Native American Legends
A Warrior's Daughter
A Dakota Sioux Legend
In the afternoon shadow of a large tepee, with red-painted smoke
lapels, sat a warrior father with crossed shins. His head was so
poised that his eye swept easily the vast level land to the eastern
He was the chieftain's bravest warrior. He had won by heroic deeds
the privilege of staking his wigwam within the great circle of tepees.
He was also one of the most generous gift givers to the toothless
old people. For this he was entitled to the red-painted smoke lapels
on his cone-shaped dwelling. He was proud of his honors. He never
wearied of rehearsing nightly his own brave deeds. Though by wigwam
fires he prated much of his high rank and widespread fame, his great
joy was a wee black-eyed daughter of eight sturdy winters. Thus
as he sat upon the soft grass with his wife at his side, bent over
her bead work, he was singing a dance song, and beat lightly the
rhythm with his slender hands.
His shrewd eyes softened with pleasure as he watched the easy movements
of the small body dancing on the green before him.
Tusee is taking her first dancing lesson. Her tightly-braided hair
curves over both brown ears like a pair of crooked little horns
which glisten in the summer sun.
With her feet snugly close together, and a wee hand at her belt
to stay the long string of beads which hang from her bare neck,
she bends her knees gently to the rhythm of her father's voice.
Now she ventures upon the earnest movement, slightly upward and
side-wise, in a circle. At length the song drops into a closing
cadence, and the little woman, clad in beaded deerskin, sits down
beside the elder one. Like her mother, she sits upon her feet. In
a brief moment the warrior repeats the last refrain. Again Tusee
springs to her feet and dances to the swing of the few final measures.
Just as the dance was finished, an elderly man, with short, thick
hair loose about his square shoulders, rode into their presence
from the rear, and leaped lightly from his pony's back. Dropping
the rawhide rein to the ground, he tossed himself lazily on the
grass. "Hunhe, you have returned soon," said the warrior,
while extending a hand to his little daughter.
Quickly the child ran to her father's side and cuddled close to
him, while he tenderly placed a strong arm about her. Both father
and child, eyeing the figure on the grass, waited to hear the man's
"It is true," began the man, with a stranger's accent.
"This is the night of the dance." "Hunha!" muttered
the warrior with some surprise.
Propping himself upon his elbows, the man raised his face. His
features were of the Southern type. From an enemy's camp he was
taken captive long years ago by Tusee's father. But the unusual
qualities of the slave had won the Sioux warrior's heart, and for
the last three winters the man had had his freedom. He was made
real man again. His hair was allowed to grow. However, he himself
had chosen to stay in the warrior's family.
"Hunha!" again ejaculated the warrior father. Then turning
to his little daughter, he asked, "Tusee, do you hear that?"
"Yes, father, and I am going to dance tonight!"
With these words she bounded out of his arm and frolicked about
in glee. Hereupon the proud mother's voice rang out in a chiding
"My child, in honor of your first dance your father must give
a generous gift. His ponies are wild, and roam beyond the great
hill. Pray, what has he fit to offer?" she questioned, the
pair of puzzled eyes fixed upon her.
"A pony from the herd, mother, a fleet-footed pony from the
herd!" Tusee shouted with sudden inspiration.
Pointing a small forefinger toward the man lying on the grass,
she cried, "Uncle, you will go after the pony tomorrow!"
And pleased with her solution of the problem, she skipped wildly
about. Her childish faith in her elders was not conditioned by a
knowledge of human limitations, but thought all things possible
"Hähob!" exclaimed the mother, with a rising inflection,
implying by the expletive that her child's buoyant spirit be not
weighted with a denial.
Quickly to the hard request the man replied, "How! I go if
Tusee tells me so!"
This delighted the little one, whose black eyes brimmed over with
light. Standing in front of the strong man, she clapped her small,
brown hands with joy.
"That makes me glad! My heart is good! Go, uncle, and bring
a handsome pony!" she cried. In an instant she would have frisked
away, but an impulse held her tilting where she stood. In the man's
own tongue, for he had taught her many words and phrases, she exploded,
"Thank you, good uncle, thank you!" then tore away from
sheer excess of glee.
The proud warrior father, smiling and narrowing his eyes, muttered
approval, "Howo! Hechetu!"
Like her mother, Tusee has finely penciled eyebrows and slightly
extended nostrils; but in her sturdiness of form she resembles her
father. A loyal daughter, she sits within her tepee making beaded
deerskins for her father, while he longs to stave off her every
suitor as all unworthy of his old heart's pride. But Tusee is not
alone in her dwelling. Near the entrance-way a young brave is half
reclining on a mat. In silence he watches the petals of a wild rose
growing on the soft buckskin.
"I asked him for his only daughter."
Quickly the young woman slips the beads on the silvery sinew thread,
and works them into the pretty flower design. Finally, in a low,
deep voice, the young man begins: "The sun is far past the
zenith. It is now only a man's height above the western edge of
land. I hurried hither to tell you tomorrow I join the war party."
He pauses for reply, but the maid's head drops lover over her deerskin,
and her lips are more firmly drawn together. He continues: "Last
night in the moonlight I met your warrior father. He seemed to know
I had just stepped forth from your tepee. I fear he did not like
it, for though I greeted him, he was silent. I halted in his pathway.
With what boldness I dared, while my heart was beating hard and
fast, I asked him for his only daughter.
"Drawing himself erect to his tallest height, and gathering
his loose robe more closely about his proud figure, he flashed a
pair of piercing eyes upon me. "'Young man,' said he, with
a cold, slow voice that chilled me to the marrow of my bones, 'hear
me. Naught but an enemy's scalp-lock, plucked fresh with your own
hand, will buy Tusee for your wife.' Then he turned on his heel
and stalked away." Tusee thrusts her work aside. With earnest
eyes she scans her lover's face. "My father's heart is really
kind. He would know if you are brave and true," murmured the
daughter, who wished no ill-will between her two loved ones.
Then rising to go, the youth holds out a right hand. "Grasp
my hand once firmly before I go, Hoye. Pray tell me, will you wait
and watch for my return?" Tusee only nods assent, for mere
words are vain. At early dawn the round camp-ground awakes into
song. Men and women sing of bravery and of triumph. They inspire
the swelling breasts of the painted warriors mounted on prancing
ponies bedecked with the green branches of trees.
Riding slowly around the great ring of cone-shaped tepees, here
and there, a loud-singing warrior swears to avenge a former wrong,
and thrusts a bare brown arm against the purple east, calling the
Great Spirit to hear his vow. All having made the circuit, the singing
war party gallops away southward.
Astride their ponies laden with food and deerskins, brave elderly
women follow after their warriors. Among the foremost rides a young
woman in elaborately beaded buckskin dress. Proudly mounted, she
curbs with the single rawhide loop a wild-eyed pony.
It is Tusee on her father's warhorse. Thus the war party of Indian
men and their faithful women vanish beyond the southern skyline.
A day's journey brings them very near the enemy's borderland. Nightfall
finds a pair of twin tepees nestled in a deep ravine. Within one
lounge the painted warriors, smoking their pipes and telling weird
stories by the firelight, while in the other watchful women crouch
uneasily about their center fire.
By the first gray light in the east the tepees are banished. They
are gone. The warriors are in the enemy's camp, breaking dreams
with their tomahawks. The women are hid away in secret places in
the long thick ravine. The day is far spent, the red sun is low
over the west.
At length straggling warriors return, one by one, to the deep hollow.
In the twilight they number their men. Three are missing. Of these
absent ones two are dead; but the third one, a young man, is a captive
to the foe. "He-he!" lament the warriors, taking food
In silence each woman, with long strides, hurries to and fro, tying
large bundles on her pony's back. Under cover of night the war party
must hasten homeward. Motionless, with bowed head, sits a woman
in her hiding-place. She grieves for her lover.
In bitterness of spirit she hears the warriors' murmuring words.
With set teeth she plans to cheat the hated enemy of their captive.
In the meanwhile low signals are given, and the war party, unaware
of Tusee's absence, steal quietly away. The soft thud of pony-hoofs
grows fainter and fainter. The gradual hush of the empty ravine
whirring noisily in the ear of the young woman. Alert for any sound
of footfalls nigh, she holds her breath to listen. Her right hand
rests on a long knife in her belt. Ah, yes, she knows where her
pony is hid, but not yet has she need of him. Satisfied that no
danger is nigh, she prowls forth from her place of hiding. With
a panther's tread and pace she climbs the high ridge beyond the
low ravine. From thence she spies the enemy's camp-fires. Rooted
to the barren bluff the slender woman's figure stands on the pinnacle
of night, outlined against a starry sky. The cool night breeze wafts
to her burning ear snatches of song and drum. With desperate hate
she bites her teeth.
Tusee beckons the stars to witness. With impassioned voice and
uplifted face she pleads: "Great Spirit, speed me to my lover's
rescue! Give me swift cunning for a weapon this night! All-powerful
Spirit, grant me my warrior-father's heart, strong to slay a foe
and mighty to save a friend!" In the midst of the enemy's camp-ground,
underneath a temporary dance-house, are men and women in gala-day
dress. It is late in the night, but the merry warriors bend and
bow their nude, painted bodies before a bright center fire. To the
lusty men's voices and the rhythmic throbbing drum, they leap and
rebound with feathered head gears waving.
Women with red-painted cheeks and long, braided hair sit in a large
half-circle against the willow railing. They, too, join in the singing,
and rise to dance with their victorious warriors.
Amid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to a post,
haggard with shame and sorrow. He hangs his disheveled head.
He stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare earth at his feet. With
jeers and smirking faces the dancers mock the Dakota captive. Rowdy
braves and small boys hoot and yell in derision.
Silent among the noisy mob, a tall woman, leaning both elbows on
the round willow railing, peers into the lighted arena. The dancing
center fire shines bright into her handsome face, intensifying the
night in her dark eyes. It breaks into myriad points upon her beaded
dress. Unmindful of the surging throng jostling her at either side,
she glares in upon the hateful, scoffing men. Suddenly she turns
her head. Tittering maids whisper near her ear: "There! There!
See him now, sneering in the captive's face. 'Tis he who sprang
upon the young man and dragged him by his long hair to yonder post.
See! He is handsome! How gracefully he dances!"
The silent young woman looks toward the bound captive. She sees
a warrior, scarce older than the captive, flourishing a tomahawk
in the Dakota's face. A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and
brands him for a victim of revenge. Her heart mutters within her
breast, "Come, I wish to meet you, vile foe, who captured my
lover and tortures him now with a living death."
Here the singers hush their voices, and the dancers scatter to
their various resting-places along the willow ring. The victor gives
a reluctant last twirl of his tomahawk, then, like the others, he
leaves the center ground. With head and shoulders swaying from side
to side, he carries a high-pointing chin toward the willow railing.
Sitting down upon the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself
with an outspread turkey wing.
Now and then he stops his haughty blinking to peep out of the corners
of his eyes. He hears some one clearing her throat gently. It is
unmistakably for his ear. The wing-fan swings irregularly to and
fro. At length he turns a proud face over a bare shoulder and beholds
a handsome woman smiling. "Ah, she would speak to a hero!"
thumps his heart wildly.
The singers raise their voices in unison. The music is irresistible.
Again lunges the victor into the open arena. Again he leers into
the captive's face. At every interval between the songs he returns
to his resting-place. Here the young woman awaits him. As he approaches
she smiles boldly into his eyes. He is pleased with her face and
her smile. Waving his wing-fan spasmodically in front of his face,
he sits with his ears pricked up. He catches a low whisper. A hand
taps him lightly on the shoulder. The handsome woman speaks to him
in his own tongue. "Come out into the night. I wish to tell
you who I am."
He must know what sweet words of praise the handsome woman has
for him. With both hands he spreads the meshes of the loosely-woven
willows, and crawls out unnoticed into the dark.
Before him stands the young woman. Beckoning him with a slender
hand, she steps backward, away from the light and the restless throng
of onlookers. He follows with impatient strides. She quickens her
pace. He lengthens his strides. Then suddenly the woman turns from
him and darts away with amazing speed. Clinching his fists and biting
his lower lip, the young man runs after the fleeing woman. In his
maddened pursuit he forgets the dance arena.
Beside a cluster of low bushes the woman halts. The young man,
panting for breath and plunging headlong forward, whispers loud,
"Pray tell me, are you a woman or an evil spirit to lure me
Turning on heels firmly planted in the earth, the woman gives a
wild spring forward, like a panther for its prey. In a husky voice
she hissed between her teeth, "I am a Dakota woman!"
From her unerring long knife the enemy falls heavily at her feet.
The Great Spirit heard Tusee's prayer on the hilltop. He gave her
a warrior's strong heart to lessen the foe by one.
A bent old woman's figure, with a bundle like a grandchild slung
on her back, walks round and round the dance-house. The wearied
onlookers are leaving in twos and threes. The tired dancers creep
out of the willow railing, and some go out at the entrance way,
till the singers, too, rise from the drum and are trudging drowsily
homeward. Within the arena the center fire lies broken in red embers.
The night no longer lingers about the willow railing, but, hovering
into the dance-house, covers here and there a snoring man whom sleep
has overpowered where he sat.
The captive in his tight-binding rawhide ropes hangs in hopeless
despair. Close about him the gloom of night is slowly crouching.
Yet the last red, crackling embers cast a faint light upon his long
black hair, and, shining through the thick mats, caress his wan
face with undying hope.
Still about the dance-house the old woman prowls. Now the embers
are gray with ashes. The old bent woman appears at the entrance
way. With a cautious, groping foot she enters. Whispering between
her teeth a lullaby for her sleeping child in her blanket, she searches
for something forgotten.
Noisily snored the dreaming men in the darkest parts. As the lisping
old woman draws nigh, the captive again opens his eyes.
A forefinger she presses to her lip. The young man arouses himself
from his stupor. His senses belie him. Before his wide-open eyes
the old bent figure straightens into its youthful stature. Tusee
herself is beside him. With a stroke upward and downward she severs
the cruel cords with her sharp blade. Dropping her blanket from
her shoulders, so that it hangs from her girdled waist like a skirt,
she shakes the large bundle into a light shawl for her lover. Quickly
she spreads it over his bare back.
"Come!" she whispers, and turns to go; but the young
man, numb and helpless, staggers nigh to falling.
The sight of his weakness makes her strong. A mighty power thrills
her body. Stooping beneath his outstretched arms grasping at the
air for support, Tusee lifts him upon her broad shoulders. With
half-running, triumphant steps she carries him away into the open
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