One winter night, Sleepy Eyes had come in from Swan Lake, and placed his horse at our haystack, while he himself went to the trader's to spend the night. Just before we retired to rest, we heard voices and feet hurrying past our door. I went out and found that two men and a woman were at the stable--the men were shooting arrows into Sleepy Eyes' horse. One of the men said, "I asked uncle for this horse, and he did not give it to me--I am killing it." They had done their work. Perhaps I had interfered unnecessarily--certainly unsuccessfully. As they returned and passed by our cabin, I was behind them, and, as I was stepping in at the door, an arrow whizzed by. Was it intended to hit?
The next morning that Indian started off for whiskey, but a white man passed down the country also, and told the story at Fort Snelling. The result was that the man who killed his uncle's horse was put in the guard-house. Not for that, but for shooting at a white man, he was to be taken down into Iowa, to be tried for assault. The commandant of the post at Snelling doubted whether good would come of it, and I fully agreed with him. And so, in the month of March, Tankamane (Big Walker) and I went down to the fort and procured his release. He promised well--he would drink no whiskey while he lived--he would always be the white man's friend. He signed the pledge and went back with Big Walker and myself. A captain's wife asked how I dared to go in company with that man. I said, "Madam, that man will be my best friend." And so he was. He went up to the Blue Earth hunting-grounds, and brought us in some fine venison hams.
But still intemperance increased. A drunken man went to the mission singing, and asked for food. They gave him a plate of rice and a spoon, but he did not feel like eating then. After slobbering over it awhile, he compelled the white women to eat it. They were too much afraid to refuse. One time Mr. Hopkins and I were both away until midnight, when my friend, Tankamane, while drunk, visited the house and threatened to break in the door. But we reached home soon afterward, and the women slept. Thus we had the "terror and the arrow," but the Lord shielded us.
These were very trying years of missionary work. It was at this time our good friend and brother, Simon Anawangmane, who had come from Lac-qui-parle, gave way to the temptation of strong drink. We were grieved, and he was ashamed. We prayed for him and with him, and besought him to touch it not again. He promised, but he did not keep his promise. He soon developed a passion for "fire water." It was not long before he put off his white man's clothes, and, dressed like an Indian, he too was on his way to the western plains, to buy a horse with a keg of whiskey. There were times of repenting and attempted reformation, but they were followed by sinning again and again. Shame took possession of the man, and shame among the Dakotas holds with a terrible grip. He will not let go, and is not easily shaken off. _Shame_ is a shameless fellow; it instigates to many crimes. So eight years passed with Simon. Sometimes he was almost persuaded to attempt a new life. Sometimes he came to church and sat down on the door-step, not venturing to go in; he was afraid of himself, as well he might be.