There lay, helpless upon the floor, and apparently at the point of death, a squaw of some eighteen years;— she, in her eagerness, had swallowed nearly a pint of the vile stuff, undiluted, and now experienced its dreadful consequences.
But most conspicuous in the throng was a large, obese, cross-eyed Indian, earnestly engaged in his medicine-performances for her recovery.
A breech-cloth was his sole garb, as, with eyes half strained from their sockets and volving in a strange unearthly manner, he stood, first upon one foot and then upon the other, alternately—then, stamping the floor as if to crush it through, and meanwhile, grunting, screeching, and bellowing, and beating his breast or the wall with his clenched fists, —then, with inhaled breath, swelling like a puff-ball, he would bend over his patient and apply sugescents to her mouth, throat and breast.
This done, sundry ejections of saliva prepared his mouth for the reception of an ample draught of water, with which he bespatted her face and forehead.
But yet, all these extraordinary efforts failed to produce their designed effect. The poor squaw grew weaker, and her breathing became fainter and more difficult.
Some powerful restorative must be adopted, or she will soon be beyond the reach of medicine, —so thought the officiating doctor; or, at least, his succeeding antics indicated that such were the cogitations of his mind. Standing for a minute or two in the attitude of reflection, an idea stuck him. Ah, he has it now! This cannot fail.
Snatching a butcher-knife and hastening with it to the fire, he heats the point to redness upon the coals, —then balancing it between his teeth, at a toss he flings it vaulting above his head and backward upon the floor, then, re-catching it, he goes through the performance a second and a third time.
Thus premised, he addresses himself with threefold energy to the grotesque and uncouth manoeuvres before described. If he had stamped his feet, he now stamps them with a determination hitherto unknown;—if he had thumped his breast and beat the walls, he now thumps and beats as if each blow were intended to prostrate the object against which it was directed, — if he had grunted, screeched, and bellowed, he now grunts, screeches, bellows, and yells, till the very room quakes with the reverberations of demoniac noise;— if he had
gagged, puffed, and swelled, he now gags, puffs, and swells, as if he would explode from the potency of his extraordinary inflations.
Then, with an air of confidence, he hies to his patient and commences a process of manipulation from her breast downwards, and reverse, —and then again he repeats his previous operations, with scrupulous exactness and unsparing effort, in all their varied minutiæ.
But, alas for the medicine-man!—the squaw died, despite the omnipotence of his skill!
Then was enacted another such a scene of piteous wailing, as Indians alone have in requisition, as vent for their grief.
After the usual preliminaries, the corpse of the deceased was placed upon a scaffold beside that of Susu-ceicha, the old chief of whom I have spoken of in a former chapter. Each member of the bereaved family deposited
