It's Crooked Claw's turn to make thefeast, an' that eminent Osage goes the distance. Crooked Claw shorelydoes himse'f proud, while Bill's mother, the Silent Comanche, ishospitable, but dignified. It's a great weddin'. The Wild Cat ispirootin' about, makin' mean an' onfeelin' remarks, as becomes a widowlady with a knowledge of the world an' a bundle the size an' shape of aroll of blankets. The two fam'lies goes squanderin' about among eachother, free an' fraternal, an' thar's never a cloud in the sky.
"At last the big feed begins. Son, you should have beheld them foolOsages throw themse'fs upon the Crooked Claw's good cheer. It's a p'intof honour to eat as much as you can; an' b'arin' that in mind therevellers mows away about twenty pounds of beef to a buck--the squaws,not bein' so ardent, quits out on mighty likely it's the thirteenthpound. Tom Six-killer comes plenty clost to sacrificin' himse'f utter.
"This last I knows, for the next day I sees the medicine men givin' somesufferer one of their aboriginal steam baths. They're on the bank ofBird River. They've bent down three or four small saplin's for theframework of a tent like, an' thar's piled on 'em blankets an' robes afoot deep so she's plumb airtight. Thar's a fire goin' an' they'reheatin' rocks, same as Colonel Sterett tells about when they baptises hisgrandfather into the church. When the rocks is red-hot they takes 'em,one by one, an' drops 'em into a bucket of water to make her steam. Thenthey shoves this impromptoo cauldron inside the little robe house whereas I'm aware--for I onderstands the signs from the start--thar's a sickbuck quiled up awaitin' relief. This yere invalid buck stays in thartwenty minutes. The water boils an' bubbles an' the steam gets thatabundant not to say urgent she half lifts the robes an' blankets at theaiges to escape. The ailin' buck in the sweat tent stays ontil he can'tstay no more, an' then with a yowl, he comes burstin' forth, a reek ofsweat an' goes splashin' into the coolin' waters of Bird River. It's theSix-killer; that weddin' feast comes mighty near to downin' him--giveshim a 'bad heart,' an' he ondergoes the steam bath for relief.
"But we're strayed from that weddin'. Bein' now re-arrayed in fullestfeather the Saucy Willow is fetched into the ring an' receives a platterwith the rest. Then one of the bucks, lookin' about like he's amazed,says: 'Wherever is the Jack Rabbit?' that bein' Bill's Osage title.Crooked Claw shakes his head an' reckons most likely the Jack Rabbit'srummagin' about loose some'ers, not knowin' enough to come in an' eat. Abrace of bucks an' a young squaw starts up an' figgers they'll searchabout an' see if they can't round him up. They goes out an' thar's Billsettin' off on a rock a quarter of a mile with his back to the camp an'the footure.
"The two sharps an' the squaw herds Bill into camp an' stakes him out,shoulder to shoulder, with the little Saucy Willow. Neither Bill nor thelittle Saucy Willow su'gests by word, screech or glance that they saveyseither the game or the stakes, an' eats on, takin' no notice of themse'fsor any of the gluttons who surrounds 'em. Both Bill an' the little SaucyWillow looks that witless you-all would yearn to bat 'em one with thebutt of a mule whip if onfortoonately you're present to be exasperated bysech exhibitions. At last, however, jest as the patience of the audienceis plumb played, both Bill an' the little Saucy Willow gives a start ofsurprise. Which they're pretendin' to be startled to find they'refeedin' off the same dish. Thar you be; that makes 'em 'buck an'squaw'--'man an' wife;' an' yereafter, in Osage circles they can printtheir kyards 'Mister an' Missis Bill Connors,' while Bill draws an'spends the little Saucy Willow's annooty on payment day instead of StrikeAxe."
Wolfville Nights Page 14