Читать книгу My Indian Boyhood: The Memoirs of Luther Standing Bear - Luther Standing Bear - Страница 5

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Some of the pleasantest memories of my boyhood are of the days that my playmates and I spent with our ponies. As I mentioned before, every Sioux boy owned a pony and became an expert rider. A great friendship sprang up between the boy and his pony. It is well known that the horse is a very sensible animal, but he is also very sensitive to his surroundings, and after many years of companionship with men, he comes to know the wishes of his owner almost without spoken word. So it was that I and my pony came to understand each other very well, indeed. I was kind to him, for I was fond of him and he was kind and gentle with me. The first little pony I owned was black and to me just as good and smart as any 'Black Beauty' ever written about.

If a pony becomes well tamed, his master can catch him even in the dark, for he can learn to recognize footsteps and will stop to be caught. In many cases boy and colt grew up together and became life companions, so it was natural that each should know the other well.

When first beginning to ride, we were still too small to mount our ponies ourselves. If more than one boy was riding, we would help one another. The largest of two boys would clasp his hands together to form a stirrup and up would go the small boy. Then the mounted boy would put out his foot for the boy on the ground to use as a stirrup and up he would go. If alone, and there was no tree stump nor bank to which the pony could be led, we learned to use our wits and strength, for you must remember that when we first began to ride ponies, we were very little fellows. We would catch hold of the pony's mane, wrap our right leg around the pony's fore leg, and climb as we would climb a tree. When we were high enough to put our left heel over the back of the pony, we pulled ourselves up into place. We always mounted Indian style, which is the left leg over the right side of the horse. The white man mounts the opposite way. There was another way in which to mount, providing we had a rope with us. Tying one end of the rope to the mane of the pony, we would make a loop at the other end for a stirrup. The rest was easy. If our legs grew tired from riding long distances, we would take a rope and loop it at two ends and throw it over the back of the pony in front of us and put our feet in the loops.

Sometimes it was necessary for us to break a wild pony to ride. There was danger that we would get kicked or in some way receive an injury, but we were strong and quick on our feet. There were many ways in which to break a pony and get him used to our presence. One way was to drive the wild ponies into deep water, swim up to them, and, catching hold of either tail or mane, play with them. We were all good swimmers, and anyway, horses in the water cannot kick hard, so there was little danger of our getting hurt. We would not be rough with the animals, but just play with them until they were used to us and could see that we would not harm them. After a while we ventured to climb on their backs and they didn't seem to mind at all.

White men in breaking horses are often rough and cruel, but in all the methods we used in breaking ponies, none of them were hard on the animal. A pony broken with kindness makes a finer and more trustworthy animal than one that has been broken through abuse. Of course, when we grew up with our ponies they needed no breaking. As we grew up to manhood, they grew up to horsehood, understanding us as well as we understood them.

These are all glad memories that I have told you, but I have one sad memory and that was when I went away to Carlisle to school and had to leave my little pony behind. I still remember how sad I was because I could not take him with me. Although I was to have the company of other little boys and girls who were going with me, I knew that I would miss him. I was only a little boy of eleven and the first part of the journey was fifty miles away from home, where we got on the boat that was to take us to the railroad station. I rode my pony for that fifty miles and there I had to say good-bye, for I was going East and thought at that time that I would never be back.

We learned to ride without saddles or bridles. We used the mane for a bridle, but as for saddle, we never thought of one. When we had learned to mount and ride, we just sprang on our pony as easily as you boys hop on a street-car. Away we would go over the prairie, over hills, among rocks and boulders, splash through creeks or race through woods. Riding was part of our life.

Our ponies were sure-footed, but now and then one would lose his footing and down both boy and pony would go. Quick as the pony was up on its feet so was the boy, just as if nothing had happened. Scattered over the prairie here and there were colonies of prairie dogs. These little creatures covered the ground with holes so thick that it was sometimes hard for our ponies to avoid going into one. If a pony's foot slipped into one of these holes, there was sure to be a spill. But even these we got used to. Like all my Sioux playmates I wore my hair streaming down my back, and during the warm weather of the summer months wore only a breech-cloth of buckskin. I was a real 'wild' little Indian.

Our ponies were hardy little fellows and knew how to take care of themselves when turned out to range. They were small but very strong. A hunter would come home with a buffalo that he had killed and dressed hung over the pony's back. The load would almost hide the little animal from view, yet oftentimes they plowed home for miles through deep snow without showing much fatigue. When turned loose they dug in the snow with their sharp little hoofs to get to the grass that had turned into hay under a covering of snow. These little ponies were very sure-footed even on the ice. If a pony was running fast and came to a frozen stream, he would set his feet and skate across, never losing his balance. Where a buffalo stumbled and fell, our little ponies kept up. They were very quick in turning if in pursuit of buffalo or other horses, and it was the part of a good rider to keep his seat and take the turn with the pony. No matter if the pony fell and we were thrown clear of his body, we were supposed to be up and on his back by the time he had regained his feet. Even if we were injured, it was part of our training never to stay down. It was not with the idea of doing 'fancy' riding, but the thought of safety first was always in our mind. There could be no more dangerous place for a hunter than to lose his horse in the midst of a buffalo herd. We took falls and bumps which an untrained boy would not be able to stand. Ours was a life that called for strength, quick wit, and skill. But we were as much at home as the little fellow who sells newspapers on a busy street dodging here and there between swift-moving traffic. I believe, though, that outdoor training is very valuable and that every boy should have the advantage of living a clean outdoor life.

When a pony had reached the age of two or three years without riding, it was then necessary to break him. Or when the camp had run short of ponies, it was up to the men to go out on the range to hunt for a herd of ponies and catch some for breaking. First they made ropes of buffalo hide to take with them. The hair was left on these ropes and they were soft but strong. Then each man who wanted to catch a pony had a long willow pole which had been peeled and dried until it was very light in weight. To the end of each pole there was tied the hide rope fastened so as to slide through a loop.

Now the wild horse is not an easy animal to catch. He is wary and a good runner. The horses always travel in bands and there is a scout or watcher for every band. So it is up to the Indian to outwit the pony if he is to make a capture. In the first place, the Indian knows the habits of the wild horse. Then the animal he rides knows just what to do when on the chase for wild ponies, so it is a case of man and his pony working together to get the wild pony in a trap. Sometimes the whole camp almost will turn out for a horse hunt. The scouts go out ahead of the hunters and locate a wild herd, preferably in a small valley. Then the hunters line up behind the hills at the four directions and out of sight of the horses in the valley. Some of the hunters will show themselves over the top of the hill from one of the directions, say the north. The wild ponies naturally turn in the opposite direction, or south. Finding hunters coming over the hill there, the wild herd will turn in another direction. But finding themselves hemmed in will start circling in the center of the valley following their leader.

After a while they will begin to tire, and then it is that the hunters get in their midst. Each hunter now selects a wild pony. When close enough to his capture, he puts the loop on the end of his willow pole over its head. The loop tightens and holds him fast. Now begins the task of getting the tame pony and wild pony acquainted. of course the tame pony is quite fresh while the wild pony is getting weary. The rope about the wild pony's neck is made into a halter and he is tied to the gentle pony's tail, the rope being long enough to pass around the shoulders of the tame pony. The two ponies being tied together in this manner must travel together. This they don't willingly do at first, but the wild pony is not long in finding out that it is much more comfortable to follow peacefully and that he is not being hurt.

Perhaps you wonder why the captured pony submits so readily. One reason is this: There is no loud yelling, no cursing and swearing, and no whipping of our ponies. No commotion is made except that made by the feet of the running animals. In the first place, the Indian is not the noisy creature that most white people think him. He is quiet and dignified about his work. He realizes the value of keeping quiet and that is one of the first lessons of the hunter. If every one began to yell and scream, the tame pony as well as the wild one would share this mood and there would be much confusion. Besides, there are no swear words in the Sioux language and no Sioux boy ever indulged in swearing and cursing. I have never seen, in all my experience at big round-ups, the white men able to do their work without terrible cursing at their animals. The white man has never learned the use of his tongue.

Another thing we never did among the Indians was to use hot irons to mark and burn our animals which the white people call branding. The first time we saw a branding ceremony we were filled with disgust. It is a pitiable sight to see three or four men sitting on top of a helpless animal holding a white-hot iron on the shivering beast until the stench of burning flesh fills the nostrils. We had no humane societies in my time, but I know that we were humane and many times were puzzled at the things that the white man did and said.

When the hunting party reached camp, the wild horses were roped and thrown. The right fore foot was tied to the left hind foot and the left fore foot to the right hind foot. When on his feet again, he was not cruelly bound, yet he was not able to strike with the fore feet nor kick with the hind feet. The next step was to convince him that he would not be hurt. His ears, mane, and back were stroked, a rope put around his neck and he was coaxed to lead. I have seen my father break many horses, and it was he who taught me that it was never necessary nor was it right to be cruel. No animal, no matter how small, but will fight back if its captor forces it to. So I learned that force is not wise nor is it just. When I grew older and my father had passed away, I owned and ran a farm where I raised and trained many horses and I never forgot what he taught me.

Indian boys were all good riders. But we tried to do more than just stay with our horses as they went over all kinds of ground. We boys used to imagine we were in battle and tried to think of the many things that might happen and how we would meet them. This was to make us quick-witted and brave. In facing an enemy, we knew it was a good idea to keep out of sight as much as possible. Sitting straight up on the horse put a warrior in plain sight of the enemy. So we practiced sitting on the side of our horses while in full speed. A number of us boys would get on our ponies and go out to an open space where we had plenty of room. There we would take turns in riding up and down in front of the rest of the group while they looked on. Pretending that we were riding in front of an enemy, we would lean away over on the side of our pony out of sight of our supposed enemy. Just our knee would be over the pony's back, but our head and body would be out of sight. We would ride this way until after considerable practice we would be able to stay in this position at full speed with just our heel over the pony's back. Only a foot would be visible to the enemy, so there was not much to shoot at.

Then we trained our pony to walk or run right up to anything we wanted him to. We picked out a good-sized bush, shrub, or trunk of a tree. Our pony was trained to run up as close as he could to the object without dodging. Our pony must learn to go wherever he was told. Even if there was shooting, yelling, and great noise and much confusion, a well-trained pony would go anywhere he was told to go by his rider.

So boy and pony trained together for warfare. We grew hardy and the more we could stand the better we liked it. Although we scarcely ever fought among ourselves, still we played quite rough with one another. We often tried to see how much the other fellow would stand and we were anxious to take all the rough handling we got. None of us wanted to be quitters. We wanted to be courageous and good-tempered. We pelted each other, we wrestled, we kicked and hit each other, but all in fun. Of course, we got hurt sometimes as do all boys, but we grew so hardy in body that we did not really mind. I have had the tears come to my eyes, but I would remember my father's words, 'Son, be brave; never give up. Fight to the last, and make up your mind that you will win!' With all this physical discipline there was a mental training as well. Although I have lived many years and been in many trying situations, I have never yet struck a person in anger.

Some Indians kept just enough ponies to get along with in their moving, but others kept on hand extra ponies. Wealth in those days was gauged by the number of ponies kept. The well-to-do man had many ponies, for his tipis were larger. It took many poles for the large tipi and many horses to carry the poles. My father had a great many ponies. Every time he went on a wild-horse hunt, he caught one or more, and then we raised them too. When we were ready to move, although it required many to do so, there were always plenty of ponies besides a number that ran loose. The ponies that ran loose were usually race or war ponies. The ones that carried the tipis and poles were the packing-ponies. They were good, but not fast, runners. One time we were moving from the Snake River to the Niobrara River. I was only a little fellow, but it was my job to drive the loose horses. I rode an iron gray pony and he was a racer. He was quite young, full of life and had a tender mouth. He was not a trained animal, but just a natural racer. When ready, I started out after the loose ponies slowly. I did not care to give this racer a chance to start running with me. Now and then the ponies would stop and eat, then, when they saw me coming near, would run on ahead a short distance. They seemed to know that, though this was moving day, no one was rushing, so they played along. I was having a good time and did not notice how far behind the moving I really was. Just ahead of me was a hill. Some of the ponies reached the top of the hill and noticed the horses and caravan far ahead of them. They started to run at full speed. Soon the entire herd that I was driving was going at full speed. My pony was too much of a racer to stand this, so he began jumping here and there. He, too, was ready to go. I held him, but when we had reached the top of the hill and I saw the rest of the herd about a half mile ahead of me, I became frightened. The hill was steep, and I knew my pony would follow the rest of the herd unless I could hold him. In a few minutes he was running down that steep hill and I was unable to do a thing with him. I was only about six years of age and, although a good rider for my age, I knew I was not good enough to stay with this horse. I could picture myself falling off and his racing on without me. I was so scared I began to cry, for I was beginning to feel sorry for myself. With eyes full of tears I kept holding to my pony, pulling the bridle first to one side and then the other with all my strength. He would lunge first to one side, then the other. Again he would take a notion to stand straight up. It was beginning to take real horsemanship to stay with this fellow. But after a while we reached the rest of the herd, and then I stopped crying. It was then that I felt ashamed of myself, but I was all alone and no one saw me. I am telling this now for the first time. The next day I asked my stepmother if I could have another pony. She said that I might take the sorrel pony. He was older and, as I had ridden him before, I knew him or thought I did.

The next day of the moving I felt quite happy. The sorrel pony was satisfied to move along with a little pace and I sang the songs that I had learned from my father. In fact I became a little careless about my work. That morning there had been a little rain and this made the loose ponies want to frisk about and kick their heels in the air. I enjoyed this very much, never for a moment thinking that my pony would do the same thing. But he did and just as we got to a high bank. So suddenly did he take a notion to jump and run that it was all unexpected. I landed on the sheer edge of this high bank. It was steep; besides, there was nothing to catch as I went down and it was a long roll before I got to the bottom. There was brush growing on this slope, but it was dry and full of stickers, so by the time I had finished my fall, I was scratched all over my body. There were cuts on my forehead, around my eyes, and on my chin. The blood trickled down my face, and when I saw this I started to cry.

One of my stepmothers saw me fall and she rode over to me. She picked me up and, when she saw me crying, she said, 'Be brave, son. You are not a girl.' When I heard her say this, it made me want to show her that I could be brave, so I started to smile through my tears.

I rode behind stepmother until we reached camp and there they were all so good to me. They washed my face, all waiting on me as if I were a hero. When I saw father that night, he looked at me, saying, 'Son, I am proud of you that you did not cry like a woman.' My stepmother was there when he said this, but not a word was said about my crying. On each little cut or scratch father put a dot of red paint. I was then all painted up like a man who had returned from war. When all in the tribe had seen me, the paint was washed off and soon after that my face was all healed. The memory of those cuts and bruises wore away, but my stepmother's kindness in not telling on me shall always be remembered. It was her own sweet way of encouraging me always to be brave.

I have told you that we rode bareback most of the time, and so we did. However, we did have saddles which I consider much more comfortable than the white man's saddle. Our saddles were made of moose hide, which is very soft when tanned. A piece of moose hide was cut so that when folded it would form an oblong square. The hair was left on the hide, which was turned so that the hair would be on the inside. This made a soft filling for this pillow-shaped saddle. The hair of the moose never mats up, but gives the saddle the feeling of being down-filled. It was not only very soft to ride on, but very light in weight. The stirrups were made of wood covered with rawhide. To the Indian the white man's saddle, with its stiff leather seat reënforced with wood and metal, seems very heavy and clumsy. They are hard on a horse's back, which is another thing the Indian thinks of. Whenever his pony's back gets wet with sweat, the saddle is taken off and carried by the rider until the animal's back is dry. The Indian saddle is of no weight to the one carrying it and can be thrown over the shoulder when walking. The white man's saddle is not only very heavy but burdensome, and I have been made sorry more than once at the sight of a poor horse's back that had suffered from the weight and discomfort of these ugly contrivances. There is another thing that an Indian rider often does to spare his horse. He will get off and walk for long distances when on long journeys in order to let his horse regain strength and become refreshed.