too important a character for
that. Indeed she is not often two days in the same place. Her wanderings
are not, however, of any great extent, so that she can always be found
when wanted. But her wigwam is about seven miles from the fort, and she
is never much farther off. Her occupations change with the day. She has
been very busy of late, for Checkered Cloud is one of the medicine
women of the Dahcotahs; and as the Indians have had a good deal of
sickness among them, you might follow her from teepee to teepee, as she
proceeds with the sacred rattle [Footnote: Sacred rattle. This is
generally a gourd, but is sometimes made of bark. Small beads are put
into it. The Sioux suppose that this rattle, in the hands of one of
their medicine men or women, possesses a certain virtue to charm away
sickness or evil spirits. They shake it over a sick person, using a
circular motion. It is never, however, put in requisition against the
worst _spirits_ with which the Red Man has to contend.] in her hand,
charming away the animal that has entered the body of the Dahcotah to
steal his strength.

Then, she is the great legend-teller of the Dahcotahs. If there is a
merry-making in the village, Checkered Cloud must be there, to call to
the minds of the revellers the traditions that have been handed down
from time immemorial.

Yesterday, wrapped in her blanket, she was seated on the St. Peters,
near a hole which she had cut in the ice, in order to spear the fish as
they passed through the water; and to-day--but while I am writing of
her, she approaches the house; even now, her shadow falls upon the room
as she passes the window. I need not listen to her step, for her
mocassined feet pass noiselessly through the hall. The door is slowly
opened, and she is before me!

How tall she is! and with what graceful dignity she offers her hand.
Seventy winters have passed over her, but the brightness of her eye is
undimmed by time. Her brow speaks of intellect--and the white hair that
is parted over it falls unplaited on her shoulders. She folds her
blanket round her and seats herself; she has a request to make, I know,
but Checkered Cloud is not a beggar, she never asks aught but what she
feels she has a right to claim.

"Long ago," she says, "the Dahcotah owned lands that the white man now
claims; the trees, the rivers, were all our own. But the Great Spirit
has been angry with his children; he has taken their forests and their
hunting grounds