The Virginia enterprise. [volume] (Virginia, St. Louis County, Minn.) 1893-19??, 1904-06-17
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A Story of Indian Revenge.
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By Marguerite Stabler.

THERE was no death-dance, no loud
L wailing, no burning. OF the five
survivors of the horrible massacre,
SlkrG was the only one unscathed
When the first ray of daylight thinned
the blackness around her sufficiently to
give her her bearings, she crept out of
her covert, back to the scene. The
white men were gone, but their work
had been we'll done. The grasses were
dabbled with blood, the pools were
clotted and red, there were still faint
'groans from the dying and hooking
grins on the upturned faces of the
dead.
In the midst of the mangled bodies,
Black Wing lay dead. Sikra was only
a squaw; she did not know how to
swoon and drip tears, but the sun was
high before she moved a muscle or
drew a deep breath. When, at last,
however, she trudged over the sand.
slipped into her canoe, and padded
slowly down the bay there was not one
hideous detail of the massacre of In
dian island not scared deep into her
soul. =.
The government was held responsible
for the massacre by outsiders, and the
overt acts of hostility on the part of
some of the chiefs was cited as the
cause by those more closely initiated.
The perpetrators, perhaps citizens of
Eureka, although suspected, were never
charged with the crime, but as time
went on it was generally conceded
to be the work of private individuals,
who had their own object in view. \
AS time went on and the Indians
were herded onto the Hoopa reserva-
ton, the story of the massacre was
buried beneath other debris of it's
kind-treachery on the part of the red
skin and bad faith of the whites
until the stronger race had gotten all
the power into its hands and driven
the Indian, his wrongs and his rights,
out OF the path of progress.
But the lapse of time that accom-
plished this condition did not wipe out
the injustice of Black Wings death
from Sikra's memory. Grown hag>
gard and old in the interim, she had
not lost one detail of the island scene
from her mind. The boy she bore a
few months after the massacre was
nursed and Graded in the hope of re-
venge His lullabies were the death
groans Of the wounded warriors and
the wailings of the women and chill
dren who fell in the struggle. His
first lisping words were VOW of venge-
ance for Black Wings blood. He
knew the grewsome story glibly before
he was old enough to understand it,
and by the time he was able to grasp
the meaning of his early training. re-
venge was written large in the very
fiber Of his being.
He is like Black Wing" Sikra said,
as each year his straight young limbs
grew longer, his 1.-the young frame
stronger. and she saw a hope of her
life's object being realized. Mrs.
Howe, who lived in the big white
house, often asked, when the old squaw
came to do the weekly washing: "Why
don't you make the boy work, Sikra ?"
But she Strengthened her old, bent
back, and grunted: 'Well-a not raise
him for that"
Meantime the boy fished up and
down the streams, content to bask in
the sunshine, or roamed through the
forests and mountain solitudes, idle
but thinking, always brooding, plot
ting, thinking
"You will spoil the boy, Sikra, if
you do not make him work." the kind
woman Of the white house said again,
one afternoon, while pile of snowy
linen grew under the knotted hands OF
the old laundress. "Idleness will get
him into mischief" she added. as. the
stalwart figure of the young buck
swung along the roadside, stopped at
the driveway, and sauntered up to the
back porch. where his mother was
working. No one else could have said
this much to Sikra, for her boy was
the one raw spot in her nature. She
never permitted the kind-hezrted Mrs
Howe's advice to bother her, however,