The Uncollected Prose of Pauline Johnson

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Gambling Among the Iroquois

The Red Indian has the reputation of being the most inveterate of gamesters, and of even in a semi-civilised state adopting with marvelously adroit understanding the “white” habits of acquiring money and various lesser possessions through the means of cards, horses, and other “cultivated” pastimes. But the Red man at his own national gambling games is a far more absorbing and picturesque sight than one at a racecourse or a casino, for at his own pastimes every attractive feature that can be mentally and physically displayed is called into requisition—his natural athletic tendency, his personal graces, his herculean strength, his antique and statesmanlike craft, all are given opportunity to assert themselves in the vigorous gaming sports whereunto he is heir by blood as well as patriotism.

For the Iroquois games have many times played important parts in the making of the nation. The greatest native game of this continent—La Crosse—has in the olden days been made an affair between tribes, not teams. In the early days bloodshed was no rare occurrence, when two great Red nations met on the field to test their prowess at an ostensibly innocent sport. Both nations knew as they “faced” the ball that for one it meant national supremacy, for the other tribal submission, and consequently it was war to the knife. Hatred, enmity, vengeance found tolerance, and even encouragement, in the sport when perhaps two tribes who were enemies met, almost as much for bloodshed as for matching dexterity on the field. Bitter feuds were settled or aggravated through the medium of the dainty-looking La Crosse stick, for from the old Indian standpoint of etiquette an affray was as permissible and creditable at sport as on the legitimate warpath; and conspiracy was carried on even by the women of the tribe, who frequently went on to the field armed with great birches, with which they belaboured their men-folk into a fury that was spent on their unfortunate opponents, and many and various were the “charms” and “medicines,” the witchcraft and necromancy with which they confused the enemy, the better to ensure success to their own tribe.

One of the most famous historical incidents in America was Pontiac's ingenious device to capture Fort Detroit from the English through the agency of a simple game of La Crosse. The stratagem is too widely known to need comment here, and whether one's sympathies are for or against the sagacious Redskin all must instinctively admire the marvellous tactics of the strategist who could devise such momentous schemes and base them upon an apparently innocent little gambling game. But in the olden days nothing was too valuable for an Indian to risk on La Crosse. The stakes were generally brought on the field, as an incentive to the contestants. Vast quantities of solid silver ornaments, strings of rare purple corn, belts of wampum, bowls of beans, flinten arrow-heads, pipes of stone, tobacco, buckskin, furs, necklaces of bears' claws, bracelets of elks' teeth were heaped up near the goal in sight of the two “teams,” even ponies were brought out and tethered near by, for when an Indian gambles it is for all or nothing. The last thing to go is his gun. When he has lost that he is undone indeed.

He plays a pretty game. There is something in the cat-likeness of an Indian foot that no pale-face athlete can ever hope to acquire—something in the clean-shapen, sinewy limbs that nothing but copper-coloured skin will ever cover. He can dodge, elude, foil and counter-foil with a grace and agility that another man can never imitate, for La Crosse is the Red Man's birthright; he plays it as a poem; he is dexterous, lithe, supple, artistic, yet withal so strong, so powerful, that you imagine young David, the sweet-singing shepherd lad, could never have been more practically agile, either with his music or his string.

Canada has appropriated this as her national game. Her young athletes have modernised it considerably. Scientific play, rules, club regulations, and abolition of bloodshed are some of the innovations claimed as “improvements,” and no prettier or more manly field sport can be seen the civilised world over than two teams of stalwart young Canadians engaging in a La Crosse championship. The skin-tight jerseys may not be as picturesque as the buckskins worn by the Red progenitors of the sport, but the palms throb just as impatiently against the handle of the 'Crosse, the eye is just as alert, the pulse just as full, the nerve at just such a tension, whether White or Red the men who “face” for this initial game.

The two “facers” kneel in centre field, tip their 'Crosses horizontally, the referee places the ball between the nets, and gives the word to “go.” There is a simultaneous smart jerk, and the ball rolls out afield. In a twinkling the lucky man has it in his 'Crosse, and darts with lightning speed up the course; his “check” is at his heels instantly, but with a deft twist of ankle and shoulder he is free; he raises his 'Crosse for a long throw, but his “check” adroitly intercepts the sweep of his arm. The ball spills, and the two fall into a scramble for it. Again the lucky man secures it; he dashes out with it well forward in the netting, and with the fleetness of a deer gains open ground, then poses for a long grand throw, his elbow, arm, wrist respond with wonderful grace and power to his shoulder, the 'Crosse sweeps at an angle impossible to describe, and the ball leaps out, to take a rainbow curve, and fall fifty yards distant in the very midst of a hive of 'Crosses flung upwards to meet it, but eludes them and falls into the grass amid a confusion of feet, legs, arms and 'Crosses that threaten momentarily to form a deadlock. War ensues, scrambling, shouting, body-chocking, when an outside man, whose keen eyes have done more for his team than all his fellows' fighting, pounces upon it, secures it, and triumphantly puts the field between himself and every player on the ground.

Shouts greet him, his captain yells directions to him, his “check” pursues him madly, the spectators cheer, but his cool nerve is steady as a rock. Vainly at the last second does his “check” reach him, take aim for his 'Crosse, and endeavour to outwit him. With tantalising coolness he swerves aside, his 'Crosse holding the ball poised in mid-air. With a magnificent swing and sweep he sends the ball high overhead towards the enemy's flags, only to be met with more battles, more body-chocking, more shouts, more intrigues; so back and forth it flies, now careering overhead, now skimming the sward, now in a victorious 'Crosse, now underfoot, until finally some lithe young strategist secures it, and dashes towards the very jaws of the rival flags. His opponents make a mad dash for him, but he sees nothing, hears nothing; his eye watches the scraps of gay bunting that his fleet course brings nearer and nearer. The excitement runs high, men yell, the two captains shout hoarse orders, the goal-keeper sets his feet firmly, his hands grip his 'Crosse like a vice, he is all on the alert to avert the threatened capture of his fortress, but the young, on-coming conqueror is invincible. Flashing a sagacious look at the goal, with steady hand he takes aim. Behind him his opponents are howling and gaining on him momentarily. There is not a second to lose; a mighty sweep of the 'Crosse, the little ball rips along the netting, splits up the air with a stinging sound, and in defiance of the goal-keeper's 'Crosse, wits and nerves, it whizzes between the flags like a black bullet—the game is won!

Instantly twelve La Crosses are pitched high in the air; twelve triumphant men, wild with the wine of victory, leap, turn handsprings, yell and cheer like madmen; the umpires and captains hold high conclave, the referee is appealed to vainly—it was a clean unquestionable “game”—and the victorious team snatch the hero who “put her through,” and in a fever of delirium hoist him to their shoulders, and carry him in glorious triumph up field to the music of maniacal cheers from the spectators, and perhaps the suffocating beat of a sweet, loyal heart, hidden under the muslins and laces that garment a certain little figure in the grand stand.

La Crosse as a gambling game has practically fallen into disuse amongst the Iroquois in recent years. The great winter sport of snow-snake has, however, held its own, and is yet played with much zest by the Indians on the Ontario Reserves. It is a sport as beautiful and graceful as archery, and one that is absolutely unknown to white people, notwithstanding its dainty science, its adaptability to the winter season, and its quaint novelty.

The game is simple enough, being merely a trial of skill in throwing, the “long distance” man being the winner. As in La Crosse, the stakes are piled up in sight, at the start. The “snake” is a straight, well-seasoned bit of flat hickory or ash, between five and six feet long, and about three-fourths of an inch thick at the “head,” which is slightly weighty and bulky, with an upward turning curve to the “crest.” This “crest” narrows to a nose that is incased in a thimble of hammered lead; oftentimes carved into fantastic shapes.

The “tail” is only half the width and the depth of the “head,” the slope from tip to tip being so gradual that one scarcely perceives it, until when lifting the slender thing the weight of the “head” is noticed.

A small groove in the “tail” makes a pocket for the fore-finger of the thrower, who raises his arm shoulder high, and with a dexterous movement pitches the “snake” forward with such force that after alighting on the snow fifteen or twenty feet distant, it skims away, a wingless bird, with an almost incredible speed. You stand and watch the thing with a strange sense of hallucination. It appears to move slowly, but were you opposite instead of in rear of it you would be dumbfounded at its lightning speed. It shoots past you like a wild thing, it slips away from you like a dream—sliding, gliding, skimming, slipping over the drifts and hummocks, until you wonder if it is really lifeless, or if so the possessor of some strange, rich necromancy, that guides and furthers its course into an unseen goal—so far, so secret seems its destination.

What a fascinating thing it is: what strange life it absorbs from the fingers of a young expert. It shoots forth, arrow-like, a slender, oiled slip of a thing, running the level smoothly, rising apparently without effort up the hill slopes, dropping down the inclines—on, on, on, until it slowly disappears over the crest of a huge drift, and you think it has positively “run out,” but far beyond, on another rise, it skims slower, more stately in its course—ever on, and on, straight, unswerving, and direct. Again it disappears down some wind-blown drift hollow, again it rises on the opposite side: slower still, and slower, until finally its strength is spent, it slackens perceptibly, then laboriously takes a final rise. You hold your breath: surely it will slip backwards this time—but, no, it crawls up the slope, disappears once more, drags its laggard length a few yards along the level and—is still. The boys have caught it up in its last feeble moments, gesticulating, chatting, betting, betting, betting. The faithful thing has made a good run: it is chilled through and through, its underside is smooth and polished as a mirror; for perhaps it has done service through more than one generation, and has more than once run its course to the music of a “witch doctor's” incantations, and the eerie songs of a “medicine charm.”

But during the long winter evenings, while the old folks smoke in the firelight, and tell their strange tales of erstwhile wars and witchcraft, in almost every “Pagan” household the game of Bowl and Beans is begun, perhaps at sunset, to be discarded only at sunrise.

Some young warriors from a neighbouring lodge have come in, athirst for entertainment and gain. No one requires a second suggestion to play, for it is the one great indoor sport of the nation, and they cling to it and love it as they love their rites and legends.

The two players sit “Turk-fashion” on the floor facing each other, with a folded blanket between. Behind or beside each player sits a woman of his clan, who during the play chants from time to time a monotonous formula, and when things “get going” she sometimes stands, waving her hands above her clansman's head in strange, weird movements, to charm the bowl and beans into fortunate throws for his side, or to disquiet his opponent, and overthrow his luck. The bowl used is a polished basswood vessel, ten inches in diameter at the rim and eight at the base, which is quite flat and level. Six peach stones, ground and pared to the smooth portion next the kernel, then burnt black on one side only, are used as “beans,” and one hundred real beans are counted out, and placed at one side on the floor, in the especial charge of the two maidens already referred to. The bowl is now taken up by one of the players, raised with an odd side movement about three inches, and smartly brought down on the blanket. The stones settle instantly, and a count is made: if the stones turn up five of a kind, either colour, one bean is taken from the pile by the maiden on the opposite side, and handed to the maiden on the side that is throwing. If the six stones turn up white, ten beans are handed over, but these two are the only moves that count.

Many a brave has walked miles for an all-night struggle at this game, and yet many more have tied their ponies outside, only to stake and lose the sturdy little animals at a single throw, and many a quaint lone tale has had its beginning at this strange gaming table; for all the fascinations of the play, all the risks, all the skill, cannot blind my young red lord's senses that the gleam of bright black eyes above his shoulder, the purling dance of the stones, with their probable loss and possible gain, cannot drown the sweet incantations she murmurs beside him. Her slim brown finger may mean more to him than the value of the beans she counts to his credit, for youth is youth, whether at Monte Carlo or in the log lodges of the far, wild Indian Bush. The delirium of gaming, the fever of love, have surged through the blood of white and red for many eons, and shall do so unto the end.