CHAPTER VI 



ON THE TRAIL OF POKAGON 



Pokagon, hereditary chief of the Pottawattomies, until his 

 death three years ago lived 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 "massacre," and called the affair 

 which took place under the old cottonvvood tree on the lake 

 shore, a fight — a square, manly, open fight. 



One early February day in the year 1897 a Chicago news- 

 paper commissioned 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 two 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 every mile of that ride had in it some 

 bird surprise. The thermometer marked zero, and the dis- 

 tance 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. 



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