The potlach feasts were a strong tradition among the tribes of the Pacific Northwest. The idea of a potlach was to give such gifts and provide such food and entertainment that your guests--chiefs of other villages--could not possibly do as well, in which case your status rose higher than theirs, you ended up poor but honored.
Female slaves, attractive ones especially, were fairly often killed for entertainment at these potlatches. Live-burning was probably the most common method, although knives and spears were frequently used as well. Slaves were told that if they did not enthusiastically cooperate in their torture and death, the shamen would lay curses on their souls so they could not rest. They usually did so cooperate; a common event was the live-burning of “the chief’s daughter,” really a slave dressed initially to look like the chief’s daughter; a clever switch was pulled as she was being tied to a stake. It was considered impolite to later take any notice of the fact that the chief’s daughter was still alive, or was being “killed” for the tenth time.
"This girl," he told his rival, "is my favorite slave." He glanced at the girl. "Show our guests your beauty, my dear." Without hesitation, she removed her simple dress, revealing a slender and graceful little body.
"Like all my slaves," the chief bragged, "this girl loves me." He looked directly at the girl; she nodded and smiled. "Can you think of a way we can show our guests how much you love me?" he asked her.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "Yes, I can. I will give you my life."
He mock-scowled. "But you are my slave, Little Bird. You are mine now. You cannot give me what I already have!"
"No, my chief. You must take my life from me; you must let me give it to you, without protest, without outcry, without struggle. Take it from me, that our guests may see! Give me the flint! Give me the flint, cut off my head!"
The chief looked startled, but it was more than obvious that it was an act, that it had all been carefully scripted. "You would do that? You would stand and allow me to kill you, I would not have to force you?"
"I would. I would not need to be forced." She lifted her chin defiantly, but her hands were shaking slightly.
There was a silence among the onlookers. The chief smiled and gave the girl's hand an affectionate squeeze. "Such strong words," he said, "Must be proven!" He nodded his head vigorously. "It must be done, it will be done," he went on. "As you have said." He snapped his fingers, and a warrior standing nearby handed him a flint knife with a long and slender blade. He then turned back to the girl, motioned to her. She came to him, turned around, and stood between his knees, her back against his chest.
He brought the knife around, held it in front of her naked body; she looked at it for a moment, then took his hand with hers and guided it, bringing the point down against her abdomen, halfway between the base of her breastbone and her navel.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked her. "Sure you can accept this flint without your arms being held? I am going to push it deeply into you, I am going to give you a mortal wound. It will pain you grievously."
She looked down at it; it was just dimpling her smooth skin. "I am sure," she said boldly, though her voice trembled noticeably. "I will keep my hand on yours as you wound me."
He started pushing on the knife then, increasing the pressure gradually, giving her every opportunity to cry out or to try to fight. She did not; she simply took in a deep breath and held it while the chief continued to increase the pressure. A bead of blood appeared, grew larger, ran down over her lower abdomen. She began to tremble a little; he put a hand on her shoulder and continued to force the blade on into her.
It was sharp; it sank in slowly, steadily, smoothly. Blood started running down below the blade in a steady stream, but the chief kept pushing it right on in, deeper and deeper. She gasped and sighed, but she still made no cry, and, though her hand remained on his wrist the whole time, she made no effort whatsoever to stop him.
Finally, when almost the full length of the blade had disappeared inside her, the chief stopped pushing. Carefully, he unwound his fingers from the hilt, leaving the knife standing in the girl's abdomen. Then, supporting her under her armpits, he pushed her to a standing position. Her eyelids were fluttering and she swayed as she stood, but she managed to remain, showing the onlookers the knife piercing her, the blood running from her.
"Has any man," he asked rhetorically, "had a slave-girl like this? A slave-girl so eager to honor her master?"
"I will do you honor," the girl groaned. "With my death I will bring you honor! That is my desire!"
"It is so," he agreed. He stood up, put his arm around her shoulders, and put his hand on the knife again. She leaned her head against him as he started withdrawing the knife, taking it out as slowly and methodically as he'd put it in. Her body quivered, but still she remained silent and stoic.
Blood spurted onto the ground as it came free. The girl reached down and put her hands on either side of the wound, pulling it open, letting even more of her blood flow out.
With the chief's help, she knelt on the ground, still pressing her hands hard against her belly. Once she was in position, he wound her long black hair up in his left hand and pulled her head up so that she was facing the onlookers. Carefully, he laid the edge of the knife against the right side of her slim neck. He paused for a moment to look over at the rival chieftain.
Then, as methodically as ever, he drew the blade toward himself, slicing deeply into the soft skin of her neck.
A thin geyser of blood shot out. Her body jerked, then went stiff; her eyes were very wide. The chief glanced at the spouting blood, then switched his knife to the other side and cut her neck again. A new stream of blood erupted; the girl shivered violently, all over. His next cut was across her throat, and her eyes rolled back into her head; his fourth, across the back of her neck, grated through the bones. Her body fell forward, twitching uncontrollably, blood gushing from her severed neck, and her head remained in his hand, dangling from the hair. The chief glanced up at his attendant, then handed him the girl's head and told him to take it to the rival chief. As the other accepted it, the first headman leaned back and grinned.