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Updated: May 12, 2025
It was a terrible fight. Mahtotohpa clutched for the knife, and the sharp blade was wrenched through his hand, cutting to the bone. The Cheyenne stabbed him many times, and many times Mahtotohpa clutched the knife blade again, before he could tear the haft from the Cheyenne's fingers. But suddenly he succeeded, and the Cheyenne died.
Mahtotohpa did not clean it of its blood, but held it aloft before all the village and swore that he would clean it only with the blood of Wongatap the Arikaree. He sent a challenge to the Arikarees; and for four years he waited, keeping the lance and hoping to use it as he had promised.
Now the Cheyennes had turned and were coming for battle. Their chief saw the planted lance of Mahtotohpa, and Mahtotohpa waiting beside it, and he galloped forward, alone, on his white horse. "Who is it that has stuck down his lance, and defies the Cheyennes?" he shouted. "I am Mahtotohpa." "That is good. Mahtotohpa is a chief. Does he dare to fight?" "Is this a chief who speaks to Mahtotohpa?"
Finally his heart had grown so sore that he was bursting; and again holding the lance up before the village, he made a speech. "Mahtotohpa is going. Let nobody speak his name, or ask where he is, or try to seek him. He will return with fresh blood on this lance, or he will not return at all."
According to all the reports, the "bravest of the braves" in the Mandan towns was Mahtotohpa; second chief by rank, but first of all by deeds. "Free, generous, elegant, and gentlemanly in his deportment handsome, brave and valiant," says Artist Catlin. Such words speak well for Four Bears, but not a bit too well.
Pretty soon, as the fire flickered out, he rapped the ashes from his pipe, his wife raked the coals of the fire together, until morning; and now they two crawled into their bunk. Hotly grasping his lance, and surrounded by the enemy, Mahtotohpa delayed a little space; then he arose and boldly stalked into the lodge and sat by the fire.
Several days passed; and when Mahtotohpa himself found his brother, it was only the body, scalped and cut and pierced with an arrow, and fastened through the heart to the prairie by the lance of Won-ga-tap. Many in the village recognized that as the lance of Won-ga-tap.
Then they charged like knights in a tournament, and shot at the same moment with their guns. After they had passed each other, and had wheeled, Mahtotohpa held up his powder-horn. The Cheyenne's bullet had smashed it, so that the powder had flowed out.
Wongatap's wife was shrieking; all the village heard and answered, and the warriors streamed out of the lodges. The whole night Mahtotohpa ran, while the Arikarees vainly searched for his trail. This day he hid, in the brush along the Missouri River.
In the shaft of the lance, near the blade, there had been set an antelope prong; and when Mahtotohpa posed for his portrait, with the butt of the lance proudly planted on the ground, he carefully balanced an eagle feather across this prong. "Do not omit to paint that feather exactly as it is," he said, "and the spot of blood upon it.
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