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Page 109
We lived at Lac Qui Parle, or rather quite close to it, for we were
about a mile from the place.
There were only three of us--father, mother, and myself. We had moved to
Minnesota three years before, the main object of my parents being to
restore their health; for they were feeble and needed a change of
climate.
The first year, both father and mother were much benefited; but not long
after, father began to fail.
I remember that he used to take his chair out in front of the house in
pleasant weather and sit there, with his eyes turned toward the blue
horizon, or into the depths of the vast wilderness which was not more
than a stone's throw from our door.
Mother would sometimes go out and sit beside father, and they would talk
long and earnestly in low tones. I was too young to understand all this
at the time, but it was not long afterward that I learned the truth.
Father was steadily and surely declining in health; but mother had
become strong and robust, and her disease seemed to have left her
altogether. She tried to encourage father, and really believed his
weakness was only temporary.
Scarcely a day passed that I did not see some of the Sioux Indians who
were scattered through that portion of the State. In going to, and
coming from the agency, they would sometimes stop at our house.
Father was very quick in picking up languages, and he was able to
converse quite easily with the red men.
How I used to laugh to hear them talk in their odd language, which
sounded to me just as if they were grunting at each other.
But the visits used to please father and mother, and I was always glad
to see some of the rather ragged and not over-clean warriors stop at the
house.
I remember one hot day in June, when father was sitting under a tree in
front of the house, and I was inside helping mother, we heard the
peculiar noises which told us that father had an Indian visitor. We both
went to the door, and I passed outside to laugh at their queer talk.
Sure enough, an Indian was seated in the other chair, and he and father
were talking with great animation.
The Indian was of a stout build, and wore a straw hat with a broad, red
band around it; he had on a fine, black broad-cloth coat, but his
trousers were shabby and his shoes were pretty well worn.
His face was bright and intelligent, and I watched it very closely as he
talked in his earnest way with father, who was equally animated in
answering him.
The Indian carried a rifle and a revolver--the latter being in plain
sight at his waist--but I never connected the thought of danger with
him as he sat there talking with father.
I describe this Indian rather closely, as he was no other than the
well-known chief, Little Crow, who was at the head of the frightful
Sioux war, which broke out within sixty days from that time.
The famous chieftain staid until the sun went down. Then he started up
and walked away rapidly in the direction of Lac Qui Parle. Father called
good-by to him, but he did not reply and soon disappeared in the woods.
The sky was cloudy, and it looked as if a storm was coming; so, as it
was dark and blustering, we remained within doors the rest of the
evening. A fine drizzling rain began to fall, and the darkness was
intense.
The evening was well advanced, and father was reading to us, when there
came a rap upon the door.
It was so gentle and timid that it sounded like the pecking of a bird,
and we all looked in the direction of the door, uncertain what it
meant.
"It is a bird, scared by the storm," said father, "and we may as well
admit it."
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