Burbank, Chief Blue Horse, 1898
This morning I am glad to shake hands with you through the white man's way, and to tell you through this paper a little of my past history. I am the second son of the great Sioux Chief, Smoke, to whom more than seventy-eight years ago, there was born two sons, viz, Big Mouth and Blue Horse. As Big Mouth was the elder, he became head chief upon the death of our father, but thirty winters past another Sioux chief, named Spotted Tail, laid in ambush and killed my brother. Being of peaceful disposition, I did not shoot the murderer, as I was advised to do but instead, separated and moved with the Milk band of Sioux to another locality. The Blue Horse village afterward became noted as a place of refuge for all white men in distress, and this morning, kind friend, I raise this pipe of truth and do solemnly swear by and in the presence of the Great Spirit, that this brown hand of old Chief Blue Horse has never risen to smite a white man.
I have lived in peace here and have assisted the Great Father (President of the United States) in his work advancing my people from warriors to citizens, and to accept the load and burden of your race and with downcast heart I have noticed my Great Father giving nice carriages and fine horses and building frame houses for some who have murdered many of your race. If you ever in your travels should meet my Great Father, please ask him to remember Blue Horse. White men have their Bible and their Christ to guide them to the life to come. We Indians have our White Cow traditions and brave deeds. Let us wait, my friend, and see who gets there first.
I am now going to leave you, as it were. I hope to meet you again, and I raise my pipe above my head and say, Great Spirit, I pray be good to my friend, the Son of the Shadow-Maker. Toward the pine trees, north, cold winds, treat him kindly toward the rising sun, east, great sun shine on his lodge early every morning toward the place where the Shadow-Maker lives, south, bless your son toward the land of the setting sun, west, waft on the breezes our friend this way. Lowering my pipe of peace, I say, Kind Mother Earth, when you receive my friend into thy maternal bosom, hold him kindly, let the howl of the coyote, the roaring of the bears and mountain lions, the cold blasts of winds swaying the tops of the pine trees be a sweet lullaby to him, that shaketh the hand of your friend.
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