Lake Vermilion’s First American Tourist
An Interesting Trip.
Where No White Man Had Ever Gone Before.
by Thomas M. Newson
Originally published in Thrilling Scenes Among the Indians, 1884
In the year 1865, when on the north boundary line of the United States, I met an Indian who attached himself to me as my necarnis, or best friend, and who desired that I should go with him some forty miles from that point, to examine what he claimed was a bed of coal; so, asking him how much, and receiving the reply, “$50,” I consented to give it, and began preparations for the journey. It was winter, and Vermilion lake was frozen over, so that my “shebang,” as I called it consisting of a horse and covered sled, could easily make the trip. The Indian was to meet me some distance from the camp, so as not to excite the suspicion of our exploring party, and in the morning, bright and early, myself and Porter, the interpreter, started out, and soon Nar-go-ba-da was seen in the distance, awaiting our coming. Indian-like, he wanted a gallon of “scoot-a-wa-boo,” or whiskey before he would budge an inch. I positively declined to give him this, but I told him that I would give him a drink then, and as the fatigue of the journey increased, he should have more; so, satisfied, he gave the lead, and we followed. It was a crisp, bright, sharp winter morning, and the wide expanse of the frozen lake stretched out before us.
Nar-go-ba-da loomed up ahead; I followed; Porter was behind. When about eight miles from our point of departure, I was startled with the vision behind me of a large body of men and horses following our trail, and the more I looked the more distant they became. “Porter! for heaven’s sake,” I asked, “What is the meaning of that body of men and horses behind us? I thought we were alone on the lake. Look!” Porter looked; the Indian looked; there the men and the horses were, just as I had described them, but I could see a smile play over the features of the Indian and Porter, while on my own were evidences of surprise.
“Who are you! where are they going?” I asked eagerly. By this time Porter had come up, and Nar-go-ba-da had returned from the advance, and as we were all then all looking at them I observed the immense regiment as it were, halted, and when Porter with his lame leg, moved, I saw one of their men with a lame leg move also, and then I began, as the boy did—“to smell a mice,” but what this strange vision was I could not yet comprehend. “Well,” said Porter, “Maria” “What do you mean by that?” I asked. “A grand display of our own persons and horse multiplied into hundreds; a reflection of ourselves, produced by the peculiar condition of the atmosphere.” Can it be possible that I had been thus deceived? Yes, when we moved, they moved, and what was more convincing to me, was the fact of Porter’s game leg, for one of their party was in the same fix.
These delusions occur quite frequently on this lake, especially on a frosty morning. some parties have been absolutely frightened by seeing others following them, and have started out on a run—of course the others after them—and have not stopped until they reached their camp, and then they have turned to find nothing but their own shadows.
Quiet and order being somewhat restored in our ranks Nar-go-ba-da took the lead, and on we sped over the slight snow which covered the lake.
Suddenly our Indian came to a halt, and I with him, and here we found a circle made in the snow , and at a given point in that circle was a mark, indicating at what time and which way a party of trappers passed that morning, clearly showing the sagacity of the Indian in not only telling time, but also indicating the points of the compass. Our line of march was as follows: the Indian first, myself and horse next, Porter last. The snow was deep, so we had to keep in the beaten track of the trappers, and thus, in the order named we pushed on. Presently we heard a loud yell from Nar-go-ba-da. I thought a thousand Indians were on my path, and requesting Porter to hurry up, and together we approached the Indian, who, we found, had discovered the hunting ground of his friends, and there lay before us a huge lynx, with a rope around his neck and the other end attached to a long limb of a tree.
The Indian’s primitive mode of trapping is interesting, especially when the snow is deep. he first passes over the track of the animal on snow shoes. That night this track freezes. He then gathers small sticks, as an Irish woman would make a hen yard; these sticks he places across the track a foot or two out from it on either side, leaving in the middle and directly where the snow is hard a small aperture, and in this aperture is hung a slipping-noose of fine but very strong twine, the other end tied to a limb of a tree. Now, in the morning the lynx comes out for his breakfast; he trots along down the hardened track; he snuffs the hunter’s evening meal; when, all of a sudden, he comes to the little sticks in his path; they look natural enough; he puts his paw to one side; it sinks in the snow; he tries the other side, that sinks; he hesitates; when he sees a small opening and a fine string hanging therein, he tries the snow on either side of the path again; it is too deep; he makes a plunge into the opening, is caught by the slipping-noose around his neck; he pulls, he struggles, he growls, he bites, and the harder he pulls the tighter grows the string around his neck until the fellow is dead. The animal before us was a large, splendid creature, with huge limbs of immense power, a small, round head, and covered with a beautiful garment of winter. This mode of trapping keeps the fur in a fine condition; unpolluted by poison and uninjured by bullets. My necarnis was delighted with the “find,” and so on again we pushed in our journey.
We had been traveling about an hour, when again I heard the Indian scream more terribly than ever before, and this time I drew my revolver and called to him to halt, at the time he was approaching me, and he halted, and I halted, and there we stood looking at each other until Porter came up, when the Indian broke out in the most excited gibberish, the tenor of which was, that he had suddenly approached Spirit Island, where he saw a large ox and a horse appear, and he was greatly alarmed. He had heard of this place but he had never before seen it, and even while he spoke, he pointed to the island, and insisted that the animals were there, he could see them, but we could discover none. The fevered condition of his mind, or of his imagination, had much to do in making it appear to him real, when to us, it was only a myth. And yet, Porter says it is the universal belief of the Indians, especially the Brules in this section, that spirits of Indians, horses, ponies, oxen, etc., inhabit this island.
This second scare over, we again took up our line of march, and, just at sundown, struck the borders of an island, some thirty-five miles from whence we had come. here a small camp-fire was made on the island, our supper cooked, and early I turned into my covered sled, some three hundred feet from where the Indian and Porter lay. In my sled I had a Henry rifle and two revolvers, and felt pretty safe; and yet I did not like to be so far from my friends. I looked out into the night; the moon was shining brightly; and then, fastening down the covers of my “shebang,” I gathered the clothes about me, and was soon in sweet sleep. About midnight I was awakened by a noise near the sled. To me it seemed like a tread of Indians, and I knew, that if this was the case, there was no hope for me, for they were there for a bad purpose; so I lay with my finger upon the trigger of my Henry rifle, when presently something poked its nose under the cover, and I saw that once that I was surrounded by four or five lynxes, which had been attracted to my sled by the smell of provisions. Should I fire? No! That would infuriate the pack, and they would pounce upon me in a minute; so I carefully guarded every loose place, determined that, if they should commence to tear the covering, I would then do my best; and thus I lay, until the wee hours of morning, listening to their walking about my bed, and growling at each other. It certainly was not a pleasant place to be in, and I have faint recollections of being just a little frightened.
In the morning I discovered the tracks of six animals, and my necarnis, or best Indian friend, was considerably exercised over the danger I had been in. After a frugal breakfast, as the thermometer was thirty degrees below zero, we moved out to the place where no white man had ever trod before, but the Indian had been deceived; there was no coal there, so rather sedately we trudged along home. About noon we saw in the distance a group of Indians hurriedly making towards us, and as we were then on Indian ground we apprehended a small bit of danger, but in what shape it would come we did not know. “Hoist the American flag,” I said to Porter, and he threw its waving folds over the sled, and we moved slowly along. Up came the Indians as though they would eat us all up, but we didn’t scare worth a cent, as they soon saw. After rudely pushing things about, they concluded to divest us of our provisions, but Nor-go-ba-da, my best friend, simply put his finer on the trigger of his gun and told them that the American flag shielded us from all harm, besides which I was his friend, and nobody must injure a hair of my head. The Indians swung their guns from their backs, and in a moment more I expected death, but Nor-go-ba-da coolly remarked, “I have a spirit gun here which shoots eighteen times in a minute; my schersmokerman (white man chief) and he dies.” The Indians grunted, looked sullen, and went on their way.
Just as the sun was sinking to rest, we wound into a little bay or inlet, and in a few moments more were in the home of our Indian friend. the post of honor was given me, opposite the opening of the tepee—the best robe had been spread for my comfort; the women were gaudily painted, and the pot was on the fire boiling. My friend was on the right; my interpreter just back of me, two quite comely women with their children, on the left, and an old woman, the grandmother, and a young girl of about eighteen years of age, in front of us.
Soon after our entrance one of the women got up, left the tepee, returned with a big fish, unscaled and undressed, put into the pot, stirred it up; no salt, no seasoning, except the dirt on it, to make it palatable.
“Good heavens! Porter,” I said, “do they intend me to eat this dish?”
“Of course they do,” he remarked.
“What, with the scales on and undressed?”
“Yes.”
I simply ejaculated — “Lord,” and awaited events. True enough, the head of the fish was presented to me as a mark of honor; and forgetting all my friends and all the past, and everything good, I had ever feasted in life, I gave one gulp and down went the fish’s head to my great satisfaction. I felt like an immense chief, having accomplished so great a deed. But other pieces of fish came along, and having bravely done the honor of my station and won the kind regard of my Indian friend, we exchanged bushunechees, or good-byes, and Porter and myself went out on to the broad lake, and into the pure night, and in the shimmering rays of the full moon wended our way to our amp on Vermilion lake, where the boys were rejoiced to see us, and we were glad to clasp many friendly hands, having had a somewhat tedious but an exceedingly interesting trip.