On the Trail of Pokagon 



By Edward B. Clark 



Pokagon, hereditary chief of the Pottawattomies, until his death three years 

 ago Hved in a hut which stood among the fire-blasted remains of what was once 

 a great Michigan pine forest. Pokagon was writing a book. He toiled early 

 and late at the narrative which he said would give for the first time the Indian's 

 side of the story of the Chicago massacre. The chief rejected the word "mas- 

 sacre," and called the afifair which took place under the old cottonwood tree 

 on the lake shore, a fight — a square, manly, open fight. 



One early February day in the year 1897 a Chicago newspaper commis- 

 sioned me to seek out the old Pottawattomie in his forest retreat, and to get 

 from him an outline of the story which he was writing. I have never been 

 quite able to decide which I found the more interesting, the tv;o hours' talk 

 with the aged Pottawattomie at his fireside in the wilderness, or the drive to 

 his home over snow-covered fields and through the winter woods. Almost ever}' 

 mile of that ride had in it some bird surprise. The thermometer marked zero, 

 and the distance from Hartford, Michigan, to Pokagon's home, twenty-four 

 miles, was made in an open sleigh. The air was perfectly still, however, and 

 with plenty of wraps the cold did not strike deep. Had I known it I could 

 have shortened the journey to four miles by leaving the cars at another station, 

 but I did not make this discovery until the train which had brought me to 

 Hartford was whisking away around a hill in the distance. I have never been 

 sorry that I left the warm Pullman for the cold of the open fields. 



The proprietor of a Hartford livery stable agreed to drive me to Pokagon's 

 dwelling and back again in time to take the late night train to Chicago. It was 

 a matter of forty-eight miles out and back, and with zero conditions and the 

 snow over the fences all the way, we flattered ourselves that we were showing some 

 little fortitude in undertaking the trip. When we had reached the edge of the 

 village we met a party of Indians occupying a box sleigh. One of them was 

 Pokagon's son upon whom now rests his father's mantle. We stopped and talked 

 to the Indians for a few minutes, and while we were getting some hints for 

 the shortening of our journey two woodpeckers flew over our heads and flat- 

 tened themselves against the bole of a big beech tree at the side of the road. 

 I never had seen the species before, but I knew what it was. I wondered if the 

 Indians were true enough to the traditions of their knowledge of wild life in all 

 its forms to give me the name of these stranger birds. I called the chief's 

 son's attention to them and asked him what they were. The two visitors were 

 showing just the tops of their heads around the tree trunk. The Indian looked 

 at them and said simply, "Winter woodpeckers." I asked him whether he 

 never saw them in summer and he answered, "No." Then he went on to tell 

 me that there were "both summer and winter woodpeckers." As members of 



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