AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS

by Richard Erdoes

  George Eagle Elk was an old, respected “yuwipi” medicine man. He lived in a tiny trailer shell on the Rosebud Sioux Reservation.

  War for many Indians was an exciting but dangerous sport. In a way it resembled a medieval tournament, governed by strict rules of conduct. The battlefield became an arena for an intensely personal competition of honor in which a young man might make a name for himself and earn the eagle feathers which signified adulthood. One could be killed in this game, but killing enemies was not the reason why men went to war. Total war resulting in the extinction of a tribe was almost unknown and generally abhorred.

  War parties were formed as much for personal as for political reasons; a few young men would be attracted to an experienced leader whose medicine they considered good. There was no stigma attached if a man refused to come because he had had a discouraging dream or another token of bad medicine. Leaders had no inherent power to command or enforce obedience, only the sway of their prestige or charisma. In battle, every man behaved more or less as his own warrior code dictated. Lives were not squandered for small gains, If possible, for every life was precious to people living in small hunting bands, and a single man killed would be sorely missed. A leader lost standing if he lost a man, even if his foray was otherwise successful.

  The conduct of war was a ceremonial affair, full of magic and ritual. Men rode to war with protective medicine bundles, miracle-working pebbles, or medicine shields, their horses covered with sacred gopher dust or painted with lightning designs—all intended to make the wearer arrow- or bullet-proof, and to give his horse supernatural speed.

  The main object in any battle—and the only way to gain honors—was to “count coup,” to reckon one’s brave deeds. Killing a man from an ambush with a gun was no coup because it was easy—even a coward could do it. But riding up on an unwounded and fully armed enemy, and touching him with the hand or with one’s coupstick, was a great feat. Stealing horses right under the enemy’s nose was also a fine coup. Coups had to be witnessed in order to be recognized, though in a few tribes a man could swear upon the pipe or some other sacred object that what he said was true. A warrior’s eagle feathers were notched, split, or dotted with paint to indicate what kind of coups he had counted, how many enemies he had slain, or how often and in what way he had been wounded. Coups were proudly boasted of around campfires, their stories and details told and retold. In some tribes a young man could not aspire to marry unless he had counted coup.

  Three of these tales describe the bravery of women, including the great Buffalo-Calf-Road-Woman, heroine of the Battle of the Rosebud, which was fought just before Little Bighorn in 1876, in Montana.

  Most young men belonged to one of their tribe’s several warrior societies, each with its own legend of origin, its own way of dressing, its special paraphernalia, songs, and ceremonies. One became a member on invitation or by being sponsored by an older warrior, often a relative. In some tribes one could “buy into” a society by a gift of horses or other valuables, but generally leaders were interested only in brave young men who would do credit to the group as a whole.

  In some societies such as the Sioux Kit Foxes (Tokala) or the Cheyenne Dog soldiers, there were death-defying men who, during a battle, pinned their sashes to the ground as a sign that they would fight it out on the spot until victory or death. A wounded prisoner, if he had shown himself particularly brave, might be spared and adopted into the tribe of his captors.

  All but one of these ten tales come from the Plains Indians, who still have the most highly ritualized war-story tradition in North America. The Lakota/Dakota people held out from the 1850s through the 1890s in the longest heroic resistance to the incursion of white armies, and no other tribes have so carefully recorded the heroic deeds of warriors—on tipis, war shields, embroidery, and of course, in the body of legends which are told today. When populations are reduced to living on reservations, ancient deeds of valor become even more crucial to the preservation of a positive identity. In the East, the process of tale collecting was so corrupted by the prejudices of the collectors that many important war and other stories have been lost, with the exception of some Iroquois legends. The Southwestern desert people have traditionally been too peaceful to generate a large body of war myths, though some tales of Apache and Navajo raids do still exist.

  [BRULE SIOUX]

  This is a children’s song which Lame Deer made up and from time to time improved upon. It was composed in the old style of warrior songs, with archaic words, and translated as well as Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes could manage.

  Ho! Kola pila, friends! it has come to pass.

  Black face paint I crave; horses I crave.

  Friends, I, Itunkala the Mouse, on the warpath I go.

  Behold my steed, Washin the Bullfrog,

  Behold me, Itunkala, on the far-jumping frog!

  Me, Mouse, myself riding; me, Itunkala, first in war!

  Friends, a grass-blade; as coupstick I carry it,

  A stiff grass-blade to count coup; on Igmu the Cat.

  Igmu, I am coming; in a warlike manner I ride.

  Igmu, your horses, your scalp, I am craving.

  Friends, Igmu, the great Cat; I fought him.

  Friends, kola pila; Igmu I feared not.

  My long tail, friends, I pinned to the ground,

  Sash wearer I, Fox warrior I; I Itunkala, Mouse.

  First coup I counted; first strike on Igmu.

  For a scalp, friends, one of his whiskers I took;

  Behold! Igmu’s whiskers I bring; long whiskers I am bringing.

  Nice-looking girls: prepare a feast!

  Friends, Hoka-hey! Igmu I vanquished,

  But friends, where is my tail?

  (In Igmu’s stomach. Friends, pity me!)

  TWO BULLETS AND TWO ARROWS

  [BRULE SIOUX]

  This is Henry Crow Dog speaking. Here is how my grandfather, the first Crow Dog, got his name. He was a chief about to lead a raiding party into Hante Paha Wakan—now called Cedar Valley in South Dakota. Before riding out, he had a vision; he saw a white horse in the clouds that gave him the sacred horse power. As a result, his pony became shunkaka-luzahan, the swiftest horse in the band.

  But that wasn’t all of the vision. The chief heard the voice of shunkmanitu, the coyote, saying: “I am the One!” Then his horse suddenly pricked up his ears, and the wind whistled through the two eagle feathers the chief was wearing. The feathers spoke, telling him: “There’s a man standing on that hill over there, between the two trees.” The chief and his companions clearly saw the man, who raised his hands and then was gone. The chief dispatched two scouts, one to the north and one to the south, but they returned saying that they had seen no one.

  “This man on the hill must have been a wanagi, a ghost,” the chief said. “He tried to warn us, but what did he warn us of? I don’t know. I’m a warrior about to lead a raid, and I can’t bother over much about ghosts.” So they rode out and came to a river. The chief decided to camp there so that if enemies came, the riverbank would prevent them from surrounding his party.

  During the night the chief heard the coyote howl four times. Shunkmanitou was telling him: “Something bad is going to happen to you!” The chief understood and gathered the men of his party together. There were some Tokala, some Kit Fox warriors, there. They sang a strong-heart song:

  I am a Fox.

  I am supposed to die.

  I already threw my life away.

  Something daring,

  Something dangerous,

  I wish to do.

  They painted their faces black. They made themselves sacred. They prepared to fight and to die. They said that it would be a good day for a man to give his life.

  At dawn the enemy attacked. There were some wasichu, some white settlers, led by a blue-coated soldier, and many Crow scouts and Absaroka warriors helping them. Indians helping whites to fight Indians! This was indeed a bad thing.

  In the chiefs party, however
, were many famous warriors. There was Two Strikes—Numpa Kachpa—who got his name when he shot with one bullet two white soldiers riding on the same horse. Kills-in-Water was there, and Hollow Horn Bear’s son, and Kills-in-Sight. Two Crow scouts wounded Kills-in-Sight and shot his horse from under him. The chief went to him at a dead run, killed the traitors, counted first coup on them, and put Kills-in-Sight on his own fast horse. Kills-in-Sight whipped the horse, which took off with him hanging onto it. The horse was so fast that no enemy could come near, and it carried Kills-in-Sight safely home.

  On foot now, the chief was looking around, hoping to catch himself one of the riderless Crow horses, when he took two enemy arrows, one high on his chest right under the collar bone, the other in his side. The second arrow went deep, right into his bladder. He broke off the arrows with his hand, and Hollow Horn Bear’s son and two others of the band came to help, though they too had been wounded. Their horses all had at least one arrow in them.

  The chief told them: “No use bothering with me; I’m hurt bad. I can’t live, so save yourselves!” Still, they caught a fallen man’s horse and put the chief on it, saying: “Be strong. Hold on!” Then the Absaroka and some wasichu swooped down upon them and they had a hard time forcing their way through. Fighting for their lives against many, they lost sight of their chief. They thought he must have been killed and rode home talking of the bad things that had happened.

  The chief had been riding, but he soon became so weak from loss of blood that he fell off the pony. Lying in the snow in great pain, he hardly had the strength to sing his death song. He was all alone, with neither friend nor enemy in sight.

  Suddenly two coyotes came, growling but gently. They said: “We know you!” and kept him warm during the night by lying on either side of him. They licked the blood off his face. They brought him deer meat to make him strong and a sacred wound medicine which they told him to apply where the arrows had hit him. The medicine made his flesh tender and caused it to open up so that he could pull out the arrowheads and what was left of the shafts. The medicine brought by the coyotes cured the chief, and the meat they gave him made him strong. When he was able to walk, a crow came flying and guided him home. All the people marveled on seeing him and hearing his story.

  Sometimes after the chief had recovered, he went out alone to hunt and was ambushed by a war party of Pahanis. These enemies had guns, and the chief took two bullets, one in the arm and one in the ribs. The second touched his lungs so that in later life he was always somewhat weak in the chest.

  He managed to get far enough away on his fast horse to be safe from the Pahanis, but then he could ride no further. He got down from his horse and stretched himself on the ground. “This time I die for sure,” he said to himself.

  But again the two coyotes came, bringing meat and bullet medicine, nursing and warming him for four days until his strength returned and his wounds were a little better. And again the crow came flying, watching over the man, warning him when enemies were close, guiding him to the place where his horse had strayed. So once more the chief came back alive from the dead.

  Then he made himself a shield from the neck skin of a buffalo and, using sacred procedures, painted two arrowheads and two circles representing bullets on it. This was his wotawe, his crest and protection, because after he had survived these four wounds, and after he had made the shield, nothing further could ever hurt him.

  And then also he took his last name—Kangi Shunka, Crow Coyote—which the white census takers misunderstood and made into Crow Dog. You can stand on a name like this.

  —Told by Henry Crow Dog on Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, in 1969, and recorded by Richard Erdoes.

  A CHEYENNE BLANKET

  [PAWNEE]

  The Cheyennes, like other Indians, do not speak to each other when they are away from the camp. If a man leaves the village and sits or stands by himself on the top of a hill, it is a sign that he wants to be alone, perhaps to meditate, perhaps to pray. No one speaks to him or goes near him.

  There was once a Pawnee boy who went off on the warpath to the Cheyenne camp. Somehow he had obtained a Cheyenne blanket. He came close to the camp, hid himself, and waited. About the middle of the afternoon he left his hiding place and walked to the top of the hill overlooking the village. He had his Cheyenne blanket wrapped about him and over his head, with only a little hole for his eyes. He stood quietly watching the camp for an hour or two.

  Men began coming in from buffalo hunting, some of them leading packhorses loaded with meat. One hunter was riding a horse packed with meat while he led another packhorse and a black spotted horse that was his running horse. Running horses are ridden only on the chase or on war parties, and after being used they are taken down to the river to be carefully washed and groomed. When the Pawnee boy saw the spotted horse, he knew that this was the one he wanted. The hunter led the animal to his lodge, dismounted and handed the ropes to his women, and went inside.

  Then the Pawnee made up his mind what he would do. He started down the hill into the village and went straight to the lodge where the women were unloading the meat. Walking up to them, he reached out and took the ropes of the spotted horse and one of the packhorses. The women fell back, doubtless thinking that he was one of the owner’s relatives come to take the running horse down to the river. The Pawnee could not speak Cheyenne, but as he turned away he mumbled something, “M-m-m-m-,” in a low voice, and then walked toward the river. As soon as he had gone down over the bank and out of sight, he jumped on the spotted horse, rode into the brush, and soon was away with the two animals, stolen out of the Cheyenne camp in broad daylight.

  —Based on a story collected by George Bird Grinnell in the 1880s.

  THE WARRIOR MAIDEN

  [ONEIDA]

  Long ago, in the days before the white man came to this continent, the Oneida people were beset by their old enemies, the Mingoes. The invaders attacked the Oneida villages, stormed their palisades, set fire to their longhouses, laid waste to the land, destroyed the cornfields, killed men and boys, and abducted the women and girls. There was no resisting the Mingoes, because their numbers were like grains of sand, like pebbles on a lake shore.

  The villages of the Oneida lay deserted, their fields untended, the ruins of their homes blackened. The men had taken the women, the old people, the young boys and girls into the deep forests, hiding them in secret places among rocks, in caves, and on desolate mountains. The Mingoes searched for victims, but could not find them. The Great Spirit himself helped the people to hide and shielded their places of refuge from the eyes of their enemies.

  Thus the Oneida people were safe in their inaccessible retreats, but they were also starving. Whatever food they had been able to save was soon eaten up. They could either stay in their hideouts and starve, or leave them in search of food and be discovered by their enemies. The warrior chiefs and sachems met in council but could find no other way out.

  Then a young girl stepped forward in the council and said that the good spirits had sent her a dream showing her how to save the Oneida. Her name was Aliquipiso and she was not afraid to give her life for her people.

  Aliquipiso told the council: “We are hiding on top of a high, sheer cliff. Above us the mountain is covered with boulders and heavy sharp rocks. You warriors wait and watch here. I will go to the Mingoes and lead them to the spot at the foot of the cliff where they all can be crushed and destroyed.”

  The chiefs, sachems, and warriors listened to the girl with wonder. The oldest of the sachems honored her, putting around her neck strands of white and purple wampum. “The Great Spirit has blessed you, Aliquipiso, with courage and wisdom,” he said. “We, your people, will always remember you.”

  During the night the girl went down from the heights into the forest below by way of a secret path. In the morning, Mingoe scouts found her wandering through the woods as if lost. They took her to the burned and abandoned village where she had once lived, for this was now their camp
. They brought her before their warrior chief. “Show us the way to the place where your people are hiding,” he commanded. “If you do this, we shall adopt you into our tribe. Then you will belong to the victors. If you refuse, you will be tortured at the stake.”

  “I will not show you the way,” answered Aliquipiso. The Mingoes tied her to a blackened tree stump and tortured her with fire, as was their custom. Even the wild Mingoes were astonished at the courage with which the girl endured it. At last Aliquipiso pretended to weaken under the pain. “Don’t hurt me any more,” she cried, “I’ll show you the way!”

  As night came again, the Mingoes bound Aliquipiso’s hands behind her back and pushed her ahead of them. Don’t try to betray us,” they warned. “At any sign of it, we’ll kill you.” Flanked by two warriors with weapons poised, Aliquipiso led the way. Soundlessly the mass of Mingoe warriors crept behind her through thickets and rough places, over winding paths and deer trails, until at last they arrived beneath the towering cliff of sheer granite. “Come closer, Mingoe warriors,” she said in a low voice, “gather around me. The Oneidas above are sleeping, thinking themselves safe. I’ll show you the secret passage that leads upwards.” The Mingoes crowded together in a dense mass with the girl in the center. Then Aliquipiso uttered a piercing cry: “Oneidas! The enemies are here! Destroy them!”

  The Mingoes scarcely had time to strike her down before huge boulders and rocks rained upon them. There was no escape; it seemed as if the angry mountain itself were falling on them, crushing them, burying them. So many Mingoe warriors died there that the other bands of Mingoe invaders stopped pillaging the Oneida country and retired to their own hunting grounds. They never again made war on Aliquipiso’s people.