The Night of the War Dance: A Frontier Survival Story
A young fur trader, caught in the crossfire of escalating tensions during the Indian Wars, finds his only salvation in the quick thinking of a woman named E-wan.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
Years ago, during the escalation of the first series of murders in the Indian War, Phelix was out in the Big Bend of the Columbia River with an Indian trader, disposing of a large stock of goods highly prized by the local tribes. Phelix and Virginia Bill had not yet heard of the outbreak, but the Indians had, and they soon began to paint up and put on hostile airs generally. One night, the little camp of a dozen traders on the banks of the river was thrown into a hubbub of excitement by the arrival of a larger portion of the tribe, all painted in feathers and furs, singing warlike songs to blood-curdling time, beaten on their vicious sounding drums. Virginia Bill, an old hunter and trader, became nervous, and Phelix—young and unsophisticated, in his first experience among savages—was terrified. He found that for the first time in his life, he could not crack a joke. E-wan, a woman of mixed French and Indian descent who lived with the tribe, saw the danger. She knew the Indians were excited, but believed they would not harm the pair if they joined in the festivities. Under her direction, Bill and Phelix were transformed with paint and costumes into imitation savages. E-wan remained near Phelix the entire night. By morning, when the tired braves went to sleep, Phelix had participated in the war dance, witnessing the horrifying spectacle of his countrymen's scalps displayed in the firelight. Phelix would never forget the ink-black night or the horrid, painted demons with whom he sang the death songs. Poor E-wan, since that night of terror, met a courageous death, the details of which Phelix promises to write at an early day.
“Phelix will not forget that night—not the inky blackness of the terrible night, which the fitful flash of the campfire distorted into hideous silhouettes.”
This account captures the existential anxiety of the colonial frontier, where cultural lines were blurred by necessity and violence. It serves as a stark reminder of how 'territory' was historically constructed—not just through policy, but through nights of terror and shifting alliances that remain haunting layers in the history of the Pacific Northwest.
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