When the Jesuit Fathers, those early French path-finders for civilization in the central region of the American continent, pushed down from Canada over the lakes and by the rivers into the great forest that stretched from the inland sea to the great river, they found a people warlike, indeed, yet hospitable and kindly; reserved and shy, yet open-hearted and unsuspicious; uncivilized according to Old World standards, yet wise in the great secrets of nature; poor as to stores of gold, yet rich in the abundance of all that went to make for their simple necessities, their comfort and their pleasure. So entranced were the Frenchmen with the natural, free, and abundant life of these red men of the forest, and with their noble physical bearing, and untutored courtesy and dignity, that many then and there forever forsook the land and ways of their fathers, and bequeathed the names of France to dusky families, and to streams and lakes and heights.
The Great Sioux Nation, not a people, but a federation of peoples, lay principally to the west—the land of Hiawatha—in what was to become Minnesota, and extended well across the barren plains of Dakota to the Missouri river where possession was disputed by the Blackfeet. The eastern border of the nation
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 rested upon the shores of the two fresh water seas. The central portion of the great forest was the home, principally, of two tribes: to the eastward the Menominees, and to the westward the Winnebagoes. To the south was the land of the Sac and Fox.
From the standpoint of the red man, this land between the Mississippi river and the great lakes could only be equalled by that Happy Hunting Ground on the Isle of the Blest, the home of Manitou, the Great Spirit. Little lakes and running streams, teeming with fish, abounded. Wild fowl and the smaller fur- and game-animals were ever within reach of even the arrows of the unclad children. Blackberries grew in riotous profusion in sandy openings of the forest; while blueberries in the summer and huckleberries in early fall gave a welcome change of diet. Food was plentiful. And as for wild creatures whose taking would test the sagacity and valor of the wisest and bravest, were there not the bear, the panther, and the lynx? While upon the plains west of the great river the neighbors depended upon the bison for winter’s meat, for tent covering and a large portion of their clothing, the great forest afforded the Winnebagoes, for these necessities, the flesh and skins of deer.
It is true that such a bountiful nature bred an improvident disposition, and times of lack and suffering had come to them in the past, but so rare were they, that the tales of such disasters became great epics to be rehearsed and chanted about winter fires.
To this forest had come the welcomed priests and
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 their friendly companions—but that was indeed the beginning of a new order; where one white man puts a foot, there other white men spring up. It would seem strange that from the time of pathfinder Pierre Marquette to the time of pathfinder John C. Fremont, the simple, free, self-sufficient lives of these forest tribes should have been so little disturbed, and yet there was a reason. From the Atlantic coast the white man’s civilization had spread westward, ever westward, opening up farms, building cities—always crowding before it the red man, and appropriating his lands. After the bloody days of the establishing of New England upon the eastern shore, there came, later, Tecumseh, with his vain hope of stemming the tide of invasion. Then still later, in the newer west, Black Hawk, with impassioned words strove to turn the faces of his warriors toward the coming horde. But steadily, surely, the white man pressed forward. As a stream is turned aside by a barrier, to seek some other and easier course, so was this human stream of immigration and occupation for a long time held back by the vast forests of Wisconsin. As yet there was no lack of fertile prairies ready for the plow, and so the tide swept below and on around the home of the Winnebagoes. It crept up into Minnesota, and, still westward, planted its outpost at beautiful little lake Cheteck, the head of the Des Moines river. Here the red men of the plains called a halt. From Cheteck to New Ulm they wrote their fearful warning in blood and fire. The answer of the whites was quick and no
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 less terrible, and so relentless, that many of these plains folk took refuge among their neighbors in the Winnebago forests. For three hundred years the history of the Winnebagoes and Menominees had been one of almost unbroken peace with the whites. While there had been settlements made here and there, so far there had been no serious crowding. There was yet room and food in plenty; and abundance of food predisposes to peace.
But the white dwellers of the cities and on the plains farms increased; always new homes were to be built; the small forests were soon exhausted, and the lumber scout came on to view the great woods of Wisconsin.
In early days when white men desired the skin of otter or beaver possessed by an Indian he might give the red man a bit of copper wire as barter, but he took the skin. So it was when the great forests of pine and oak and ash became desirable to the white man, he did not steal outright the home of the red man; he made some sort of present in return, as he took the land. To the Winnebagoes was allotted, as exchange for their claim to the forests which had sheltered and nourished the generations of their ancestors, a treeless, waterless tract in the far south, in what had been called the “Indian Territory.” To be sure they had had nothing to say as to the trade, and entertained no notion of going to their new “home,” but the white man had appeased his conscience, and the red man would now be considered an intruder in the forest.
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When Rob and Ed Allen came with their father’s family to live upon the Necedah river there was a band of perhaps an hundred Winnebagoes making their lodge in Big Bend. The chief, following custom, had taken a “white” name, after that of a man who had befriended him, and was known, not as Jim Miner, but as “Miner Jim.” Miner Jim’s wife was the daughter of a Menominee chief, and was called by the whites “Menominee Mary.” Mary was every inch a red princess. Magnificently proportioned, and of nature imperious, her word held at least equal authority in the tribe with the chief. While it was customary among the Indians for a brave, and especially a chief, to have several wives, Menominee Mary reigned the sole spouse in the tepee of the Winnebago chief. Their eldest child was Ka-li-cha-goo-gah, and, according to Indian custom, which traces descent through mother to son, instead of through father to son, the lad was considered a Menominee.
Between this Indian lad of about their own age, and the Allen boys, and their neighbor, Dauphin Thompson, there sprang up a warm friendship. The white boys and the red one were together upon many a hunting trip, and in the berry season gathered their basswood-bark baskets full of fruit side by side. Buckskin moccasins ornamented with elaborate beadwork designs by Menominee Mary, broad, ash-bowed snow shoes for winter hunting, and a soft, lynx-fur robe attested the love the son of the chief bore his white comrades.
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 And in return his delight was great in the gift of a score of steel traps with which he would gather in a harvest of muskrat pelts from the lodges on Iron Creek marsh during the months of deep snow. Living as members of this band were two young people, a boy nearly grown, whose red, stubby hair, and smiling, freckled face was, as Dauphin declared, a “plain map of Ireland.” The other was a girl apparently twelve or thirteen years of age, with wavy, dark brown hair, and eyes as blue as a summer sky. Whether these young folk were able to speak English, the white boys could not tell. They never answered a question put to them in that tongue, and the older Indians seemed adverse to having them associate with the white lads. Uncle Sam Thompson told the boys the story of the Minnesota massacre and gave, as his suspicion, that some of this band of the Big Bend were really refugees from the Sioux who were in that uprising, and that the two evidently white children were really captives taken at that time.
During the year of which I write the boys had been freely received at the Indian camp, and, what few whites had been permitted to behold, had been allowed to attend their stated occasions of worship, the ceremonial dances. The Fish Dance in the spring, the Green Corn Dance in the summer, the Harvest Dance and the Hunting Moon Dance in the autumn, were of strange interest to these town-bred boys.
“I tell you what I’d like to see,” said Ed Allen, as they were going home from one of these, to them,
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 grotesque performances, “I would like to go to a sure-enough scalp dance, or war dance.”
“You can be thankful, young man,” replied Dauphin, “that you are permitted to see what you have seen without having those other dances added. White men who have been spectators have seldom found either of these performances pleasant, if indeed they had any opportunity to tell about them afterward.”
As the winter season approached, there seemed to come a change in the attitude of the Indians toward their visitors. Kalichigoogah was often silent and moody with his friends, and the older Indians, while never rude, offered little welcome to the whites.
There had been a series of more or less disastrous fires here and there in the great forest, and the lumbermen who were busily gaining title to these lands laid the blame upon the Indians. The representation they made to the government at Washington was that the Indians, if not revengefully guilty, were at least carelessly so, as forest fires would be sure to be kindled from their campfires. Moreover, they declared, the Winnebagoes were trespassers in the forest; the government had allotted them a reservation in the Indian Territory, and they called upon the authorities at Washington to see that these Indians were “returned” to the place where they belonged.
To one acquainted with the manner of Indian life, the charge that forest fires were set from the campfires of the red men, would be ridiculous. Such fires might, and doubtless did, start from the campfires of
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 white hunters and timber scouts, but never from a fire built by an Indian. In the first place, the forest was the very life of the Indian. He understood that any harm to the big woods meant harm to himself. A white man would build his fire by a log or dry stump, and pile on plenty of sticks and limbs. He would have a big fire—and go away leaving it burning careless of consequences. On the contrary, the Indian, who for generations had lived in the possible presence of a keen-eyed enemy, was very cautious about letting a smoke rise above the tree tops to call attention to himself. Consequently his fire was small—just a few little sticks, or pieces of bark brought together, and always the fire extinguished, and generally the very ashes concealed, as the hunter or warrior left his camping place.
Friends among the whites had sent word to the Winnebagoes of the purpose of the Great Father at Washington to take them from the land of their fathers and hold them upon the bleak prairies where there was no forest shade, no cool lakes, no sparkling rivers, but fierce winds, and dust clouds, and marauding Comanches.
The red man is called cruel and treacherous, but to the Winnebagoes the white race, at this time, seemed the incarnation of all that is unjust and hateful. It is small wonder that Miner Jim’s band grew moody, and distant in their attitude toward their former friends.
Spring came in somewhat late. Up until April the
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 river was still floating large cakes of ice. In that latitude the corn-growing season is none too long at best, and the Allen boys would have to make every hour count when the land became dry enough to work.
“Rob,” said Ed, one bright, warm day, “I believe that upper meadow could be plowed now, if we had another yoke of steers to hitch to our 14-inch plow. I’m going over to see if Dauph won’t hitch in with his steers for a few days and work time about.”
It was late in the evening before Ed and Dauphin finished their arrangements for the partnership plowing, and when Ed reached Big Bend, twilight had fallen over the prairie; within the wood it was already dark. The long-drawn cry of a grey timber wolf came sharp and clear to the boy on the frosty spring air. In a moment it was answered by the house dogs of the distant farm. A Great Horned Owl, lingering late before departing for his summer home in the arctic region, boomed a deep-voiced “Hoo-hoo-ah” as it arose like a ghost all in white from a limb above the path. Then there came to the ears of the boy other sounds, so strange and confusing that he was compelled to stop and listen. Evidently the noise was over in Big Bend. The Indian camp! But what was going on? The Indians are not accustomed to much noise making. Could it be that some vicious white man, as had occurred at other places, had brought in the forbidden “fire water” to inflame and debauch the red men for their own evil ends?
For himself, the lad did not think of being afraid.
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 These Indians were his friends. If wicked white men were there, seeking them harm, his father would see that they received merited punishment. It was not yet late; he could easily reach home in time. He would go over to the Indian camp and learn the cause of the commotion.
As he drew near, a lean cur with hair standing like bristles upon its back, made a dash at his heels, but slunk away as it took the familiar scent of one it had learned was a friend. As the lad came within fifty yards of the place he had a view of what was going on. A large space to the east of the camp had been cleared, and around this space, in a circle, were squatted the women and children of the tribe. Small fires, here and there, but partially lit up the camp, and threw weird shadows, now upon the surrounding forest, now upon the cleared ground. All about in the circle were different ones beating upon tom-toms, small drums fashioned by stretching buckskin tightly over ash hoops. They were chanting some song in a high-pitched, monotonous, though not unmusical tone, and in perfect cadence. Ed’s gaze lifted from the musicians to the top of the pole planted in the center of the circle, from which dangled—what was it? Hair! Yes, unmistakably, a number of dried human scalps. A cold hand seemed to grip the spine of the boy, and each individual hair of his head seemed trying to pull itself out by the roots. He sank to the thick bed of pine needles on the ground, thankful that he had been standing in the shadow of a great tree.
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It was well that he was hidden, for just then began the strangest ceremony he had ever witnessed, and which few, indeed, of the white race had ever beheld and come away to describe. The Indians sprang into the circle, stark naked save for the narrow loin-cloth, their bodies painted black, with broad red and yellow stripes, their faces “decorated” with hideous lines and patches of color. Those who had been warriors, wore upon their heads the bonnet or headdress ornamented with eagle feathers, each feather marking some great deed, which the voice of the old men of the tribe had decided to be a claim to honor. The younger Indians had each one or two, or possibly three feathers fastened in the thick braids of black hair which hung down their backs. As they sprang into the circle, it could be seen that all carried some kind of weapon. With bodies swaying and gesticulating, they went around and around, one following the other, in perfect time with the beating of the tom-toms and the shrill singing of the women. At first all seemed to be a confusion of gesture, but as the dance proceeded the boy on the ground saw that each Indian was acting out in pantomime a story, and that story was the pursuit, capture, and death of an enemy. Crouching, crawling, springing, running, aiming with gun, striking with tomahawk, scalping with the knife, and leaping away in triumph, all were unmistakably portrayed by the redmen dancing in perfect rhythm about the scalp-decked pole.
“It is a war dance,” gasped the watching lad.
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 “They’re getting ready to go on the war path. I must get home and warn the folks—if I can.”
Slowly he began to crawl backward into the deeper shadows, away from that fearful place. What if the dogs should come upon him and bark, even in sport? What if quick ears should hear the snap of a broken twig? Would they not think him a spy? Would they take him along as a prisoner; or would they build a fire about that pole in the center and tie him there after having added his scalp to their collection?
It seemed that he was hours in crawling backward out of the light of those fires, away from the horrid din, away from the all too suggestive dancing of those hideous, naked figures. All at once he found himself at the river bank. Creeping down, he quietly let himself into the cold water, and clutching grass and root, and overhanging branch, he cautiously, and with painful slowness, made his way down stream. He was numb with the fright of his experience, as well as the chill of the water, and scarcely able to walk, when he reached the opening of the forest, half a mile from the Indian camp. As he was about entering the path leading to his home, he stumbled and nearly fell over someone lying prostrate on the dead leaves.
“It is some watcher. I’m lost,” flashed through the mind of the boy. But a familiar movement of an arm of the stretched-out figure caught his attention. Could it be? it was Kalichigoogah. For some moments the Indian boy would answer no question of his white friend, but finally he burst out in a sob.
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“Me no let dance. Me no let fight. Them say no Winnebago, me Menominee.”
The two white families made such preparations as were possible to withstand an attack, but no harm appeared during the night, and a cautious investigation the following day showed the camp deserted; the women and children as well as the war party gone.
Two days later the cause for the strange action of the Indians was learned, when Captain Hunt, in charge of a squad of regular soldiers, appeared at the home of Mr. Thompson. The Indians had been warned that the petition of the lumbermen had been granted by the authorities at Washington, and that they were to be forcibly removed from their forest home to the inhospitable plains of the South. They did not seek war with their brothers, but they would not tamely give up their home. They would take the women and children to the friendly care of the Menominee, and then, if they must, they would die as befitted a brave race.
The soldiers easily caught the trail of the fleeing band, and on the third day after the war dance, the entire band, women, children, and warriors, were surrounded, captured, and taken away to the Indian Territory.
I may say that the stay of these Winnebagoes upon their reservation was not long. One after another, stragglers from the band came back, until before the close of the second season the majority were again living in their beloved forest home.