The larger tribe was Seminole proper and lived in what is known all over the State as �The Big Cypress,� a dark swamp stretching across the peninsula near the northern end of the everglades. There were then several hundred of the warriors of that tribe. The smaller tribe, consisting of some forty or fifty warriors, staid on a reservation near the head of Pease creek and the Little Outhlacoochee river. The chief of that tribe was Chipco.

Chipco was a noted character. He had two sons, Billy Buster and Billy Harney. The latter was named for Gen. Harney, for whom Chipco had a profound respect and admiration.

One night I had an opportunity of making Chipco�s acquaintance at the little trading post where lived a man named Collins, who acted as government agent. We were out at the little store in the dusk of the evening, when suddenly two strapping warriors came striding up to the door, and each threw down his pack of skins, which he had brought along to bargain for goods. Both grunted out their salutations in broken English, and then seated themselves on a log near the store, which was located near the public road, in the edge of a little clearing surrounded by the boundless forest stretching away for miles and miles on every hand.

As it grew darker, Collins told them to start a fire, and prepare for their camp.

�Chipco comin�, chief. Be here soon,� remarked one of the warriors, as he collected a quantity of dry wood and kindled a fire.

I noticed that instead of making a roaring blaze, around which they might lounge and chat, the Indians found a little hollow, and placing the ends of the fagots together, they crouched close about it as if to prevent their light being observable at any great distance.

Night, in that latitude, is ever beautiful. No matter how stormy the day may prove, at nightfall the sounds melt away beyond the horizon line, and the glowing constellations march in majestic beauty across the cavernous depths of the blue sky. Nor is the night dark and murky like it is farther north. The sun drops down behind the low sand ridges, and a dusky gloom but half obscures the landscapes, and fantastic shadows flit about the dimly visible aisles of the great pine forest. On this particular night the moon, just a little past the full, rose above the solid line of hammock to the eastward, and deluged the drear woods, with a floor [?] of subdued light.

A little lake, four or five miles long by perhaps a mile in width, lay to the northeast, and in this wonderful moonlight it looked like a great vessel of molten silver fringed with shrubby pines and spreading oak trees, draped from bottom to top in this sombre gray moss that waved to and fro in every breeze. Harsh and discordant notes of rare birds and water fowl came from the reedy marshes, intoned by the deep bass notes of an alligator, or the �clink, clank, clink� of the blacksmith bird.

While watching the two savages as they sat in silence around their camp fire I was a little startled by a deep-voiced �Howdee� at my elbow, and turning I beheld a tall, muscular man, of commanding appearance, with a rather stern countenance and indescribable air of a man accustomed to command. It was Chipco. The other two rose at the approach of their chief and saluted him respectfully, saying as few words as possible, and making themselves understood by gesturing.

Chipco threw down a long buckskin bag and began to empty it. What was my surprise to see that the bag contained gophers! There were ten or a dozen of the rough [?] looking old tortoises in the sack, and it must have weighed between 100 and 150 pounds.

The old chief spoke a few words to Collins and myself, and then, at a sign from the chief, the younger of the two warriors, who, as Collins told me, was young Tigertail, a son of the noted chief of that name, arose and began to relate the day�s experience in the Seminole language. Collins interpreted portions of it in whispers, and I found that it was quite commonplace, but I can never forget the impression it made upon me, delivered in the manner peculiar to the race.

The warrior stood up, straightening himself to his full height, and with arms folded and head erect, he began to detail the occurrences of the day. The moonlight fell on his handsome features, bringing out every detail of the striking profile, which would have made a study for a painter.

In a low, subdued voice, he began. First he told of the early start he made, and, by gestures, indicated that the sun was just rising. As he proceeded his voice rose with the sun, and from time to time he raised his brawny arm and pointed to the quarter of the heavens where the sun was at the time the incident occurred which he was then detailing. I was lost in amazed wonder and admiration, but this was only a prelude. His auditors showed their attentiveness by occasional grunts, but not a word was uttered until he had completed his tale. At the close he sat down, and the others mildly applauded him by favorable comments on his speech.

Then the other warrior, who was called Tustenugge, and who was the rightful chief of the petty clans of the Big Cypress tribe, began in the same manner and repeated his adventures, which were similar to the first because they had traveled together.

Collins afterward told me that this young man had been defrauded of his chieftainship by a political rival, and had left the tribe and attached himself to Chipco�s band.

When he had concluded, the chief himself arose.

I can see him now as he stood there in the moonlight, his manly form clad in a semi-savage dress, and his head poised as proudly as any knight of old, and the fierce flashing of his eye as he grazed at the distant lake for an instant, the silvery moonlight adding to the weirdness of the scene. He was then about 50 years of age, and the firm mouth, high bred nostril and magnificent physique of the man inspired respect in those who came in contact with him. He was an able man, and had he lived a hundred years ago would have been a power among the great southern tribes.

By the low, soft voice in which he began I understood that he started at the first blush of dawn, fifty miles away, near the shores of the great Okeechobee. His intention was clear, his enunciation perfect, and the rhythmic melody of his voice reminded me of the distant sound of a finely-tuned organ. Slowly he ascended the scale, and I could tell precisely when the sun rose by the inexpressible tone of gladness in which his language was pitched. I could almost hear the chirp of birds, the trilling of the paraquets and the sounding of the great ivory billed woodpecker perched upon some old decayed tree. Then, by rapid and graceful gestures, he explained how, in crossing a sand ridge, he spied the first gopher, how he surprised the animal before he had time to retreat to his hole, and dropped him in the bag.

Higher and higher grew his voice, and the rare chords and cadences could have made the fortune of the more cultured brother, could he have possessed the power to imitate them.

He told me how he struck a long dry level, and how thirsty he became, and how he searched in vain for a pond or rivulet of water, and how he grew fatigued, and the game bag grew so heavy that he bent beneath its weight. How the great drops of perspiration gathered on his brow, and at last with a majestic sweep he pointed directly upward, and at the same time burst into that glad tone again, which indicated that he succeeded in finding water. His voice was now pitched in its highest key, yet there was no harshness or discord in the tones to jar upon the intensely high strung news of the interested listener. There was an instant�s pause and then I could observe a slight lowering of his voice as the sun started its downward course.

Lower and lower it sunk as the sun neared the horizon line, until, depleting his adventures in the darkness, his voice was almost a whisper. But the most wonderful thing was the tone that his rich voice assumed when describing the rising of the moon. I never again expect to hear anything as expressive as the tones of the chief�s voice as he depicted; so subtle, so natural, so weird and unearthly, that I could understand him, although I did not know a word of the language.

Finally he wound up when he got to the point of his arrival. There were half a dozen complimentary grunts, and then he resumed his seat. That piece of savage oratory left an impression on my mind that will never be effaced, and the simple fact of his standing there for half an hour, accommodating the tone of his voice and his expressive gestures to the hour when the event transpired, which he was relating, struck him as fine a performance as I ever witnessed.

Collins told me of several anecdotes relating to the peculiar traits of this interesting people. One instance, I remember was of Chipco�s offer to sell some negroes several years ago.

He brought them along and said he wished to dispose of them.

�Why, chief,� said the name to whom he made the proposal, �negroes are free now, and are not being bought and sold as formerly.

�Ugh! who made �em free? asked the disgusted chief.

�Why, the Yankees made them free. The President has issued a proclamation to that effect.

�Ugh! President can free them if he wants to. My niggers mine; I keep �em.� And he stalked away, carrying the darkeys ahead of him.

Some fellow, through curiosity, asked him what they were worth.

�Ugh! befo� the war wuff thousand dollars-now not wuff a damn!� he replied, as he resumed his march toward the village.

In hunting game those Indians were very economical. If one went hunting, he carried his gun empty, with the ramrod sticking in the barrel. If he spied a deer feeding, his first object was to steal up as closely as possible, and when he could advance no further without startling the animal, he measured the charge of powder carefully, so as to get just enough to throw the ball the required distance, and by a few deft turns he rammed the ball noiselessly home, primed the gun, and, then aiming at the head or neck, he shot the deer dead in his tracks. He had a twofold purpose in doing this. Economy was one consideration and securing his game and making as little fuss as possible was equally as important.

If possible they always shot their game in the head or neck so as to make no hole in the hide.

They dressed the skin and sold them to the traders, and they well knew that the latter would not pay as much for a hide with a hole in it.

They were great hog raisers, and they used to drive in some old porkers for sale that were of marvelous size. They always drove them, and frequently a warrior would start with a single hog, driving him through the wilderness a distance of a hundred miles. Every time the hog would grunt his keeper would grunt, and if the shoat took a notion to wallow in a puddle and cool himself, the Indian would await his leisure with the most philosophic patience.

I learned a great many interesting facts about these remnants of the great southern tribes during my stay in the peninsula, and I found it a rich and inexhaustible field of study for those who interested in such matters.

An abridged edition of this article was published in The Herald-Advocate (Wauchula, Fla.), 3C, of April 29, 2004.

See also:

Chipco and Tallahassee Led Seminole Remnant in Florida

Chipco: Tallahassee Chief

Chipco's Village