Across the Fence; The Pawnee on Pumpkin Creek

Long before the early trappers,

traders and explorers

ventured into the Great

Plains the Pawnee claimed

a territory that included

more than half of what would

someday be called Nebraska.

From the fork of the Loup

and the North Platte Rivers,

west to the confluence of the

North and South Platte their

hunting grounds covered an

expanse of land that stretched

from present day Ogallala

to Lincoln. Their northern

boundaries reached into the

Badlands of the Dakotas and

lurched southward across

the Republican to the southern

banks of the Smoky Hill

River of central Kansas. At

this time the Pawnee people

numbered more than 10,000

but by the mid-1800s, through

disease, starvation and war,

their numbers had declined

to fewer than 1,500.

The primary villages of

the Pawnee were located in

the eastern portion of their

territory at Genoa, but their

hunting grounds extended

into the western and southern

regions. In the 1830s,

Pawnee hunting parties had

ventured into the Panhandle

where herds of buffalo, larger

than those in their traditional

range, flourished on the

native grasses. Reports of the

herds prompted a large village

of Pawnee to migrate

into this area. Of course,

the Sioux, as well as the

Cheyenne, also claimed these

hunting grounds—and so it

was that bitter tribal wars

pitted the Pawnee against

the Sioux and Cheyenne in

a long, violent and deadly

rivalry. Eventually the Sioux

and Cheyenne prevailed

and by the early-1870s the

Pawnee had been pushed

back into the eastern regions

of their once expansive territory.

This animosity between

the Pawnee and their rivals

greatly benefitted the U.S.

military in the Indian Wars

of 1864 through the 1880s, as

the Pawnee Scouts assisted

in the defeat and eventual

surrender of their longtime

enemies.

In the Nebraska

Panhandle, we generally

think of the Sioux and

Cheyenne when contemplating

the history of Native

Americans, however the

Pawnee also have a rich history,

right here in our own

backyard.

According to Pawnee legend,

along about 1835 a large

village of Pawnee migrated

into the Nebraska Panhandle.

They set up a somewhat permanent

camp in a fertile valley

on the southern slopes of

a range of sandstone bluffs

that ran east to west. In this

valley a small stream snaked

eastward where it eventually

dumped into the North Platte

River. Along this tributary

the Pawnee planted their

crops that, along with other

vegetables, included the

Pompon. This plant had been

introduced to the Pawnee

by the early trapper Manuel

Lisa and had become a staple

of the Pawnee people. In the

eastern plains, where rainfall

was more abundant, the

Pompon would sometimes

grow as large as 150 pounds.

In the drier climate of the

Panhandle, the size was considerably

smaller.

It was nearly 200 years

ago when the Pawnee planted

the Pompon, known also

as the Buffalo Gourd, along

the small creek. More than

a hundred years later early

cattlemen, up from the Texas

plains, would graze their

cattle in this valley and

named the creek after the

“wild pumpkins” that grew

there. The creek became

known as Pumpkin Creek,

and the range of sandstone

bluffs along the northern rim

of the valley became known

as the Wildcat Hills.

But there is more than

the seed of the Pompon that

grows from the legend of this

Pawnee migration. In the village

was a very old woman

who by custom had, without

protest, agreed to be left

behind. It was not unusual

for the weak and infirm

to be abandoned when the

tribe moved on and, though

a small amount of food was

left with them, it was certain

that starvation would eventually

draw the last breath

from their aged bodies.

However, to the good fortune

of this old woman, there

was a single relative who took

pity on her and defied the

long held tradition. The frail

and ancient matriarch had a

young grandson who was destined

to become a brave and

honored warrior among the

tribe. Ignoring the ridicule

and harassment of his fellow

warriors the young man

returned to his grandmothers

lodge, assisted her in gathering

her meager belongings

and at times carried the old

woman in his arms, following

after the advancing caravan.

As they followed behind, they

kept themselves from starvation

by eating the scraps of

food left on the ground by

those who traveled ahead and

at night they huddled together

under the tattered hides of

the old woman’s lodge.

One day, as they fell further

and further behind the

main village, they happened

to come upon an old and crippled

horse that lay beside

the trail. The horse was dun

in color with a raw and sore

back, bloated belly and tightly

drawn skin over sharply

defined ribs. The young brave

took pity on the poor beast due

in part because of his compassion

and not wanting to leave

the horse at the mercy of the

wolves that often followed in

search of scraps left behind.

Also because of pride—the

young man wanted at least

one horse no matter how poor

it was. Although half-starved

the horse served the young

man and the old woman well

by carrying their lodge.

After a time the village,

followed by the stumbling

horse, the frail old woman

and the exhausted young

brave, reached the base of

a large butte that stood singularly

on the far-reaching

plain and shadowed a smaller

butte that stood beside

it. Unknown to the Pawnee

at the time, these buttes

would soon bear the names of

Courthouse and Jail Rock. At

the base of the sandstone fortress

the Pawnee made camp

and having seen considerable

sign of buffalo sent out scouts

to locate the herd. In a short

while the scouts returned

with news of a large herd

only a few miles to the south,

and in the herd had been

seen a spotted buffalo calf.

Among the Pawnee, a

Spotted Robe was considered

powerful medicine and the

chief immediately sent out

criers to announce to the village

that a charge would be

made to capture the calf with

the spotted hide. To the warrior

who brought back the

spotted hide would be the

enviable prize of the chief ’s

daughter as his bride.

The young brave ran to the

lodge of his grandmother and

told her of the planned charge

and the coveted prize. He

quickly mounted the emaciated

dun horse and was soon

the object of rude laughter

and ridicule. Disheartened

the young man rode away

from the gathering warriors.

Suddenly the frail old horse

turned his head, looked up at

his hopeful rider and spoke:

“Take me to the stream and

plaster me with mud; my

legs, my head and my back.”

The young man obeyed the

horses command and led the

dun to the creek and smeared

him with handfuls of mud.

When all the other warriors

had assembled for the

chase someone shouted, “Looah!”

and away they rode. The

dun horse, now covered with

mud, was suddenly rejuvenated

and the young warrior

swung astride his steed and

raced away. The old horse

ran with the swiftness of a

bird and soon overtook the

other warriors who watched

in amazement as the mudcovered

dun flew past and

was soon far ahead and lost

from sight on the far-reaching

prairie. The dun quickly overtook

the herd of buffalo and

the young man gave chase to

the spotted calf and its stampeding

mother. When the

other riders finally arrived,

the sleek and muscled dun

stood wet and lathered from

the chase as he watched the

young warrior finish skinning

the spotted calf and begin to

butcher the buffalo cow.

As each hunter returned

to the village they rode

respectfully past the lodge

of the young man’s grandmother

and told her of his

great good fortune, but she

wrongly assumed that they

were tormenting her and ridiculing

her grandson and so

she spoke angrily to them.

No one was able to convince

her that the dun horse had

miraculously outpaced them

all and that her grandson

was still out on the prairie,

butchering a fine, fat cow.

As the sun settled behind

the rim of buttes that

stretched to the distant

horizon, its crimson fire set

the evening clouds ablaze

in bright reds and oranges

that glowed like the charcoal

embers of a campfire. The

painted buttes cast long and

darkening shadows across

the prairie as the Pawnee

lodges pointed shadowed fingers

toward the rising evening

star. It was then that

the brave young warrior rode

triumphantly into camp, the

old dun prancing and snorting

like a green broke colt.

Across the dun’s rump hung

great hunks of buffalo meat,

enough for the grandmother

and plenty for sharing with

others.

The young warrior presented

his grandmother with

the fine robe of the buffalo

cow and for himself kept

the Spotted Robe. The old

grandmother wept for joy at

her good fortune of having

a protector and provider in

her beloved grandson. That

night, in the frail and worn

lodge of the old woman, the

cast-off who had been left

behind, there was a great

celebration. The dun stood

quietly, picketed beside the

lodge.

M. Timothy Nolting is an

award winning Nebraska

columnist and freelance

writer. To contact Tim email;

acrossthefence2day@gmail.

com