BY THEODORE WHITSON RESSLER
BONANZA BOOKS · NEW YORK
517110660
Copyright © MCMLVII by National Board of Young Men’s Christian Association. Library of Congress Catalog Number: 57-5046. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to: BONANZA BOOKS, a division of Crown Publishers, Inc., 419 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10016.
This edition is published by BONANZA BOOKS,
a division of Crown Publishers, Inc.
by arrangement with The Association Press.
a b c d e f g h
Manufactured in the United States of America.
To William Frederick, My Son
I dedicate this book to you, my son. The ways of the Indian were good. Honesty and truth were sacred to them; courage, a part of their lives, as much as eating and sleeping. May this book prove to bring you many joyful hours of reading, for constantly were you with me during its writing, not only in person but in spirit.
This is a collection of American Indian tales for pre-teen boys and girls, a fact that does not obviate the possibility of their interest to parents and youth leaders, as well. All have been tested by the author-compiler with youngsters in many settings—in homes, in church, Scout and Y groups, by the campfire, in meeting rooms, and even in buses.
Those stories which the author has created are based upon Indian lore and customs. Many of the traditional stories were related to him by his Indian friends, descendants of the braves who first recounted them many generations ago. Both the original and the traditional tales are set down within the general context of Indian history, but without any pretense that the events actually took place.
Authenticity, however, in the life, customs, and moral standards of the Indians has been striven for in each story. Throughout, an attempt has been made to impart, without “preaching” at youngsters, three major ethical values common to all American Indians—courage, honesty in dealing with others, and truthfulness in speech.
The tales are of varying length, but all are short to conform with the interest span of average pre-teeners—and, hopefully, to leave them eager for the next story session.
It will be noted that both Indian boys and girls play leading roles. The author has found that the appeal of each story has been equal for both sexes irrespective of whether it has a young hero or heroine.
Parents and youth leaders will observe, too, that stress is placed in several stories upon the close father-son and mother-daughter relationship—completely true in Indian culture, and as much coveted in the formative pre-teen years of our own children today.
Whether read to children, or adapted and retold to them, or read by children themselves, it is hoped that these stories will be cherished as much by them as by the hundreds of boys and girls who helped, unwittingly, to select them for this book.
Theodore Whitson Ressler
Little Rabbit was a young Pueblo brave who lived a very happy and carefree life. There was nothing very special about Little Rabbit unless you were to say that his spirits were never dampened by a sad turn of events. When something went wrong and people were unhappy, Little Rabbit usually found his way to their side, and would offer words of encouragement.
The village in which Little Rabbit was born was like all the Pueblo adobe villages of centuries before him. Little Rabbit had to climb a ladder in order to enter his home, because all ground floor rooms had only a roof entrance. By pulling up the ladder at night, families made their homes hard to enter.
Little Rabbit had once watched several families make an adobe building, several levels high. The walls were made of a mixture of yellowish clay and sand, called adobe; the roofs were made of a heavy layer of the same adobe laid over a strong frame of log beams, crisscrossed with poles, willow branches, sticks, grass, and desert brush. The Spaniards had taught the Pueblos how to mold the adobe into bricks. Small holes were made for windows and doorways. Each family had one large room, and the ground floor room (without windows or a doorway) was used by all the families for storage, initiation of the boys into secret societies, and for religious ceremonies.
Because each floor was set back the depth of the room below, each level had a porch which was used by the Pueblo women for making corn bread, pottery, and baskets, and by the men to weave rugs and blankets. When religious ceremonies, dances, and games were taking place, these porches gave the whole family the best possible point from which to watch.
Such was the village in which Little Rabbit had grown to the age of twelve, a strong and tall young brave.
One day he had just finished playing some running games with his friends and was returning to his home when one of his friends called to him, “Come, Little Rabbit, we are going to walk the ledges.”
Now walking the ledges was a very difficult game and, most of the time, was forbidden by the parents. But occasionally some of the more daring young braves, willing to chance their necks, would organize a game of ledge walking. The idea was something like “Follow the Leader,” but far more dangerous. The boys would walk right on the edge of the roofs—along the first floor and, if successful and daring enough, along the second, and then along the third floor roof. As the boys went higher, fewer and fewer would take part; a fall from any one of the roofs would be bad, but a fall from the second or third could cause great injury or even death.
Now Little Rabbit was not a coward, but he hesitated to play the game because his father had told him that he was not to go without his father’s permission, and Little Rabbit knew that this was one game his father would not permit him to play. So with sadness in his heart he shouted back to the other boys that he had work to do, and continued on his way home.
Several days passed, and each day a few of the older boys would gather to walk ledges, and each day they would ask Little Rabbit to take part, and each day Little Rabbit would say no. Finally it got to be too much for even Little Rabbit. The next time he was asked he answered yes, and soon was playing the very dangerous game.
The boys had all completed the first ledge of the round floor and were starting for the second. Just as Little Rabbit reached the second ledge, a voice called out, “Little Rabbit, my son, what are you doing?”
The rest of the braves scattered, but the surprise at hearing his father’s angry voice near by frightened Little Rabbit for a moment, and he lost his balance. He tried to straighten up, but went tumbling down the side of the dwelling. He managed to break his fall by grasping at the ladder but was not able to hold on. When he landed, his leg was doubled under him and a sharp pain shot through his body, and then he fainted.
When Little Rabbit awoke, he found he was stretched on his own bed, and his father and mother were standing over him.
“I am sorry, my son,” his father said softly. “I did not mean to startle you so. But I was afraid for you, and the fear in my heart gave harshness and anger to my voice. If I had waited until you were safely over the edge and then called to you, this terrible thing might not have happened.”
“Do not blame yourself,” said Little Rabbit. “It is I who made the mistake. I disobeyed my father. I am truly sorry for that. If I had not been doing something wrong, I would not have been startled when you called. It was a foolish thing for me to do. I let the other boys tease me into playing. It would have been braver for me to tell them no. Truly I am ashamed, my father.”
“You must rest, my son. Your leg has been badly injured. When you have rested we shall talk of this.” With that, Little Rabbit’s father left the house to continue his work.
For many days Little Rabbit lay in pain from his hurt leg; but more than his leg, his heart and mind were hurt from the unhappiness he had brought to his father by disobeying. He tried to talk with his mother about how he felt but all his mother would say was, “Do not worry so, Little Rabbit. Your father has forgiven you.”
But this was not what concerned Little Rabbit. His father now had to carry on the work of farming the corn and brans and cotton all alone for the family. This made Little Rabbit feel very unhappy. He wanted to do his share of the work, and he liked to see crops grow.
His leg began to heal, and soon Little Rabbit was able to hobble around with the aid of a stout staff. He began to help around the house as much as he could. Before long, he was able to limp out to the garden after his father and work a little there, too.
Many moons passed and his leg healed and became strong. But it was twisted so that when Little Rabbit walked or ran he would limp rather badly. The other young braves felt sorry for Little Rabbit. Even though he could move about rather easily with his twisted leg, he really could not keep up with the other young braves in the many games they played. Soon he found that he was not being asked so often to play the really exciting games.
One day as Little Rabbit was seated in front of his home, his father was returning from the garden. As he came to where Little Rabbit was seated, he stopped and spoke gently.
“Why do you sit here so sad and forlorn, my son? Always you have been gay and happy, but lately you have become quiet and sad. Tell your father what it is that troubles you.”
And so Little Rabbit explained that because he could not keep up with them in the games of speed and skill, the other boys no longer invited him to play.
“My son, if you are going to sit here and let your life pass you by because your leg will not obey every command it is given, you will soon become very unhappy and bitter. You will be of no use to anyone, even yourself. You must turn your thoughts to other things. If you cannot run fast, you must practice. If you cannot jump, you must practice.”
“I have tried, my father, but it seems to do no good. My leg is strong, but the way it is twisted causes me to limp. If I try to run my leg bends under me. I have tried day after day but it is of no use.”
“You cannot sit here and think of the world as a sad, unhappy place. Such thoughts will make your leg feel even more twisted than it really is. You must be thankful for your opportunity to raise yourself to be more than just an ordinary Indian brave. You have a battle inside yourself now that calls for great courage and wisdom. How you will overcome it I do not know, but you must try, my son.”
That night Little Rabbit could not go to sleep because he was thinking about what his father had said. Maybe he had not been working hard enough to make his leg do what he commanded. Tomorrow he would try harder.
And so every day Little Rabbit practiced very hard. For many hours each week, he would exercise his leg. Finally one day he awoke feeling strong and fit. After breakfast he went forth from his home to find his friends for a game. When he located them, they were beginning a foot race which would take them around the village. Without waiting to be asked, Little Rabbit trotted into line just as the race started. The other boys were off to a big lead, but that didn’t worry Little Rabbit. He remembered what his father had said and, with each running step, he repeated the words, “I must try.”
The race was going strong. Soon, to his own surprise, Little Rabbit began to pass the other boys one after another. What he had lost in ability, he made up in stamina—the strength to go on and on. His many days of practice were now proving valuable. As the other boys began to tire and drop back, Little Rabbit passed the leading young brave. Then he began to widen the gap between himself and the next runner until nearly one hundred paces separated him from the second place runner when he crossed the finish line.
When all the runners had come panting to the finish line, they gathered around Little Rabbit, slapping his shoulders and congratulating him upon his victory. Finally, one of the young braves asked, “How did you manage to stay so fresh to the very end?”
“Well, you see,” said Little Rabbit quietly, “when I fell from the ledge that day and broke my leg, I was sure that I was being punished for disobeying my father’s wishes. After my leg healed and I began to play again, I found that I could not keep up with you in your games. Once again I thought that I was still being punished. But my father told me I must try harder. This brought me courage. Once again I began practicing every day to learn to run and jump even though my leg was twisted. I do not have the skill that I used to have, but I now have endurance which may stand me in very good stead later on as it has here today.”
Somewhere in the high ridges of the Great Smokies there was believed to be a lake called Atagahi, the Secret Lake. Few people had heard of it, and this is a story of a young Cherokee brave and his sister who enjoyed the secret of this beautiful lake nestled in the Great Smokies.
Utani placed his bright, shiny, new knife on the ground next to his new moccasins and admired the gleaming of the blade in the sun. He was a young Cherokee brave, rather tall for his age but very powerfully built and with sharp penetrating black eyes. He was too busy admiring the glint of the metal in the sun to notice the approach of Netani, his sister, until the shadow of her body crossed the knife blade and shut off the sun.
“Get out of the way of the sun,” cried Utani. “You are blocking the rays from shining on my knife.” Netani made no effort to move and so Utani repeated his request.
Netani could not understand Utani’s demand that she move, but he was her big brother and so she must obey. As she stepped aside she inquired of Utani why he watched so intently the blade of his knife in the sun.
Utani, of course, now being a man, did not want to give a childish answer such as, “I am watching the blade shine in the sun.” So he quickly gave another answer: “I am receiving a message from the sun.”
“What sort of message?” asked Netani.
“Oh, the sun is telling me where Atagahi is and maybe if I study the blade long enough the sun will tell me just where to find it.”
This, Utani thought, would satisfy his little sister. But her curiosity was too great, and she asked that Utani take her to the secret lake, Atagahi.
Now, Utani realized he had gone a little too far in his bragging; but being very stubborn, he refused to tell his sister that he really could not find the secret lake by looking at the knife blade in the sun. Utani made up his mind that he would have to find the secret lake, Atagahi. He rose and placed his knife carefully in his belt and, taking his sister’s hand, started toward the ridges of the Great Smokies. For two hours, Utani and Netani climbed higher and higher into the mountains; but as the day wore on, Utani began to feel a bit frightened, for they were a long way from home and had come upon nothing that looked like a lake. Finally Netani stopped a few feet behind Utani and called out.
“Let us rest here for a while, big brother. I am getting tired. Besides it is late and I am hungry. Let us go back to the village and look tomorrow.”
Of course, Utani secretly thought that was a wonderful idea, for he was tired and hungry too. He agreed to follow his little sister’s idea.
As he grasped his sister’s hand to start home, his foot kicked a small stone which rolled off the side of the trail and down a small embankment of earth and landed at the bottom with a splash. Utani and Netani looked at each other with great surprise and then carefully stepped to the edge of the path. Utani pushed aside the branches that grew along the side of the trail, and they both peered down into the waters of a beautiful blue green lake nestled among the trees and rocks that hid it from human eyes along the trail. They had found it! They had found Atagahi! It was fast growing dark, so the two children decided to return to their village and come back the following day to the secret lake. When they returned to their village the older braves wanted to know where they had been. Netani said, “We looked at Utani’s knife blade in the sun, and the sun told us where to find Atagahi.”
The older Cherokee braves all laughed and laughed very loudly. But Netani and Utani did not laugh, for they knew where Atagahi was and they could go there any time they pleased. They never told anyone their secret, but every once in a while if you looked very carefully up the trail into the mountains, you might see two Indian children kicking stones off the side of the trail.
“Quarter Moon! Where are you, Quarter Moon?”
Little Elk was shouting for his friend as he trotted through the quiet Iroquois village.
It was July, and many of the older braves had gone off to fish and hunt. There were few left in the village except the women, the old men, and the children. Little Elk was now twelve and he was feeling like a big warrior more and more each day.
Finally just as Little Elk was about to give up, he heard his friend answering him from behind his father’s wigwam. “Why do you call so loudly, Little Elk?”
“Because my mother said that I could go fishing this day and I would like you, my friend, to go with me. I have a great deal of good fishing equipment, and there is still one canoe left at the shore of the great lake. Can you come with me?”
Quarter Moon thought for a moment, especially of the work he was supposed to do that day. Finally he said, “Wait, I will go and ask my mother.”
With that he disappeared into the wigwam and in a moment was out again, smiling.
“My mother says that I may go, but that I must be back when the sun has climbed to the highest point in the sky. For any day now, my father is expected back and I have not completed the chores he gave me to do when he left.”
“Come then,” said Little Elk. “We must hurry.”
The two boys ran to the lake shore and, after placing their fishing equipment in the canoe, they stepped in and pushed away from the shore.
“We will paddle along the shore,” said Little Elk.
The Indians of the Northeast made fishing tackle from young basswood saplings and made their hooks from bone. With these they were able to catch the mighty muskellunge of the northern waters and supplemented their fresh meat diet with lake fish.
The boys paddled for quite some time before they dropped their lines into the water. They had picked a good spot because in a matter of minutes they had several fish in the floor of the canoe. Suddenly, Little Elk noticed that the canoe had been drifting and he spoke to his friend about it.
“We should start for home, Little Elk,” Quarter Moon said. “The sun is climbing high in the heavens. We have many fine fish, and our mothers will be proud.”
As they picked up their paddles once again, Little Elk looked around to make sure that they were headed in the right direction. They had been so busy with their fishing that they had drifted far from where they had started. Little Elk wasn’t quite sure which direction they should take to go homeward, for the two boys had never been off by themselves fishing and for a moment he was confused. Then, looking at the sun, he decided that they had turned completely around and would have to turn their canoe once again to be headed in the right direction. And after he told Quarter Moon, the two boys turned the canoe around and began to paddle in the direction they were sure was right.
They paddled past several islands and toward the main shore, when Quarter Moon cried out, “Little Elk, our canoe has sprung a leak.”
Little Elk looked down at his moccasins. The water was beginning to rise in the canoe. Then Little Elk knew why this old canoe had been left at the shore of the lake. The bottom was not considered safe. So the canoe had been left to be repaired and used later on.
“Quarter Moon, we are not too far from the shore. Paddle harder and we will be able to reach the shore before the canoe fills so full that we cannot move it.”
So the boys paddled with all their strength and soon felt the bow of the canoe scrape against the sandy bottom of the lake shore. Jumping out, the two boys pulled the leaking canoe ashore and up onto the brush. Looking around, the boys realized that they were in unfamiliar territory. Neither boy had ever been this far along the shore, but now, by looking out upon the lake, they guessed that they were some distance north of their village.
“Well,” said Little Elk, “at least we are not lost, for by following the shore south, we will come to our village. Come, Quarter Moon! We will put our fish upon some green sticks and take them with us.”
The boys took their knives and cut out two young branches from nearby trees; by running the branch through the gills of the fish and out through the mouth, they were able to carry them comfortably. The boys then started to follow the shore for home. By this time the sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and the boys knew that it was getting quite late. So they hurried along the shore carrying their prize catch of muskellunge.
When they had gone less than halfway to the village, Quarter Moon suddenly called out to his faster companion.
“Wait, Little Elk, do not run so fast. I cannot keep up with you. I must rest.”
The two boys seated themselves on the side of the lake to catch their breath. It was then that they suddenly heard a noise. Turning around, Little Elk saw several feathers through the trees. He was about to call out when a warrior came into his sight and he realized that these were not Iroquois, but a roving band of Abnakes. Quickly he threw himself to the ground and pushed Quarter Moon down beside him. Quarter Moon almost cried out because he was so startled, but Little Elk motioned him to be still. He pointed into the woods and Quarter Moon could see why Little Elk had motioned him to be quiet. Then Little Elk counted the Abnakes who were moving quietly along the trail in single file, headed in the direction of his village. There were fourteen of them, all tall, strong, young warriors, each carrying a stout bow and a quiver of arrows.
When the band had passed, Little Elk turned to Quarter Moon and whispered:
“We must hurry. They are headed in the direction of our village and with our warriors all gone, there are none but the old men, women, and children. We must warn the village.”
They jumped up and began to run as fast as they could along the shore toward their village, forgetting all about their fish and fishing gear, in their haste to get to their village and warn their people.
Soon they saw smoke from campfires only a few hundred paces ahead. Even though both boys felt as if their hearts would burst, they forced themselves to continue running until the wigwams of the village were in sight. The boys slowed to a trot, and entered the village all out of breath. They ran straight to the wigwam of Quarter Moon’s uncle and tried, between gasps for breath, to tell him what they had seen. Finally Quarter Moon’s uncle raised his hand. “Wait! Wait! My boy, get your breath and then tell me what has brought you to my wigwam breathing so heavily and looking like a frightened deer.”
The boys took several deep breaths and then Little Elk told his story to the old man.
“But we are not at war with the Abnakes and surely we have nothing they would want in our village. But if this is an attack, we must warn the others. Go through the village and tell all the others to gather at the medicine lodge. There are some of us left who can handle weapons. Rather than give our few supplies or our women to an attacking band of Abnakes, we will gather every able-bodied man and woman and fight if we have to.”
Word was sent out through the village, and soon everyone gathered at the medicine lodge. Quarter Moon was ready to repeat to all what he had told the old brave when Little Elk looked through the fringe in the trees and spotted some warriors approaching. He was about to shout a warning when he saw his father in the lead of the party. Little Elk ran to his father, shouting that the Abnakes were near by. And then he saw, standing next to his father, a very tall and handsome Abnake. For some reason, Little Elk felt that this was no ordinary warrior. Then his father spoke.
“Wait, Little Elk, my son. What is this you say about our village being invaded?”
Little Elk was embarrassed and looked down at the ground. “My father, when Quarter Moon and I were returning from our fishing trip, we saw some Abnakes through the trees. They carried many bows and quivers of arrows, and they were moving swiftly and quietly toward our village. Quarter Moon and I ran as fast as we could to warn the village.”
“You did well, my son. But come, I want you to welcome a friend of mine. This is Chief Big Running Fox of the Abnakes. With him are fourteen of his finest hunters. Our hunting party searched far and wide for game but with little success. After many days of searching, we were ready to start for home, sad and empty handed, when we were met by Chief Big Running Fox. After explaining to him our presence in Abnake lands, we were invited to their village, where we received food and shelter for the night. The next morning Chief Big Running Fox explained that the bad weather this past spring had driven the game north. The Abnakes had plenty, but knew that their neighbors to the south would not have much game. So Chief Big Running Fox let us hunt on the Abnake grounds to get plenty of meat for our tribe. In return we have invited them here for a feast to thank them for this great kindness.”
“I am sorry, great chief, that I thought you were going to attack our village,” said Little Elk, feeling very much ashamed.
Chief Big Running Fox placed his hands upon the boy’s shoulders. “Do not feel ashamed. It could have been an unfriendly visit and you were right to warn your people of strangers near your home. Your father can be proud to have you for a son, and we are glad to have you as a friend.”
The hunting party of Iroquois and Abnakes moved into the village side by side. That night, instead of war dances, there were happy dances celebrating their good hunting and finding a new friend. Right in the center of all the excitement sat Little Elk and Quarter Moon, the heroes of the day.
Between the swift running Snake River and the rumbling Grande Ronde in the beautiful Valley of Winding Waters, there lived a band of Indians called the Wallows, a branch of the Nez Percé tribe.
Little White Wolf was one of the young boys who was trying to earn his first feathers which would show that he had become a full-fledged brave. Often he would wander from the camp into the forests that covered the slopes of the valley. There he would try to think of things he could do to get his feather—an act of bravery or great hunting skill. Two summers had passed since he first tried to win his feather. His little friends, Swift Owl and Gray Frog, had earned their feathers and now strutted proudly through the village to call attention to their feathers. They both took special care to spend most of their time playing near Little White Wolf, no doubt to make him jealous of their awards.
One day, when Little White Wolf was watching his mother mold a small bowl from clay, he caught sight of his father, Big White Wolf, striding into the village with a large brown animal slung over his shoulders. Little White Wolf knew that his father had made a kill. The boy raced forward excitedly to greet his father. As his father came nearer, the boy saw the large claws of a mountain lion. He was thrilled and proud and asked impatiently for his father to tell him the story of the kill. But his father only shook his head and put his hand on Little White Wolf’s shoulder to quiet him.
“My son,” he told him, “you will have to wait until the big fire tonight when I tell the tale for all to hear.”
That night as the braves gathered around the evening fire, Little White Wolf settled as close as he could to the spot where his father would stand to tell his tale of adventure. After the other braves had told their stories, Little White Wolf’s father walked with long, firm steps to the center of the circle and began to speak. While Little White Wolf listened, he thought that his father looked unusually strong and tall.
Big White Wolf told how he had been tracking a deer in a small glen at the southern end of the valley when he heard a snarl. Turning quickly, he saw a large female puma poised to spring at him from a tree. Just as the cat leaped, Big White Wolf shot his arrow. The cat fell dead at his feet. He could not explain why the big cat had been roused unless he had been close to a lair of kittens which this mother cat had been guarding.
Little White Wolf leaned forward listening intently. Suddenly a thought flashed through his mind. He could not sleep soundly that night because he kept thinking of his secret plan. As dawn broke, Little White Wolf arose silently and gathered his bow and arrow and a small pouch of food. Then he started off for the southern end of the valley. He came soon to the place where his father had killed the big cat. The boy began to search every nook and cranny for the little kittens that must be here. He felt sure his father had been right in guessing why the cat had sprung at him.
Finally, after many hours of searching, Little White Wolf was about to give up when he heard a faint cry coming from his right. He moved behind a small tree and parted the branches to see what had made the sound. Just a few paces away in the hollow of a rock lay a small ball of brown fur. Now Little White Wolf must carry out his plan to bring the puma kitten back to camp alive. He moved slowly and quietly so that he would not frighten the kitten. The little puma was looking away from Little White Wolf.
When the boy was only two paces away, the kitten heard him. The animal jumped up quickly and started to run. But the Indian was too fast. He leaped and caught the kitten by the scruff of the neck. Then he lifted the little puma gently and began to scratch its head and pet it. In a few moments, the animal was curled up in Little White Wolf’s arms, leaning contentedly against the boy’s chest. The boy started back to camp with his prize.
No one had known why he had left or where he had gone, so Little White Wolf was greeted excitedly by the other boys as he marched into the camp. Even Swift Owl and Gray Frog praised him for having rescued the little puma and for having braved a possible attack from some grown puma.
That night Little White Wolf told his story. With great dignity, the Chief awarded the boy his feather. He was a very proud young brave. Now he could strut with Gray Frog and Swift Owl throughout the camp.
Little White Wolf never realized how thankful his father was that his son had returned safely. Big White Wolf knew that the father cat might have returned while the boy was taking the kitten. If that had happened, there might have been no feather award council fire that night.
Little Thunder was always the first one awake in his woodland Wyandot village, running about doing many chores before his parents were even awake. He would build up the breakfast fire and make sure there was enough wood to keep it going during the day. He would take the water bags to the cool spring and refill them with fresh water for that day and do many other little chores.
Finally when the rest of the village began to stir, Little Thunder would rush about gathering up his many small treasures and lay them all out in front of him on the ground to choose the ones he would carry with him that day. He had pieces of flint, a deer’s horn, colored stones from the brooks, birch bark on which he had burned pictures, and many other things important to an Indian boy. Then his mother would call him in to eat. When breakfast was over, his father and mother would explain the family’s plans for the day. Then each would set about doing his share of the work.
One morning just before Little Thunder’s father was to go off on a hunt with the other warriors of the village, he called Little Thunder to him.
“You must take care of your mother while I am away,” Big Thunder told the boy. “You must be the man of the house now. You must protect your mother and your home and see that all of the work is done.” He smiled and pressed his son’s shoulders. “You will soon be a man and then we can go on the big hunt together. But you are man enough now to watch over your mother while I am away.”
Little Thunder felt very proud of the way his father had spoken to him. When all was in readiness and the hunters had left the village, Little Thunder turned to his mother and stood very straight as he looked at her.
“Do not be afraid, for I will watch over you, mother,” he promised. “To show that I can get all the food we need, I will go into the woods and bring us a fine fat rabbit for supper.”
Now Little Thunder had a good hunting bow which his grandfather had made for him many moons ago. It was of stout hickory and had an even curve to it when the sinew string was pulled tight. Little Thunder had worked carefully to make straight, strong arrow shafts. He had chosen the best willow shoots from which be peeled the bark. Then he seasoned and straightened them over the fire, and rubbed them smooth with sandstone. His arrowpoints were made of flint which he had chipped with a piece of deer’s antler after much practice under the eyes of his father. These were his best arrows and he was saving them for the time he would go with his father on the hunt.
Little Thunder laid these big-game arrows aside and picked up the set he had made for use now as a young Indian boy. They had bone points which he had ground sharp and bound into the split end of the shaft with wet sinew that tightened as it dried. On the other end he had glued and tied carefully trimmed goose and turkey feathers to help the arrow fly straight to its mark. He selected several arrows and tested his bow. Little Thunder knew he would find plenty of game because the Indians never killed without needing the food or skin of an animal. Having finished all preparations for the hunt, he said good-bye to his mother and started off to find the fat juicy rabbit he had promised her.
Little Thunder trotted along the forest trails at a fast jog, looking in all directions for signs of game. He moved softly on his toes and the balls of his feet, as his father had taught him, so that he would not frighten the creatures of the forest.
Soon he came out of the forest into a large clearing that he believed would yield the game he was after. He had walked watchfully only a short while when, not seven paces from him, he saw a rather large clump of tall grass move. He dropped to the ground, pressed his body flat against the earth and waited. The grass did not move again. He tested the slight breeze by wetting a finger in his mouth and holding his finger in the air. The side of his finger away from him felt cool and he knew that the breeze was blowing toward him. Whatever was in the grass ahead of him would not be able to catch his scent. He crept forward softly. When he was about three paces from the clump of grass, he stood up with bow and arrow ready to shoot.
But before he let the arrow fly, he stopped short. There, nestled in the grass, was a young fawn which appeared to have been born only a short while ago. The fawn, frightened by Little Thunder, lay perfectly still, his coat blending in almost perfectly with the grasses and shrubs around him.
Little Thunder put the arrow back in his quiver. He moved toward the animal slowly. The fawn struggled to his spindly little legs and wobbled slightly. Then his legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Little Thunder could not help laughing at the awkward little animal. This scared the fawn even more and he rose to his feet again and tried to run but again tumbled to the ground. Little Thunder ran forward to where the fawn lay, fearful that the fawn might have hurt himself. When he reached the side of the fawn he knelt down and placed his hands along the soft silky neck. The fawn trembled but he made no attempt to move. Gently, Little Thunder stroked his neck and head and back and soon the little fawn quieted down. It was not too long before a rough little tongue reached up and swiped at Little Thunder’s face. Little Thunder laughed again and the fawn trembled. Speaking softly, Little Thunder told the fawn that everything was all right and that no one would harm him.
Little Thunder realized that the mother deer must not be too far off, because only rarely would a mother deer leave her young—and then only to get a drink of water or find a new place to hide her fawn. Little Thunder rose from the ground and decided to look around for the fawn’s mother. Walking to the opposite edge of the clearing, he looked down through the forest and saw a lake. Winding his way through the trees and brush, he was soon standing upon the shore of the lake. There he found fresh tracks of a full-grown deer. Then he saw some blood on the shore near more deer tracks, but he could find no further trace of the deer. Then he spotted the prints of a pair of moccasins. He realized that a warrior from a neighboring tribe in search of food had probably come upon the doe while she was drinking, shot her, and carried her away. He knew his guess was right when he saw a deer’s stubby tail tied to the branch of a low-hanging tree—a sign always left by an Indian near the place where he had killed an animal for food or clothing.
Little Thunder ran back quickly to the little fawn, still nestled in the tall grass. Even though he trembled as Little Thunder came near, he soon became calm as the young Indian petted him gently.
“Your mother has been killed, little one,” Little Thunder murmured to the fawn. “That leaves you with no one to look out for you. Do not worry. I, Little Thunder, will be your friend. But first we must get you to a safer place, for there are many animals that would make life dangerous for you here in the open.”
Little Thunder lifted the young fawn in his arms and carried him into the woods where he found a small thicket. Hiding the fawn in the thicket, he returned to the lake and brought some water to the fawn. Then picking up his bow and arrows, he trotted swiftly toward home to tell his mother of his adventure. On the way, a plump rabbit ran across his path. Little Thunder’s shot was easy and accurate. So he brought his mother the big rabbit he had promised—and a big but true story, too.
For many days after that, Little Thunder went back with food to his newly found friend. The young fawn soon became strong and was able to frisk about. Soon Little Thunder and the fawn were playing games together in the clearing. He even taught the fawn to come when he whistled.
At last, his father returned from the long hunting trip and Little Thunder told him all about his adventure with the young fawn.
“This I will have to see for myself,” Big Thunder told the boy. “Tomorrow we shall go together to the thicket in the forest.”
So the next morning Little Thunder took his father to the forest, but when they reached the thicket, it was empty. Big Thunder smiled at his son as if to say that the boy had dreamed the whole adventure.
“He is probably out frisking in the clearing,” Little Thunder said hastily, “or he’s down at the lake having a drink. He will be back soon. Come, father, we will sit over here and wait.”
Though they waited patiently long into the afternoon, the deer did not return. For several days after that, Little Thunder came back to the forest and clearing and lake, but there was no sign of his animal friend. Little Thunder lost all hope of finding the fawn and soon forgot all about him, until one day about twelve moons later.
Little Thunder had gone hunting that day and found himself on the trail of a young buck. He followed the buck all morning and just as he was about to give up the trail and return home, he saw the clearing where he had found the fawn. Approaching quietly he looked out across the clearing. At first he could see nothing. Then as he gazed along the side of the clearing near the forest, his eyes stopped at the small thicket. Something moved. Could it be the fawn, he wondered hopefully.
Slowly he stood up and moved toward the thicket. Then something stirred again. A beautiful young buck stood up in the thicket. The buck turned to run. Little Thunder whistled and called out softly. The buck stopped, turned and looked at the boy. Then, without fear, the buck ran forward to where Little Thunder stood with his hand outstretched. The animal’s tongue licked the Indian’s hand, and Little Thunder reached up and scratched the young buck’s head. The boy knew that his friend had come back at last. He would have much to talk about to the buck—and even more to tell his father.
The Bella Coola were a tribe that lived along the Northwest coast. Like most of the Indians in this part of the land, they were fishermen and woodcarvers. Some of the most beautiful carvings in the world have come from these tribes. Their chief source of food was fish. Each year at the time the salmon were running, the Indians would go out to the great rivers with spears and fish nets to make large catches. Each salmon was then split and dried and stored.
As soon as the Bella Coola boys were old and strong enough, they were taken out to the rivers and taught how to throw the fish spear with its long line attached. They were also taught the use of the large fish nets. Both the spear and the net were hard to handle and sometimes dangerous.
One day Little Twig (who had that name because of his size and the thinness of his body when he was born) begged his father to take him on the salmon hunt. All the men of the tribe were getting ready to head for the river steps where the salmon would be leaping. But Little Twig’s father stooped beside his son and spoke slowly to him.
“My son, I would like to take you along, but this is man’s work and you are still a young boy with much to learn. Stay here in the village and play with the other children. Your day of hunting and spearing the great salmon will come before you know it. But this time the answer must be No.”
Little Twig watched his father leave the village. When all the other fishermen had left, Little Twig went in search of his friend, Running Turtle. He found him carving a new handle for his knife.
“Running Turtle, let us go and watch our fathers fish for the great salmon,” he said. “We can go far above them on the river and watch from the ledge. We will stay only for a short while and will be back in the village before we are missed. I have never seen them fish for the great salmon because my father says that it is too dangerous for Indian boys. Will you go?”
“My father will not let me go to fish with the men of the village either. But he never said that I could not watch the men as they fish. Come, Little Twig, let us hurry. The men are probably already there.”
The two boys set out swiftly after the fishing party. Soon they could hear the river roaring just ahead of them. They stopped at the trees that grew close to the river shore. Peering through the branches, they could see the men of the tribe spread out on both sides of the river, some with nets and some with spears. At the feet of each fisherman were large baskets into which he threw the fish he caught.
The boys worked their way around and above the fishermen until they were about three hundred paces upstream from the fishermen. Edging close to the side of the river near the top of the waterfalls, the boys crept out on a sloping ledge of rock that was only an arm’s length from the rushing water. They were so close that the spray wet their faces as they gazed downstream at the fishermen.
Soon Little Twig became so excited by what he was watching that he stood up and began to pretend that he was fishing for salmon, too. But he was not used to the slippery rocks as the men were, and he suddenly found that he was losing his balance. He called to Running Turtle to help him, but before Running Turtle could grab him Little Twig was tumbling into the rushing river. His body was caught in the great swirling waters that swept him downstream. He choked as his eyes and nose and ears filled with water. Just as he began to think he would die, he felt his body being lifted from the water, and heard a voice shouting.
“Look at this fine fish that I have caught,” someone yelled, laughing.
Then Little Twig realized that one of the fishermen had reached out with his net and snatched him from the river. Little Twig sputtered and coughed and rubbed his eyes as strong hands set him on his feet. There he was, in the middle of a circle of grinning warriors from the village. He began rubbing all the sore spots where river rocks had struck his body. Suddenly he recognized his father’s face. Instead of wearing the stern look which Little Twig had expected, his father was smiling.
“Were you so eager to take a swim that you dove into the river?” he asked the boy. “Or did you hope to catch brother salmon with your bare hands?”
“I disobeyed you, my father, and I am truly sorry. I was a foolish young boy to come to the river when you told me to stay at home. Now I know why I have not been brought on the fishing trips. This is truly a job for men.”
Little Twig looked toward the ground. His father reached down and lifted the lad into the air.
“Yes, my son, this is a job for men. Someday soon you will join us in hunting the swift salmon with spear and net. But for now, be happy to remain in the village with your friends. You were lucky that my brother had his net where he did, or we might have missed you and your body would have been carried away. Come, we will go back to the village to tell your mother of your swim this fine day.”
Then he laughed again. Little Twig laughed this time, too, and all the braves joined in the laughter. No one would speak harshly to him about his foolish act even though it had brought him near death. Indians believed that angry words make people sick. So Indian parents, like Little Twig’s father, always tried to speak happily.
Just then Running Turtle came out of hiding, and he started to laugh with the others.
The Delawares were a peaceful tribe, hunting and fishing in their rich valley and not bothering their neighbors, for they had plenty and needed little more than they were able to obtain themselves with their strong bows and sharp arrows and their well-kept fishing gear.
It was late spring, and one day as Little Fire Cloud romped and played in the village his father called to him.
“Come, Little Fire Cloud, it is time we built a new canoe. Shortly we shall be needing a new canoe and if we do not start work now it will not be ready when the time comes to leave camp.”
So father and son started out to gather the materials to make a fine new canoe.
The Indians of the forest and lakes depended a great deal upon the canoe and were wise enough to construct them of material that was easy to obtain. Light cedar made the ribs and the planking of the canoe, and over this the Indians stretched a tight cover of birch bark. Then they took spruce roots and split them and these they used to sew the seams of the canoe together. They then would calk the spaces with a tarlike substance which was made from pine pitch and soot. When finished the product was firm and sturdy, but above all if the canoe should become injured in any way, the materials were always handy in the forest with which to make repairs.
Finally Little Fire Cloud and his father had gathered all the necessary equipment together and the work on the canoe was started. Father and son worked very hard at the job, and a few days later the canoe was completed. As the two finished their work they stood back to admire the job and Little Fire Cloud said,
“Is it not beautiful, father? It is the most beautiful canoe I have ever seen either in our own village or any of our neighbors.”
“Yes, Little Fire Cloud, it really is a beautiful canoe and one which we can be proud of.”
For the rest of that day that remained, Little Fire Cloud could talk of nothing else but the beautiful canoe that he helped his father to build. Finally supper was over, and it was time to retire.
That night as Little Fire Cloud fell asleep his head was all full of visions of canoes and rapids and great lakes and rivers. Soon the confusion of many things became one thing, and Little Fire Cloud found himself standing on the shore of a great lake. He did not know how he got there or what lake it was, but the water was a beautiful blue green and it was calm and smooth. It was daytime and, as Little Fire Cloud looked upon the lake, in the distance he saw a canoe coming toward him. In the bow of the canoe stood a great warrior, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes looking right at Little Fire Cloud.
In the stern of the canoe, a young warrior softly paddled the canoe forward toward the shore, directly to where Little Fire Cloud was standing. As the canoe drew closer, Little Fire Cloud saw that it was made of shimmering silver birch bark and it looked so clean and new.
As the bow scraped the shore, the warrior stepped from the canoe and walked to where Little Fire Cloud was standing.
“Come, Little Fire Cloud, step into the canoe, and we shall take a short trip.”
“I do not know if I should,” said Little Fire Cloud overcome by the great warrior who stood before him. “My father might wonder where I had gone.”
“Do not worry about your father for you will be gone only a short while and we shall return you to this point on the shore. I have something I want to show you.”
So Little Fire Cloud feeling a warmth toward this great warrior stepped in and seated himself in the middle of the canoe. Then the great warrior stepped in and pushed away from shore. The warrior in the stern turned the canoe toward the middle of the lake and began to paddle steadily, his blade cutting the water neatly and hardly making a ripple.
The canoe glided softly and smoothly across the water. Up ahead a mist had settled upon the water, and soon the canoe had entered this mist and was gliding softly through the water with nothing on any side but the cloudy white mist. All that Little Fire Cloud could see was water right next to the canoe.
Little Fire Cloud called to the warrior.
“Where are you taking me, O great warrior of the lake?”
“You shall see, little brave,” said the great warrior without turning in the canoe.
Soon the mist lifted, and there surrounding the canoe was a beautiful pool of water with many streams running off in different directions.
The Indian who was paddling guided the canoe into one of these streams, and as the canoe moved forward the warrior pointed toward the shore. There along the shore, Little Fire Cloud could see many beaver working diligently at gathering material for their homes. As the canoe continued along the stream, Little Fire Cloud saw many beautiful flowers and plants, and occasionally a deer could be seen drinking at the water’s edge. Little Fire Cloud was quick to notice that the animals seemed to pay no attention to the canoe when it sailed past where they stood except to lift their heads and look at this craft as it moved smoothly along the stream under the expert hands of the brave in the stern.
Little Fire Cloud noticed that there were no weapons in the canoe.
Soon they had reached a fork in the stream, and again the canoe was guided into one of the openings and the trip continued. Many more wild flowers and animals were observed by Little Fire Cloud until suddenly they were in the mist once again and all the beauty was behind them as they moved swiftly through the mist.
When they broke from the cloud, Little Fire Cloud could see the shore of the lake once again and he realized that they must have traveled in a circle. Soon the canoe scraped the shore and the warrior stepped out and assisted Little Fire Cloud. When the boy was safely ashore the warrior said, “Did you enjoy your trip?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Little Fire Cloud. “Everything was so beautiful. Thank you very much for the nice ride and for showing me all the beautiful things of nature.”
“Yes, Little Fire Cloud, there are many many beautiful things in nature that can be seen if one travels quietly and peacefully in a good canoe. Nature is our friend and, if we remember this, many pleasant hours will be spent seeing nature. Do not do anything to spoil this picture which will remain with you always. If you never raise your bow to kill unless you have need for food or clothing game will always be plentiful. But if you wasted this beauty which is given to the Indian you yourself and your people would soon die from hunger and cold. To kill for the sake of killing is cruel and wasteful. Now I must say good-bye, for I have many miles to travel. Good-bye, Little Fire Cloud, and remember your trip into the misty lake.”
With that the warrior stepped into the canoe, and soon the canoe turned and disappeared into the distance.
Suddenly Little Fire Cloud felt a hand upon his shoulder and someone was shaking him.
“My son, my son, wake up, you have been dreaming.”
When Little Fire Cloud opened his eyes he was lying on his bed, and his father was standing over him.
“Oh, father, I had the most beautiful dream. A great warrior came and took me for a ride in a beautiful canoe and showed me the wonders of nature in all their splendor.”
And Little Fire Cloud went on to tell his dream in all the beautiful detail that he could remember. His father was a good father and so he listened patiently to his son; and when Little Fire Cloud had finished telling about the dream, his father said, “Yes, my son, it was a beautiful dream, and in the dream you learned a great lesson concerning the creatures of the wild which I hope you will always remember.”
Little Beaver was full of excitement, for soon the winter would be over and he and his friend Jumping Rabbit would once again be able to take their little canoe and go to the lake and streams to catch the fine fish that waited in the early spring for the bait to be cast.
The Cayuga village had weathered the winter well, and now the first signs of spring were beginning to show. With the bursting forth of the spring flowers and the green shoots of plants and grass and the green leaves the Cayuga village seemed to come alive.
One of the first tasks was the uncovering of the canoes. (When winter approached, the canoes were all hauled far above the lake water’s edge and covered completely with mounds of sand. This kept them from drying out and cracking during the cold winter.) Finally all the canoes had been uncovered, and the Indians took to the lakes and the streams again, fishing and hunting to replenish the food supply that had been used during the winter.
One morning Little Beaver searched for his friend Jumping Rabbit for a long time and when he could not find him, he decided to go off by himself. Walking to the edge of the lake he found that his father had uncovered his canoe for him.
Stepping into the canoe he paddled across the lake to the mouth of a stream which was new to him. This stream led to the Lake of the Rushes where the girls and women gathered the rushes each spring to make new mats for the platforms of the wigwam. Here he had not been before.
As Little Beaver paddled he saw many signs of spring, but he was searching for big game. He wanted to be the first young boy to bring a deer back to the village.
Soon he beached his canoe on the side of the Rush Lake and moved inland searching for signs of the deer. Suddenly he came upon the tracks of what seemed to be a fine big buck. Following carefully along the track of the deer he noticed that the deer was moving slowly. Then suddenly the spaces between the tracks became bigger and he knew that the deer had begun to move faster.
Suddenly the noises of the woods ceased and it was very quiet. Up ahead a shadow flitted across the trail. Little Beaver dropped upon his belly and then he heard it—the cry of the great horned owl. But still he knew that the owl would not cry at this time of day and from a short distance off the trail he heard an answering cry.
Through the fading light among the trees up ahead, he saw a small group of warriors gather. One of these warriors placed his hand alongside his mouth, and the cry of the horned owl once again was heard and from another direction an answer.
Then Little Beaver knew that these were unfriendly Indians from the north and they had invaded the land of the Cayugas. They could be here for one reason only, to raid his village.
“I must return at once to the village and warn my people of this danger.”
Little Beaver turned and retreated down the path to where he had left his canoe. Pushing it out into the lake he immediately began paddling as fast as his arms could go for the mouth of the stream that would lead into the next lake and to the shore of his village. He reached the mouth of the stream just as the dark storm clouds started to gather over the lake.
And then it was raining and raining hard. This would slow up the attackers, but it would not stop them and Little Beaver had to get to his village quickly to warn his people of the danger. He dipped his paddle deep into the waters of the lake and the canoe moved forward. But now the wind was getting stronger and his arms began to ache from the effort. He paddled harder and harder but soon his arms became weak and he was still a great distance from the shore. Besides the danger of the storm it was fast approaching nightfall, and ahead Little Beaver could see the friendly fires of his village being lit one at a time.
These would act as beacons of direction for the enemy.
He chanced a glance behind and then he heard it again. The cry of the horned owl. The cry was coming from almost directly behind and in the dusk he could see the canoes of the enemy slipping from the stream into the lake.
The storm passed and the waters became calm, and now Little Beaver’s job was easier, but so was that of the enemy. He paddled with all his might though he felt his arms would fall off.
Finally he reached the shore and he leaped out onto the sand. Without waiting to pull his canoe ashore he rushed for the village. He turned to glance at the lake once more and he could see the canoes of the enemy drawing along the shore, closer to the village with each stroke.
He rushed to his father and quickly told him what he had seen. His father dashed from the wigwam and glanced toward the lake. Just then they both heard it once again. The cry of the great horned owl. His father stopped and listened and then placing his own hand to the side of his mouth he answered the whistle. Then he turned to his son.
“It is all right my son. These are friends come to join in a great celebration. It is your uncle and his people from the north. Be not afraid, for they are friends.”
Little Beaver looked at his father. He smiled and taking his father’s hand they walked toward the lakeside. Stepping from the canoes were a number of Cayuga warriors and they came with many bundles.
The two groups greeted each other and then the leader of the visitors came forward.
“Your father has explained that you thought we were unfriendly Indians come to call. I, for one, am glad that you are not a grown warrior right now, for your arrow shaft might have found its place in my heart in the forest. We had hoped to surprise your people with our visit but when we saw your canoe glide away from the Lake of the Rushes we knew we had been seen. And so, my little brave, let me congratulate you on a fine job of paddling. You came across the lake in a storm without slowing your stroke. I have told my brother that if we had been the enemy you would have reached the village far ahead of us and we would now be walking the trail of the happy hunting ground.”
That night Little Beaver slept very soundly. He had a great adventure on his first trip to the Lake of the Rushes and it would be a long time to come before he would go alone again.
Singing Fire, the young Apache brave, rode swiftly through the hills toward the village of his people. He had been hunting and now was returning to his tepee to join his family in a hearty evening meal. His hunger made him urge his pony to an even faster pace. Soon he could see the smoke of the fires in the village. It was only a few moments later that Singing Fire brought his pony to a quick stop on the very edge of the village. To ride his horse through the village this evening would have been unkind. The summer had been very dry, and his pony’s hoofs would have raised much dust that would settle in the cooking pots.
Walking through the village, the young brave waved and called to his friends. He laughed when they joked with him about his empty hands. He had been unable to find any game that he felt was worth bringing to the village. Soon he reached his father’s tepee and was welcomed warmly by the family.
When supper was finished, Singing Fire went to talk with his friend, Many Painted Ponies. The two braves had always been together since they were very young and just learning to walk. Now whenever they had time, they would sit and talk about their future together as great leaders of the Apache tribe. He found his friend working at making new arrow tips.
“Hello, my good friend, Many Painted Ponies, and how are you this fine evening?”
“My stomach is full and my heart is happy, Singing Fire. Could a brave ask much more of life? I have been very fortunate in having such a fine father and mother who have made my life such a pleasure. As I saw you ride in from the hunt, I noticed you carried no game. Was there no game where you rode? Usually you do not return empty-handed.”
“Today was bad for the hunt. The largest game knew that I was hunting and ran for cover, and I was not as quick as they to find the hiding places.”
The two young men laughed and then spent some time talking until darkness came. Each young man went back to his tepee for a well-earned sleep.
The next day there was great excitement in the village. As young Singing Fire stepped from his tepee, he saw that people were gathering in the center of the village to hear a tall Apache warrior who was talking loudly and rapidly to the chief of the village. As Singing Fire drew near, he was able to catch some of the words spoken by the warrior.
“It is true, my Chief, the Comanches have been seen in our land. If we are not careful they will raid our pony herds and make off with many of our best mounts. I have seen them to the east, and they skulk like the lowly wolf in the night.”
The great chief listened quietly until the young warrior had finished. Then he motioned to the older men of the tribe to gather in his tepee. When they were all inside, Singing Fire, Many Painted Ponies, and the other young braves stood outside waiting impatiently for what the elders of the tribe would decide. They could hear the young brave who had first reported to the chief repeating his story for those who had come late. He said that while trailing some ponies that had strayed from the herd he had come upon the coals of a recent fire. Because the marks in the sand were not Apache, he had followed the tracks made when the group broke camp. Traveling at a rapid pace, he soon had come upon the band of Comanches in a small gully. After watching them for a short while, the brave had mounted his pony and ridden as fast as he could to the village to tell the chief of this threat to their property and peace, within such a short distance of their camp.
Finally the Chief came out from his tepee and spoke to the young warriors.
“The Comanches have entered our hunting grounds. Not only have they broken the law, but they dare to ride within a short distance of our camp. We will gather a war party and go in search of these thieves of the night. We will give them a sound lesson by whipping those wild dogs so badly that they will return to their own land with their tails between their legs—if there are any left to return when we have met them upon the field of battle.”
With low shouts of agreement, everyone ran to prepare for the warpath.
Singing Fire and Many Painted Ponies returned to check their weapons and when preparations were completed returned to where the chief sat astride a great white horse. When everyone had assembled, the party left camp in search of the invading Comanches. For several days the party searched but no sign was found other than the old fire, that anyone had been in the vicinity. At last the chief turned to his men and said, “They have seen our strength and afraid have returned to their own land. They respect the might and fighting ability of the Apaches. Come, we will return to our village.”
The party started for home, but as Singing Fire and Many Painted Ponies rode along, Singing Fire was quiet.
“What is it, my friend, Singing Fire? You are so quiet.”
“I was just thinking, my friend, that the Comanches are not known as cowards; they surely would not turn from a fight. I do not believe they have left our land.”
“But, Singing Fire, for three days we have searched the land and no sign do we see of the Comanches. Certainly the earth did not open and swallow them up.”
“That is just the point, my friend. What has happened to the party? The brave reported seeing them and took us to where they had their fire. The tracks led away but suddenly stopped, and we have seen nothing to indicate that they returned to their own lands across the great river. I just am not satisfied that they have left.”
Nothing more was said for the remainder of the trip back to the village, and that evening after supper, Singing Fire went to sleep thinking about the hunt for the Comanches.
As he slept, he dreamed there were Comanche warriors mounted upon fast horses and they all seemed to be riding toward a solid wall. Singing Fire suddenly awoke recalling seeing that wall before.
About a day’s ride from their village was a small valley which they called the valley of the snake because it twisted and turned between the mountains. As the thundering riders neared the wall, it seemed to open up and they had disappeared within. Then the walls closed again and there was silence. Singing Fire leaped from his bed and rushed to his father’s side.
“My father, I must speak to our chief. It is of great importance that I see him now.”
“But it is late, my son, and certainly what you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”
“No, father, I must speak to him now.” With that, Singing Fire left his tepee and soon was standing before the tepee of the Great Chief. He made his presence known and was invited into the tepee.
The chief invited him to sit and then asked, “What brings you to my tepee so late, young Singing Fire?”
“Tonight, O Great Chief, in a dream I was drawn to the painted hill which stands guard over our village. Here I stood troubled in heart and mind because of what has been reported to our tribe.” Then Singing Fire proceeded to tell in complete detail of the dream he had had. When he finished, he waited for the chief to speak.
“What importance do you attach to this dream you have had, young Singing Fire?”
“I do not know, Great Chief, but I would like your permission to take Many Painted Ponies and ride to this place I have seen in the dream. I would like to see what can be found there and then I will return to my village.”
The Indians placed a great deal of faith in dreams, and so the chief gave his permission and early the next morning, Many Painted Ponies and Singing Fire set out for the valley that Singing Fire had seen not only in his dream, but many times on his hunting trips.
They traveled all day, and when the sun was setting in the west, they found themselves but a short distance from the entrance to the valley. They camped for the night, not lighting a fire, in case there should be any unfriendly Indians in the vicinity.
As dawn drew near, the two young men crawled to the mountainous heights overlooking the twisting valley. There they lay and watched the valley below. For almost an hour they sat until finally about noontime a small band of warriors could be seen riding into the valley. They rode straight up the middle of the valley twisting and turning as the valley turned but finally about midway up the valley they swung sharply to the left and seemed to disappear into the very walls surrounding the valley.
“Come,” said Singing Fire, “we must investigate this strange occurrence.”
It took them most of the afternoon to reach a vantage point overlooking where the warriors had disappeared. Crawling carefully to the very edge, the two young braves looked carefully over the edge. Below them lay a fantastic sight. A tremendous Comanche encampment was being formed in a small box canyon. The entrance to the box canyon was a mere crack in the wall which was just about wide enough for one horse and rider to enter at one time. Now Singing Fire could see why a rider going through the valley would not see the opening for it was actually hidden from view by a turn in the trail. If one were not looking for it, one would not find it except by accident.
“This is why we have not seen the Comanches except for that one small party. Under cover of night or early dawn they have been entering our land in small parties, gathering here until their force is large enough to make war upon our people.”
Singing Fire tapped his friend upon the shoulder, motioning him away from the edge.
“Many Painted Ponies, one of us must ride for all he is worth to reach our village and tell of this plan to our people. You must tell the chief to gather the Apaches together and we can trap the scheming Comanches in their own camp.”
Many Painted Ponies rose to leave. “Be careful, my friend, for if they should suspect that you are here your scalp will soon hang from their medicine lodge and they will break from their camp fearing the trap we will set for them. Now I will ride for our village and may your prayers go with me.” With that, Many Painted Ponies left and mounting his pony he rode off toward home.
Singing Fire kept careful watch for the next day and night and when dawn approached he saw the dust of many horses approaching. Riding forth to meet his people, a plan formed in his mind. In council with the chiefs a short time later the plan was outlined. The best marksmen of the Apaches were placed around the box canyon on the walls overlooking the unsuspecting camp of the Comanches. Other warriors would ride into the valley to stand guard at the only entrance or exit to the canyon to make sure none escaped.
Soon all was in readiness. The signal was given. Like an attacking horde of eagles, the Apaches began firing down upon the Comanche encampment. The battle was long and bloody. In confusion the Comanches mounted their ponies and headed for the exit. Here they were met with a hail of arrows which drove them back into the canyon.
When the Comanche forces were thoroughly disorganized, the chief signaled the Apaches to charge through the entrance and soon the two tribes were locked in hand to hand combat. The victory was complete and soon the last of the Comanches had fallen before the knives and war clubs of the attacking Apaches.
In triumph the tribe returned to the village where great celebrations marked the next few days and nights. The hero of the affair was praised before the council, and Singing Fire was honored for his part in the great victory.
Grey Calf opened his eyes to greet the warmth of the early spring day. There was a great deal of excitement in his Crow village as he rolled out from under his buffalo robe. At just that moment, his father entered the tepee.
“Come, my son,” he said. “We must dress and eat right away. The village is broken down, for we are going to move again. Your mother is waiting to take down our tepee. Come, you must prepare to help load the travois.”
Grey Calf learned as a very young Crow that whenever his tribe had to move to follow the buffalo herds, the whole village was packed and loaded upon travois drawn by the horse or horses of each family. Everything the family owned was made to be carried easily in rawhide containers that could be folded and put away when the family had settled in a new place. Furniture was made so that it could be folded, too.
Many times, Grey Calf had watched his mother make the travois. She would take two of the tepee poles and fasten them together with a rawhide thong, just a short way from one end. Then she would pull the poles apart at the opposite end and set them, at the point where they were crossed and tied, upon the shoulders of their horse. The longer ends of the crossed poles would stretch outward and rest on the ground behind their horse on each side. Then she would run a long strip of rawhide through the knot that joined the poles over the horse’s shoulders, and tie it around the horse’s chest like a light harness. Finally, she would stretch and tie strips of rawhide across the poles behind the horse, to make a frame on which their family goods were loaded.
Grey Calf’s father had told him once that many years ago, before the white man had brought horses to the Indians’ land, the travois had been fastened to their strong dogs. But the dogs were not so strong as horses, so the loads had to be much smaller and lighter. Even their tepees were smaller in those days because larger ones would have weighed too much for any one dog to pull on the travois.
These thoughts passed rapidly through Grey Calf’s mind as he listened to his father. Then he yawned and asked, “Must we move so soon again, father? It seems such a short while ago that our tribe set up its village here.”
“My son, the buffalo are on the move,” his father answered patiently. “You know that we would not have our tepees, our best food and clothing, and little of anything else without the great buffalo. When they decide to move, we must move with them. The scouts who have been watching the herd tell us that it has started to leave for new feeding grounds.”
Without another word, Grey Calf got up quickly and began helping his mother gather their belongings. He helped her take down the tepee. Then she built the travois rapidly, and he helped her pack and load their belongings onto it.
Soon, where once a proud village had stood, hardly anything was left standing. The men set out ahead on their horses, followed by the women and children on horses, the smaller children sometimes riding on the travois, their mothers and the older children riding astride the horses’ backs. Grey Calf, like many other of the older boys, was riding his own pony near his mother.
The scouts were far ahead of them, keeping close touch with the wandering buffalo herd, and signaling the tribe to tell the braves which way to lead their families. The scouts were also watching carefully for roving bands of the Crows’ enemies, for they were near Cheyenne territory, but they saw none.
Just as Grey Calf was ready to ask his mother if the buffalo herd would never stop roaming, a scout raced his horse back to tell the braves that the herd was circling around, ready to settle down near fresh water and food. The Chief gave the signal, and all the families went to work busily setting up their tepees. Before too long, smoke was rising lazily from the fires which circled their new village. The trek had taken most of the day, and the women were beginning to cook the evening meal.
The braves were watering their thirsty horses, and then would put them out to graze. Grey Calf did all he could to help his mother get their meal ready quickly because he was very hungry. When all the small chores had been completed, the families gathered at their tepees, to eat the food that smelled so good to all the children.
It wasn’t long after Grey Calf had eaten that he began to feel drowsy. Saying goodnight to his father and mother, he went into the tepee, rolled himself in his warm buffalo robe (because the prairie night would be cool), and was soon sound asleep.
The next day dawned as one of great excitement, for word came to the tepee of Grey Calf that today One Horn, the great buffalo hunter, was going to take the young braves on their first buffalo hunt.
Like other Crow boys, Grey Calf had spent many days preparing patiently for this great event. His father had taught him how to ride his pony and to shoot the bow and arrow. He had learned how to ride into a herd and to shoot from beneath his pony’s neck. And now that great day was here. One Horn, the greatest of buffalo hunters in the tribe, would give the young braves their last lesson before taking them out onto the prairie for the actual hunt.
When the young braves had gathered, One Horn stepped to the center of the circle and gave his final instructions, warning them not to be too eager but to take their time and make sure of their shot. And above all, he warned them, as soon as they had made their shot they must swerve away from the herd. In this way they would be out of danger if the herd should spread out to avoid trampling its fallen members.
When One Horn finished, he asked if there were any questions. The young braves had none. So One Horn told them that the time of the hunt would be midafternoon. The boys were told to return to their tepees and get everything ready.
Grey Calf sped back to his tepee to tell his family breathlessly all that had happened. For the rest of the morning he worked carefully over each of his arrows and his strong bow. In fact, he was so busy that his mother had to call him three times before he came to lunch.
The sun seemed to move very slowly for all the Crow boys. But soon a young brave on a frisky pony rode swiftly through the village to tell them to gather for the hunt.
Grey Calf leaped upon his pony’s back and sped to the edge of the village where the other young braves were gathering. When all had gathered and were seated on the ground, One Horn spoke.
“A small group of buffalo has wandered away from the main herd,” he said. “It is from this small group that we shall choose our targets. I will inspect each young brave’s weapons in turn. When all are satisfactory, we shall move out in the direction of the small herd. Do not ride hard but move your pony slowly. Buffalo will not go far in this heat. We shall have plenty of time to come near them, take our positions quietly, and then attack together without warning.”
When One Horn had finished examining each young brave’s weapons, the small band moved out in single file. Soon they sighted the buffalo. One Horn gave hand signals to the young braves to spread out and take their positions silently, but above all to wait for the signal from One Horn to attack.
As slowly and quietly as possible, each young brave moved into position. All eyes were on One Horn, and suddenly he gave the signal. The air was torn apart as wild yelps leaped from the throats of the eager young hunters. The buffalo were startled and began running about wildly. The boys dug their heels into their ponies’ sides and headed into the group of buffalo. Soon the dust clouds were so heavy that one could not tell the hunters from the hunted, but the young braves rode swiftly, each hunter picking out his buffalo carefully and with an eye to size. This was to be the first of many buffalo kills, and each young brave hoped that his would be the largest of the beasts brought down.
Buffalo after buffalo began to stumble and fall before the accurate shooting of the young hunters. The ponies were magnificent in their performance, for each had been carefully trained for this day.
As quickly as the hunt had started it was over. One by one the young braves returned to One Horn who had seen their great success. Soon they were once again at their starting point. They knew that the remaining buffalo would tire and, knowing they were no longer being chased, would begin to mill and settle down once again.
One Horn gazed proudly upon the field of battle. Twelve plump shaggy beasts lay dead upon the prairie. Every brave had made his kill. There would be much rejoicing in the village that evening. One Horn told the young braves how to prepare their kills for the return to the village, and they went to work immediately. Their adventure this afternoon would mean much food for the tribe and new clothing for the coming winter and horns and tails to decorate their costumes and tepees.
As One Horn rode from dead buffalo to dead buffalo, watching the young braves at work, he was quick to praise each lad for his part in the hunt that day. Soon all had completed their tasks and a triumphant band returned to the village.
That evening each young brave in turn told how he had made his kill and there was a great deal of celebrating. The honor of the biggest kill went to Grey Calf. As the last of the families were going into their tepees for the evening, Grey Calf’s father came to sit by his side.
“My son, your father is proud. Not only has my son killed his first buffalo but it was by far the largest of the beasts killed today. Today you had success and triumph, but life will not always be that simple. The trail ahead is hard. There will be many difficult times, but if you learn your lessons well you shall one day be a great and respected warrior of the tribe.”
When Grey Calf’s father had finished speaking, he looked down upon his son and smiled. The tired young brave had fallen asleep.
Little Fox, a member of the Apache Tribe, was a shy Indian lad who was rather small. When he was born he was a very tiny baby and his face was thin and pointed like that of a fox. For this reason he was given the name of Little Fox.
As Little Fox grew older, he dreamed of the day he would be able to wear the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle, the most respected bird of the American Indian. It was believed that there was great power in the thirteen tail feathers and in the pinion feathers on the wings of the Great Golden Eagle.
One day Little Fox was seated in his mother’s wickiup, when his father entered. Without a word Little Fox’s father went to a case made of deerskin and carefully removed the cover. Then with great care he removed from the case a most beautiful feather bonnet, at which Little Fox gazed with great longing. His father, Swift Deer, was an honored brave in the tribe and had become privileged to wear the bonnet of eagle feathers for his many brave deeds and the telling of these deeds before the Council of Chiefs. Swift Deer had been granted the right to place additional eagle feathers in his headdress. Suddenly, Swift Deer turned to Little Fox, and said, “Why do you look so sad, my son?”
Little Fox turned slowly to his father and said, “It is because I, Little Fox, have not been able to do anything that the Council would recognize as a deed worthy of the wearing of the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.”
“Little Fox,” said his father, “you seek too hard for a deed to compete for this honor. Tell me, do you have any eagle feathers that you could wear, in case you should do a deed which would be considered worthy?”
“No, my father,” said Little Fox, “but by the rising of the next new moon, I shall have many eagle feathers, for tomorrow I start in search of the Great Golden Eagle. It has been told by Great Moose that beyond the three hills many Golden Eagles have been seen.”
Swift Deer was proud. He knew that though his son was small he had in his breast a brave heart, for to go in search of the Great Golden Eagle took a great deal of courage. Once again Swift Deer took his son aside and told him the many dangers of eagle hunting, but praised him for his bravery in going to get the tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.
The following morning, Little Fox took some food. Then taking a long strong thong of deerskin, he looped it several times around his waist and tied the food pouch to it. Strapping a knife also to the thong, he started for the place where the Great Golden Eagles had been seen.
On the way he stopped just long enough to snare a plump young rabbit which he would use for bait. When he reached the place where the eagles were to be found, he started digging a deep hole, large enough for him to stand in. Then he placed branches over the hole to hide it, with a small space for him to reach through and grasp the tail feathers of the eagle. To the top of this cover he tied the plump young rabbit with a piece of thong. After all was in readiness, Little Fox lifted the edge of his cover and slid into the hole, resting his foot on a thick root which stuck out of the earth into the hole. Placing his back against the side of the hole, he waited patiently for the Golden Eagle.
An hour passed and then two and three, and Little Fox began to feel his muscles tighten up and his body start to grow stiff. He began to feel impatient. Suddenly, he heard the rabbit begin to move about uneasily, then tug in panic against the thong that held him. Surely the Golden Eagle must be close by. Little Fox felt relaxed; the stiffness in his body was gone. Now excitement rushed into his body as he waited for the Golden Eagle to come to rest on the top of his hiding place.
All at once, Little Fox felt the ground tremble and he heard what sounded like the low rumble of a waterfall. Then he knew that what he had heard was the low growl of a bear. He peered through a crack in the cover over the hole and saw the bear’s towering form. Fear gripped the heart of Little Fox. Many were the stories he had heard of Indians who had lost their lives while hunting for the prized feathers of the Golden Eagle.
The bear, with the swiftness of a fleeting arrow, made one sweep with his huge paw and the rabbit went sprawling. The bear paused as though he were thinking about the problem before him. Here was one of his enemies trapped beneath his feet. How would he reach his enemy? With an angry growl he ripped at the boughs which covered the hiding place of Little Fox until he had uncovered the top of the hole.
Holding his breath and his heart beating wildly, Little Fox crouched far down in the hole and waited for the final moment when he, instead of the Golden Eagle, would fall victim in his own trap. The bear lunged but missed his mark. Little Fox suddenly realized that the top of the hole was too small for the bear to get his paw and his head in at the same time. Again and again the bear lunged, but without success. The more he lunged and failed, the angrier he became. He thrust first his paw and then his head into the hole; but Little Fox, by pressing down against the bottom of the hole, was able to keep just out of reach of the flailing paws and gnashing teeth. All of a sudden, the bear pulled back away from the hole as if to consider his next move. In this instant, Little Fox thought of a way that might save his life. He quickly untied the long leather thong around his waist, made a loop of it, and as slowly and quietly as possible placed the loop just below the opening, holding it in place all around by pressing the thong into the earth. Little Fox tied the other end to the root on which he had been standing.
Now the bear was returning. Little Fox waited, holding tight to the leather thong. As the bear placed his head in the hole and so into the loop, Little Fox pulled hard on the thong, which immediately came loose from the earth and tightened around the throat of the bear.
In angry surprise, the bear pulled back from the hole only to be stopped short as the thong drew tight. Then he began a series of noises which Little Fox remembered for many moons. The bear’s growls gradually grew to roars, and then turned to cries of pain. The harder the bear pulled, the tighter the thong gripped his throat, until the cries became coughs and gasps. Then all was quiet. The bear’s thrashing around had ceased, but still Little Fox waited.
Little Fox slowly raised himself until he could see just over the edge. There, not two feet from the hole, lay a huge bear, quite still and dead. Little Fox quickly pulled himself from the hole and started at a run for the village.
He reached the village and, not stopping to answer any questions, ran straight to his father’s wickiup. He began telling his story, still panting and talking so fast that his father made him stop to get his breath and then speak slowly. When Little Fox had finished, Swift Deer gathered some of the other warriors and went to the place where this adventure had taken place. With great pride, Swift Deer helped to skin the bear and bring it back to the village. Not long after, Little Fox stood in the Council meeting before the elders of the tribe and recounted his tale of courage. And when all his words had been heard, the Council voted that Little Fox should wear in his headband not one, but two of the most treasured tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.
The Powhatan Indians were a great tribe whose hard work each year was rewarded with large supplies of food and clothing.
Long Moose was growing up among his people happily, doing his share of the tribe’s work. He had become very tall and awkward. He had great strength, too, which he hadn’t learned yet to use well. During games and contests, Long Moose often forgot how strong he was and, not meaning to, would hurt his friends, sometimes rather badly.
Long Moose was still trying over and over to learn how to make hunting tools when winter came. It was a bitter, cold, northern winter. Both his mother and father became very sick and died after only a few days, leaving his younger sister and himself alone without near relatives to help them.
Because Long Moose was not a skillful young brave, his sister had little respect for him. He spent many days thinking sadly about his parents, but doing nothing to get food and keep their shelter tight against the wind and snow. Soon their small supply of food and fuel was nearly gone, and Long Moose had brought no hides for making clothes or repairing their home. He had also failed to give his share of food and hides for all the tribe, as every warrior was expected to do. Not only his sister but all the tribe began to feel that Little Moose was not a good Powhatan.
His sister’s harsh looks at him and his own growing hunger and cold made Long Moose think about how and why he was not a good brother or a good brave. He had to admit to himself that there was only one real reason besides his poor hunting tools and bad marksmanship: he did not want to hunt or make good hunting tools because he did not want to kill any animals.
He thought about how often he had gone out to hunt and even when, without looking for them, he had run across deer near by, he would still come back without having shot a single arrow. Long Moose knew that he loved all wild animals as much as he had loved his parents, and loved his sister and his friends now.
Driven by his hunger, the cold, his shame, and his real love for his sister, Long Moose set out several times to hunt. Each time he made a kill, but he was nearly as sad when he had done so as he had been when his parents died. To add to his sorrow, his sister would scold him for his poor skill, and taunt him by saying that he would never grow to be a real brave.
All the tribe could see that Long Moose and his sister were hungry most of the time. Their clothes were shabby and their home now was beyond repair.
One day in early spring, Long Moose went down to the edge of the lake to be away from the unkind glances of his sister and his friends—and to think. As he sat on a cold rock, staring out at the ice on the lake, an old man of the tribe came up and stood quietly beside him, waiting for Long Moose to speak.
“Nantesi, my friend,” Long Moose said, wondering if he still were his friend, “what brings you here to me?”
“My friend, Long Moose, for nearly two moons now there has been hunger in your home. Your clothes are worn out, and your sister is afraid to leave your home, because she is ashamed of her clothes. She has told some of the women that you are afraid to hunt the wild game because of the bear that lurks in the woods. Some of the other families have given her food and skins from time to time. But they can give her no more. The next winter may be hard again and each family will need every bit of its food and skins. You must not fear the bear. Your arms are strong, your legs are swift, and surely you have the strength of three men. You should be able to bring back more than is needed in your own home. Will you continue to lose the respect of your tribe, or will you become a man and take your place with the other braves of the tribe?”
Long Moose thought carefully about each word the old brave had spoken.
“Nantesi,” he said after a long silence, “let them think what they will. I do not fear the wagging tongues of my neighbors, and I do not fear the great bear of the forest. There is a good reason why I do not bring more home for my sister and myself with some left over for the tribe. Never have I feared the creatures of the forest. Instead, I have loved them much as I love my own people. That is why, when on the hunt, my arrows do not bring death. I cannot shoot these creatures who live so happily among the trees and streams. Is it wrong to love these creatures so much? Nantesi, do you not know the feeling I have when a deer licks my hand, or a rabbit plays at my feet while I rest in the shade of a great oak tree? These things have happened to me. The wild creatures trust me and come right to my hand. I cannot bring death upon those who trust me.”
Nantesi said nothing. He understood now the feelings within this strange young man. He rose to leave.
“Wait, Nantesi, my friend. My heart is heavy. What can I do? I know that what I believe is wrong in the eyes of many, for ours is a tribe of great hunters. What am I do? I must live among my people, but I cannot be happy unless I live my life the way I honestly believe I should.”
“Long Moose, I am an old man. Some of our tribe think I am wise. But this time they might not believe that what I say is wise. Go into the hills with your troubled thoughts. Think calmly in the quiet woods, far away from us. Only in this way can your heart give you the true answer that all of nature has been given to man that he may give food and shelter to those he loves and to himself.” Then Nantesi left as quickly as he had come.
The following morning, many in the tribe watched the lonely figure of Long Moose leaving the village, as he headed toward the distant hills. At last, after three weeks had passed, all eyes were turned toward the far end of the village. Entering the camp, a fine buck upon his shoulders, was Long Moose standing taller than ever before. His clothes were tattered and torn, but there was a proud smile on his face.
Going straight to his sister’s house, Long Moose set the fat buck at his sister’s feet without a word. Smiling, he put one hand on her shoulder as she stared at him in surprise. Many of the villagers crowded around asking questions, but Long Moose said nothing and looked over their heads for Nantesi. Then he saw the old man sitting contentedly before his home, looking kindly in his direction. Walking over to where the old brave sat, Long Moose asked if he could talk with him. Nantesi rose slowly, and greeting Long Moose warmly, invited the young man into his home. When both were seated, Nantesi, as before, waited for Long Moose to speak.
“Nantesi, my friend, for a long time I have been away from my tribe. As you said would happen, my mind is no longer troubled. Up in the hills I made a campsite for myself. I lived on nuts and berries and plants and the cool water of the mountain streams. Each night I wrapped myself in my blanket and slept a troubled sleep.
“But three nights ago, when I had finished my evening prayer, I rolled myself in my blanket and rested my head upon a soft bed of pine needles. Sleep came suddenly, and for the first time in three weeks I slept peacefully until the moon had risen high in the sky. I awoke with a start knowing I had the answer that you had said I would find in the forest.
“Suddenly, I knew that I had watched the very creatures that I love struggle with each other for life here in the forests and in the fields and the streams. I had never thought that this was wrong. Right at this very moment, the struggle for life is going on in many parts of the forest. Before the sun brings the dawn of a new day, many of our forest creatures will have died because others must live. The strongest or the wisest live. Now I knew what I had hidden from myself that if some wild creatures did not die to provide food for others, many of the same animals that I love so much would die. I knew that I should not kill just for the sake of killing. The animals themselves kill only when they are hungry or their lives are in danger. I, too, could follow their example and be a good brave.
“The truth had come to me from life itself. I sat up and gazed into the fire trying to decide whether I had been dreaming. Suddenly my heart was happy once again. I went back to sleep and in the morning started my trip back to the village. Halfway here I came upon a buck. My aim was good. I have brought fresh meat for my sister to cook and store away, and a hide for her to make into a new dress. I shall go out again tomorrow and bring back my share for the tribe.
“I have found the answer I had been searching for. Now I can return to my tribe with pride. That is my story, Nantesi, and I wanted to tell you first about it. It is good to be back. It is good to be a Powhatan.”
Nantesi smiled across at his young friend. “It is good to have you back. Welcome, brave!”
It was a bright morning in the village of the Iroquois. Maseca, the little Indian brave, awoke to the sound of the birds of the woodland. Today Maseca and Chincho were going fishing and that was always a great adventure, for they never knew exactly what would happen as they strode through the forest or out along the wild streams.
Maseca gathered up his fishing gear and he carefully went over it all to see that it was in good shape. Then he sat down to eat some food his mother had prepared for him. But he was impatient to get under way. So he arose and, stuffing some dry deer meat into his pouch, started off in search of Chincho.
Because Chincho was a little older than the other children with whom he and Maseca played, he would sometimes be the bully in the group. But only on rare occasions did he bully Maseca. Such an occasion occurred when he boasted to everyone that he could beat Maseca in a foot race. Maseca had accepted the challenge and had beaten the older boy quite badly. Since then, even though Chincho and Maseca had been close friends, Chincho would let jealousy get the best of him and thought of ways to teach Maseca a lesson for having beaten him in a foot race.
Sometimes Chincho even found himself wishing that Maseca would break his leg or suffer some other injury which would make him a cripple. But whenever these thoughts entered his mind, Chincho would drive them out, and dream about the many wonderful times he and Maseca had had together, wandering through the forests and fishing in the streams.
On this bright morning Chincho bolted the last of his breakfast as he heard the hurrying footsteps of Maseca approaching his father’s wigwam. Placing his deer meat in a leather pouch which his mother had made for him and gathering up his fishing gear, Chincho quickly left the wigwam to join Maseca and together they swiftly trotted off through the forest. They wanted to be the first ones to the stream and get the best spots for fishing. They did not speak as they trotted, for they knew that that would only shorten their wind and their speed, and that the other boys of the village might get there before them. Finally, they reached the stream and settled down to catch the lazy fish that swam unaware of the presence of the two boys.
Early in the afternoon, having caught several good-sized fish, they decided to hang their catch in a tree and do a little exploring upstream. So they started out in a direction they had never gone before, remembering the warnings of the elders to walk softly and not too far from familiar ground, because one could get lost very easily in the green forest. This was especially true in the summer when the leaves often hid landmarks that would be easy to remember.
As they traveled farther and farther upstream, gazing at all the beauties of nature around them, Chincho suddenly stopped and threw himself flat on the ground behind a big birch tree. Maseca, not knowing the reason, but realizing that Chincho was not playing a game, did the same thing. Maseca started to speak but Chincho motioned for him to remain silent. Then Chincho pointed up ahead. About a hundred paces ahead standing in a little clearing taking a drink from the stream was a tremendous buck deer. Maseca had never seen so large a deer and he could not help gasping in surprise. Chincho turned and frowned at him and Maseca quickly stifled all other exclamations. Then Chincho crawled close to Maseca.
“Maseca,” he whispered, “do you think we could get near enough to that deer to kill him? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to bring that buck back to the village?”
Maseca nodded that he thought it a wonderful idea and they agreed quickly that they would try to take the big deer as a prize. After making sure that the wind was blowing toward them, carrying their scent away from the deer, they began to move quietly and slowly on their stomachs toward the unsuspecting deer. Chincho rose to his knees and, fitting a new arrow to his bow, stopped some thirty paces short of the deer, drew back on the bowstring, and let the arrow fly. The boys heard the arrow whistle as it flew and the thud as it struck its target. But Chincho’s aim had not been accurate. The deer bounded away, the arrow sticking in his side but not in a vital place.
Chincho knew that he must obey the law of his tribe regarding any animal a brave has wounded. He must track the wounded deer until he either came upon him dead or could get close enough to make the kill. Long ago the tribe had ruled wisely that it was cruel to let a wounded animal wander the forest in pain, possibly suffering so much that it would injure other animals, and possibly dying from loss of blood or from a sickness from the wound. Chincho was tempted not to follow the deer into the unknown woods, when he felt Maseca’s gaze upon him.
“Chincho, you do not plan to leave without finding the wounded deer. It is the law of our tribe.”
Chincho looked guilty and said, “It is not a bad wound. The arrow barely scratched him. He will be all right. Come, let us return to the village before it is dark.”
“No,” Maseca insisted, “we must follow the deer until we bring him down. You must not leave a wounded animal to suffer. It is the law.”
Chincho knew that Maseca was right, and yet in his heart he was afraid. So he tried to excuse his cowardice by saying, “But it is also the law of our tribe that we shall not wander too far from the familiar parts of our land. We could become lost here in the green forest. We should turn back.” As he started to turn, Chincho saw a challenging look in Maseca’s eyes and he waited as Maseca spoke.
“You may return to the village claiming that the law says one should not wander too far, but I will follow the deer and make sure of his death. I will mark my trail plainly so that by night or by day I can follow it back to my starting place. Go, Chincho. Return to your father’s home and see if you can sleep peacefully when you think of the deer you have wounded.”
Even while he was speaking, Maseca realized that his friend’s fear was very great, and that it would be a mistake to force Chincho to follow the buck. Maseca would have to worry as much about calming Chincho’s fear as he would have to worry about finding the way back for both of them.
Chincho thought that Maseca would laugh at him and insisted now on going with Maseca to trail the deer. So they started to follow the drops of blood they found on the plants as they went through the forest. Maseca broke branches and cut slices of bark from the sides of trees to mark the path they were taking.
For awhile the big buck had run straight ahead as fast as he could in spite of the wound. Then the crushed grass showed where he had lain down to rest for a moment. But the grass was rising up straight again, which told the boys that the deer had not rested long, sensing the danger close by. Soon they saw fewer blood spots, and they knew that the blood was starting to clot. Now, Maseca knew the deer could live for some time yet.
“It grows late,” he warned Chincho. “We must hurry if we are to catch up with the deer and claim our kill. We have only a short while left before the sun will sink.”
Just at that moment Chincho saw something off to the side of the trail, lying half-hidden in the brush. It was brown. As Chincho looked more closely, he saw it moving rhythmically as an animal does in breathing. He touched Maseca lightly on the shoulder and pointed toward the brush. They both realized that this must be the wounded buck. Just as they were trying to decide what to do, the deer made up their minds for them. With a bellow, he leaped from his hiding place and headed straight for Chincho. Chincho stood rooted to the spot with fright. His eyes bulged as he saw the huge beast, his antlers held low in attack, bearing down upon him. Maseca raised his bow, and with all the courage and calmness he could muster, drew back and let go the string. As his arrow whished straight toward the onrushing buck, Maseca knew that his aim had been straight. As the arrow struck, the deer leaped into the air toward Chincho. The buck’s action was so quick that Chincho failed to move in time. As it fell, one of its antlers cut deeply into Chincho’s leg. The boy gasped in pain and slumped to the ground, next to the dead buck.
Maseca ran quickly to his side and held his head in his arms. Then he looked down at the nasty wound in Chincho’s leg and saw the blood pouring out. Hurriedly, he gathered some large leaves, wet them in a nearby stream, and placed them against the wound. Then he pulled a leather thong from his leggings and used it to bind the leaves in place. When he saw that the wound had nearly stopped bleeding, he spoke quietly to Chincho.
“I must go for help, Chincho. You must lie still and quiet until I return.” With that Maseca pulled up all the strength that was left in his tired body and started running at top speed along the trail he had marked.
As the sun sank behind the hills of the quiet valley, Chincho prayed that Maseca would hurry. The pain was getting worse and, though the blood had stopped flowing from the wound, Chincho was beginning to lose strength. Suddenly, from down the trail, the boy heard the voices of many braves. Then he heard his father shouting his name.
“Over here! Over here!” Chincho called weakly. His father ran to him and knelt at his son’s side. Soon Chincho was surrounded by many of the older braves who looked first at him and then at the dead buck. He searched among the faces for that of his friend.
“Where is Maseca?” he asked his father.
“Back in the village resting, my son,” his father said softly. “You see, Maseca ran so fast through the forest to seek help for you that he caught his foot in a root and twisted his leg badly. He wouldn’t stop even though he was barely able to hobble into camp. He had just enough strength left to tell us where you were before he fainted.”
Chincho began to feel very guilty about the many times he had hoped that Maseca would be injured some day just because Maseca had beaten him in the foot race.
“He will be well again soon, won’t he, father? He will be able to run as fast as before?” His father smiled down at Chincho.
“Is that what you want, my son?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, father. He must be well again. Because he won the foot race fairly, I have often wished that he would be hurt. Now that it has really happened, I am sorry. I will never wish harm for any friend again. Only then will I be a true son to my father and a true Iroquois brave.”
While Chincho and his father were talking, the other braves cut two saplings and tied branches across them to make a stretcher to carry the boy. Chincho’s father held his son’s hand as the other braves lifted the boy onto the stretcher.
“You have spoken wisely, my son. Do not worry. Maseca will soon be well enough to race and hunt and fish again with you.”
Chincho smiled up at his father and turned his head to look proudly at the large buck that two braves were carrying, hung by its feet from a sapling stretched across their shoulders.
The next night there was a special council fire. Two young braves were lying on stretchers, side by side, at the place of honor. At their sides, stood their fathers. Then the Chief told the tribe about the bravery and hunting skill and strength of these two boys. “They will be great braves, worthy of the Iroquois nation,” he said solemnly.
Chincho’s and Maseca’s fathers glanced proudly down at their sons.
Little Bear opened his eyes and looked around his wickiup home. As the sleep left his eyes, he noticed that his father’s bed was empty and that he was alone. Quickly he threw off his buffalo robe and ran to the door of the wickiup. Pushing aside the deerskin he looked out into the small Apache camp.
There was quite a bit of activity. Everyone was hurrying about. Although it was still very early, the cooking fires were burning brightly, and the women of the tribe were busy preparing a hot meal. Then he remembered that today was the day of the big hunt.
Little Bear ran quickly through the village searching for his father, Swift Eagle. Finally after asking several of his friends, he was told that his father could probably be found at the corral. Soon he saw his father looking over the horses. Swift Eagle was telling young braves which horses to select for his use on the hunt.
“Father,” called Little Bear, “why did you not waken me when the dawn came? There has been much excitement since the sun first broke through the night, but you did not wake me.”
“My son, I wanted you to rest, for today is the day of the big hunt. Soon the warriors will be gathering and we will be ready to leave for the feeding grounds of the great buffalo. Now I must check the horses, for we must take only the young and the strong. This will be a long and hard Journey.”
Little Bear suddenly realized that this was to be a real test for him. When a young Apache is considered a young brave, he is taken on his first big buffalo hunt along with the older warriors of the tribe. He must prove himself worthy of being called a hunter. Little Bear had waited a long time for this great day. He felt his heart beating a little faster than usual and he was filled with excitement and a little fear. Little Bear’s fear left when his father placed his hand upon his son’s shoulder and said, “Be not afraid, my son, for you were born an Apache and Apaches fear nothing. You will make a great hunter, and a true Apache.”
Together they walked back to their wickiup where Little Bear’s mother had prepared a fine breakfast. When they had all eaten, they heard that the hunting party was beginning to form. Soon all was in readiness, and the great hunting party rode out from the village. The scouts had reported that a rather large herd of buffalo had stopped to graze only half a day’s ride from their camp. So it was for this herd that the hunting party had made its plans.
As they rode along, Little Bear began to think of how he would make his first kill of buffalo, the largest of the wild game hunted by the Apaches. Little Bear had hunted before but only for rabbits and other small game. This was to be his day of triumph, and he was excited. Soon the caravan of hunters halted to rest and replenish their water supply from a spring near by. The scouts were sent ahead once again to see if the herd had shifted position.
As Swift Eagle and his son sat by the cool spring, Little Bear stared toward the horizon hoping to be the first of the party to see the returning scouts. His father had been watching him with a kindly eye, and said, “Do not be too eager, my son. When excitement grows within the body, the hand becomes unsteady. You must control our body and your mind, or you will find that your aim will not be true. Your arrow, instead of striking its mark, will do nothing but chew up the dust of the prairie.”
Little Bear listened quietly to his father; as so many times before, he realized the wisdom in his father’s words.
There was little conversation for a while, until the scouts returned to report that the herd had not moved and that a short ride would bring the party to within striking distance. The hunting party moved on until the signal was passed that the herd was just over the next rise. Instructions were given and the party quickly spread out into an attacking formation, each brave hoping to have the best spot to ride down the buffalo herd. As soon as everyone was in position, they waited for the next signal of the leader.
Little Bear could feel the excitement mounting in his body and, remembering the words of his father, fought off the tenseness that was filling his arms and legs. The rise in front of him, which separated the hunting party from the herd, seemed to be very far away. Just as Little Bear felt he could not control his pony or himself any longer, the signal was given. The braves, with shouts rising from their throats, raced over the rise. Soon there was a mixture of running, frightened buffalo, and riding, yelling warrior hunters, and clouds of dust that rose from the hundreds of hoofs churning the prairie.
Little Bear drew an arrow from his quiver. Following the patient teaching of his father, he calmly placed the arrow to the bow string. Leaning forward on the neck of his pony, holding tight with his knees pressed against his pony’s sides, he peered into the dust and quickly spotted his quarry. A large bull buffalo was lumbering along a little wide of the herd. Carefully taking aim, Little Bear let go his arrow. The last thing he saw before the dust welled up again to block his sight was his arrow protruding from the side of a stumbling buffalo.
Little Bear swerved his pony rapidly away from the herd. When the pony was able to check his forward speed, pony and rider withdrew to the side of the battleground to watch the rest of the hunt in safety. As the herd disappeared across the prairie, the members of the hunting party turned their horses and began the ride back to where the herd had been grazing. When the dust had cleared, Little Bear saw scattered across the prairie the bodies of many buffalo which had fallen before the accurate shooting of the hunters. Each brave would be able to tell his kill, for each arrow bore the mark of its owner.
Little Bear galloped toward the spot where he thought his buffalo had fallen. While he rode, his heart beat very fast. He tried to show little excitement as he drew near to a group of hunters who stood looking down at an object upon the ground. As Little Bear drew close, he slowed his pony. His father turned and smiled. Dismounting, Little Bear walked to his father’s side. Lying on the ground at the feet of the older braves was a bull buffalo of tremendous size. And there was the arrow of Little Bear exactly where the arrow of a good hunter should be. He had hit the buffalo in a vital spot.
Swift Eagle placed his arm across the shoulders of his son. Amid the many grunts and exclamations of approval coming from the warrior hunters, Little Bear heard the deep calm, proud voice of his father.
“You have done well, my son. This is a fine buffalo, one which we are sure will prove to be the largest one killed this day. The many hours spent in teaching you were not wasted. This you have proven today. You will return to our village a hero and tell of your exploits at the council tonight. No longer will you have to stay behind when the hunters go in search of food. Today you have become a hunter and earned the right to ride with the hunting party. Your father is proud.”
And so the procession, after attending the buffalo and stripping the hides and packing the fresh meat for the return trek, headed for home. At the front of the party rode Swift Eagle and Little Bear, a proud father and an even prouder son. Today the young brave had succeeded in his first hunt.
It was a dark winter evening in the small Iroquois village. The cries of the wolf echoed in the forest as Great Eagle, war leader of the Iroquois, was preparing for bed. He stopped to take a last look for the night at his young son, Crying Eagle, and smiled at his boy who slept so peacefully. As he pulled the warm robe up around his son’s neck to keep the cold from seeping in and disturbing his sleep, he thought to himself,
“How lucky I am to have been blessed with such a son. Truly, he will be a leader among his people. Not because he is the son of Great Eagle, war chief of the Iroquois, but because he will be tall and strong and brave and will learn well the ways of the tribe. Soon he will be ready to be a leader and when that day comes, I will be proud to stand forth and say, ‘This is my son.’”
Great Eagle slept warm and soundly that night and arose with the dawn of the next day. Today his son was to go on a trek with him to learn the ways of the wild game in winter time.
Great Eagle moved to his son’s bed and called softly to him, “Come, my son, for we have a long way to travel and much to do today.”
Crying Eagle got up quickly, put on his warm winter clothes, and sat with his father at breakfast. As soon as breakfast was over, they gathered their weapons and left the protection of the Iroquois village and headed toward the forest. As they walked along the trail, Great Eagle pointed out different signs. Here the snow had been scraped by a deer nosing for anything green under the snow. There was a squirrel nest bulging with its store of winter food. And everywhere there were the tracks of many wolves. This had been a hard winter, and the hungry wolves were moving in packs to seek out easy prey. Many animals would not find enough food to keep them at full strength. Unless one were very careful, escape from an attack by these forest marauders would be impossible.
Crying Eagle began to get tired and his father motioned toward a small glen in the forest off to the side of the trail. There were some fallen logs upon which they could sit and have their lunch of jerked venison and water. As they sat eating slowly, Great Eagle watched the forest around them for any signs of game. But all was quiet except for the singing of the few winter birds that lived there, even in the coldest weather. Suddenly, they heard the crackling of some dry timber in the distance and Great Eagle raised his head.
“A buck leaping through the brush,” he said.
“How can you tell, father?”
“Listen, my son! You will discover that there is a moment of silence between each crackling of brush. That tells you that whatever makes the noise is leaping, and the heavy crashing of brush tells you that the animal is large. Because it leaps, you know it is not a bear. So we can be almost sure that it is a buck.”
Just as Great Eagle stopped speaking, they saw a large buck moving in long leaps among the brush and small trees. Suddenly, he stopped and sniffed the air. Great Eagle and his son stood perfectly still. The buck looked directly toward them. The breeze was blowing toward the buck and he had caught their scent. Crying Eagle raised his bow but felt his father’s hand upon his shoulder.
“No, my son. The buck is truly beautiful. But our wigwam is full of venison, and we have enough fine clothes to last for a long time. We do not kill the forest animals unless we really need to. Truly, I know how much you want to make a kill and tell your friends of the fine buck your steady hand brought down, but that must wait for another day. We are here to learn the way animals live during the winter, so that when you must hunt for your family, you will find it easy.”
The buck seemed to wait for Great Eagle to speak with his son. Then he leaped away through the forest. Great Eagle and his son spent the rest of the afternoon studying other signs of wild life. As the sun began to sink low in the west, Great Eagle turned and started on the trail for home. After they had gone a ways, Great Eagle halted and motioned for his son to be still. Together the two Indians crouched low and Great Eagle pointed through the trees. There, only three hundred paces away in a clearing, stood a large buck. Off to the right of the buck stood a beautiful brown doe and further on through the trees was another buck, moving slowly forward through the trees.
“Why do we stop, father?” asked Crying Eagle, still crouching low in the snow.
“Because, son, I believe that we are about to see something very rarely seen by humans. The buck in the clearing is standing guard over his bride, the doe on our right. The buck coming through the trees is young and wants the doe, too. So he is challenging the old buck to a duel. The winner will get the doe. In a moment they will face each other in the clearing. They will meet head on and the battle will be on. The buck that gives up first and turns from the battle will be the loser, and the other will claim his bride.”
Soon, as Great Eagle had said, the younger buck entered the clearing. The two faced each other, the younger pawing at the ground while the older stood surveying this young challenger of his right to the doe, who lay watching them calmly from the brush to the side of the clearing. Then the two bucks began to circle. They stopped and almost at once the young one charged. The older buck met the attack head on and there was a loud crash as their antlers met and locked. They pushed and pulled and wrenched until suddenly their antlers were free. They were almost equally matched, for even though the younger buck seemed faster, the older was a veteran of many such battles and knew more tricks in fighting.
Again they locked horns but unlocked quickly this time. Then the older buck’s antlers slashed into the side of the young buck. Back and forth the battle waged and then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The young buck had had enough. He tossed his head into the air and leaped off into the forest, to lick his wounds and wait for another doe. The old buck walked with what looked like pride to his doe. She rose to her feet and, side by side, they began pushing their noses into the snow to smell out food.
“Come,” said Great Eagle, “let us leave them in peace. You have seen one of the great events in the life of wild animals. Remember it well for you may be called upon to defend the persons and things you love, even when you think the enemy is stronger. Remember how strength alone is not enough. You must know how to fight well in order to win.”
Crying Eagle was thinking about each word his father had spoken as they headed home. They moved rapidly because they wanted to reach the village before dark. Soon through the trees they could see the flickering of many campfires. In a few moments they were in the camp and at home. A hot meal of stew was waiting for them, and father and son ate heartily. When they had finished, Crying Eagle spoke to his father.
“My father, you opened my eyes today to many new things. I hope that I have learned my lesson well and will always obey your teaching.”
Crying Eagle kept his promise well. Some years later there was trouble between his village and the neighboring tribes. While the young bucks shouted for blood and the scalps of their neighbors, Crying Eagle called for peace and talk. Like his father in battle, he was a brave warrior, but where talk around the council fire could save lives, Crying Eagle was a great leader and peacemaker.
Crying Eagle lived to a very old age, but he never forgot that walk through the winter forest with his father Chief Great Eagle, war chief of the mighty Iroquois.
Based on a story told to the author by John Fitch, Vermont farmer, 1937.
The Mohawk village of bark houses nestled along the river, and all was peace and contentment in the village. Spotted Tail and his family lived in peace and contentment in the village, for they were a happy people. The hunting and fishing were good and there was little sickness among the people of his tribe and all was made so that the people would be happy.
When young Spotted Tail had reached his fifteenth summer, something happened to his tribe. Suddenly the game of the forest became scarce. The deer began to disappear and even the smallest of game was becoming hard to find. This concerned the council, for never before had this happened to their hunting grounds. And then one day while the warriors were busy preparing to go out on the hunt, a young Mohawk warrior staggered into the camp. Blood dripped from his body and as he reached the center of the village he collapsed.
Eager hands lifted him and carried him to his house and when his wounds had been bathed the great chief of the Mohawks came to talk with him.
“What has happened to you, my brother? Surely this is the work of some great savage beast that you have encountered in the green forest.”
“O Great Chief, my companion and I had been following the tracks of a deer and feeling we were quite lucky to have come upon such a find. Suddenly as we trotted along the trail following the deer there was a horrible snarling from off to the side of the trail. We stopped and looked toward the side of the trail, and there before our very eyes was a pack of ferocious-looking wolves. Before we could even draw our bowstrings they were upon us. My companion and I fought them, but soon they had dragged my companion to the ground. They began to fight among themselves over one of their wounded comrades, and it was then that I crawled off into the brush and when I saw my chance I ran as fast as I could toward our village. I could hear the snarls of the pack behind me but I ran as fast as my legs could carry me and soon I heard them no more. But one thing I will always remember is the leader of the pack, a white wolf of tremendous size. He had a beautiful white coat and was much larger than the rest of the pack. I am tired, I must rest now.”
And with that the warrior closed his eyes and slept.
The chief immediately called a council of his warriors and among them was Spotted Tail’s father. Now the reason for the lack of game was known. The winter further north had been very severe and so the wolf pack had come further south seeking food. But now that they had been roaming so free for so long they decided to stay.
The chief rose before the council and said:
“We must set out on the hunt immediately, but we must hunt this pack of wolves and destroy them before they cause all the deer to disappear. If we fail, our smoke racks will become empty and our people will starve.”
So party after party of warriors were sent out in search of the wolf pack, but they always returned disappointed; for they had often come upon the pack but never had been able to get close enough to do any real damage.
Finally Sleeping Water, one of the young warriors, Suggested that instead of going in large parties they ought to go out in pairs or three at a time and when sighting the pack send word to a larger hunting party and they in turn could surround and destroy the pack.
The council approved of this method and so the warriors began to go out in pairs. It was now that Spotted Tail began his adventure which was to be spoken of in the lodges for many moons to come.
Spotted Tail was chosen by Sleeping Water to go as his companion, and the two braves started on the hunt. They ranged far and wide and finally picked up the trail of the pack. Sleeping Water knelt by the tracks of the wolves and could tell that they were fairly fresh tracks.
Quickly the two braves trotted along the trail in pursuit of the pack and soon through the trees ahead Sleeping Water spotted the pack moving stealthily through the trees as if stalking an animal. Turning to Spotted Tail he said, “Spotted Tail, you will keep the pack in sight and follow them as they move, marking your trail. I will return and fetch a large hunting party and we shall destroy this pack of wolves. You are not afraid to keep watch?”
Spotted Tail felt it a great honor to be asked to do such an important job and he told Sleeping Water that he would keep close watch on the pack and if he moved he would mark his trail well.
When Sleeping Water departed, Spotted Tail kept close watch on the pack as it milled around. Evidently the hunt they were on was ended, for many of the wolves were circling in the snow and finding resting places.
It was fast growing dark and Spotted Tail hoped that they would not decide to move in the dark or he would surely lose them before the dawn. Then he saw him—the giant white leader of the pack—standing off to one side of the pack as if on guard. He was truly a majestic animal, fully half a foot taller at the shoulder than the other wolves and his coat was a shimmering white as pure as the snow.
As night settled, a bright moon came out and the night was shattered by the baying of the wolves at the moon.
On a rock pinnacle overlooking the wolves’ bedding ground, the great white leader stood guard, his eyes never still, moving from side to side as he watched for any approaching danger. Spotted Tail remained awake as long as he could, but soon his eyes felt very tired. He was about to drop off to sleep when he noticed the pack stirring. He gazed out into the shadows of the night and the leader seemed to be staring right through the brush and trees into Spotted Tail’s hiding place.
Then Spotted Tail saw the reason for the movement: a deer had wandered to within a short distance of the wolves, and now the pack was preparing to kill this unsuspecting victim.
The leader seemed to bark instructions and suddenly the pack was up and circling the deer. There was a mad rush and suddenly the excitement was over, the booty was shared, and the pack settled down once again.
Spotted Tail breathed a sigh of relief, for the pack in chasing the deer had come too close for comfort to his hiding place in the thick brush. Dawn was fast approaching, and now the pack was on the move once again. Spotted Tail followed as close as he dared, making sure that he kept downwind from these lean hungry wolves that had caused death and starvation to come to his People. Then he got an idea.
If he could get a good shot in and wound or even kill the leader, it might have the same effect as if a chief died, the pack would be without a leader and might be so disorganized that the hunters from his tribe, who he was sure were fast approaching, would be able to make easy work of the rest of the pack.
Then the opportunity came his way. There standing off to the side of the pack was the large white leader. Spotted Tail settled himself upon one knee in the snow and drawing careful aim with his bow, he let fly. The arrow seemed to go right through the great beast and he leaped high in the air. Spotted Tail was about to shout of his great shot to the heavens when he saw that the wolf had come to rest on all fours and was turned now in his direction, his teeth bared and a terrible snarl coming from deep within his throat.
Gathered behind the great white wolf like an army, was the rest of the pack, snarling and waiting for the orders from their leader, but the leader seemed to warn them away—this was his kill—and slowly began moving toward Spotted Tail.
Spotted Tail stood firm and placed another arrow to his bowstring. He fired again, and the arrow again seemed to go straight to its mark but still the beast kept moving forward. Now the wolf began to run in a steady loping trot toward the Indian and suddenly he was leaping.
Spotted Tail drew his knife, but in mid-air the wolf seemed to stop and try to turn and return from whence he had come, and then the body was crashing to the ground, an arrow quivering in his side. Then there were howls and yells and cries from many points of the forest and arrows came flying into the wolf pack. Beast after beast fell under the onslaught of deadly shafts being fired by revenge-seeking Mohawk warriors until suddenly the whole pack lay dead in the quiet of the winter forest.
It all happened so quickly that before Spotted Tail realized what had happened, Sleeping Water was lifting him from the snow smiling.
“You have done well, my young brother, you have been brave this day. You left very clear signs for our party to follow and because of that we were able to wipe out this pack of beasts which have killed so much game.”
“But the leader of the pack—I fired an arrow into him and it went right through him. Twice I saw this happen. He must have been a ghost and yet I saw his body hit the ground with the arrows of my brothers. How do you explain this, Sleeping Water?”
“Come, Spotted Tail, I will show you.” Together they walked to where the great beast lay.
“You see, his coat was such a pure white that it blended with the snow and when you fired it seemed as though you hit him but actually you missed. It is no shame, for it was a long and a difficult shot and when you fired a second time as he was moving toward you, the sun on the snow caused reflection to make you misjudge your shot.
“We observed all this from our hiding places, for we came upon you just as you were preparing to make your first shot. But, please, Spotted Tail, do not take a chance like that again. It is very foolish to try something so dangerous when you are alone and especially when you knew that help was on the way. But this adventure has ended well, and you will have much to tell in the medicine lodge tonight, of the great ghost wolf that hunted these lands.”
And so the pack was destroyed and soon the game returned once again to the hunting ground of the Mohawk and once again all was peaceful and happy along the Osage River.
This story was told to the author by Jim Nutley of the Canadian Forest Ranger Service.
The Cree were plains Indians. Today their village was full of activity. A hunting party had just returned after a very successful hunt. The braves were already around the great council fire, telling of their exploits. Among these warriors was Slow Tongue, whose bravery and courage among the Cree was never questioned.
When all the celebrating was over, Slow Tongue returned to his tepee and his family. His young son, Swift Hawk, had waited up for him and, with pride in his eyes, he looked up into his father’s face and said, “I am very proud to have you for my father.”
“My young son, it is long past your bedtime and you should have closed your ears to the night noises of the prairie many hours ago. But I must also say that I am proud to have you as a son and tomorrow we shall talk and I shall tell you all about the hunt.” Slow Tongue turned to leave his son’s side when he heard a noise at the entrance of his tepee.
“Slow Tongue,” a voice called quietly, “it is I, Seeing Bear. Come, I must speak with you.”
Slow Tongue left the tepee. “Why do you call me from my tepee so late in the night, Sleeping Bear,” he asked. “I am tired and my buffalo robe beckons to me to come and wrap myself in its warm folds, for my body aches.”
“Look, Slow Tongue! Look to the north! At first I thought the heat of the day had made me see things that do not exist. But now I am sure it has not. Look and tell me what you see.”
Slow Tongue turned his head to the north and gazed out into the darkness of the night. Far in the distance he saw a red glow which disappeared, appeared again, and disappeared many times.
“What can it mean, Slow Tongue?”
“It is a message, Seeing Bear. The fire signal tells that the tribes of the plains are gathering for the Sun Dance. Truly this is great news. Tomorrow we must break camp and leave for the northern meadow of the Blue Star, for it is there that the great celebrations will be held. You go to the southern part of the village and I will go to the northern part, and we will spread the word. It is late and many are asleep, but surely this is news for which they will be glad to be awakened.”
The next morning there was great excitement in the Cree village. The gathering for the Sun Dance not only meant gathering to celebrate the greatest religious ceremony of the plains Indians, but it also meant that it would be a time for great feasts, mock battles, ceremonial hunts, and the recounting of the past year’s experience with many old friends. And, of course, the men looked forward to smoking the ceremonial pipes which was also a part of this great occasion.
The tribe had soon broken down its village and packed and the great procession headed north toward the meadow of the Blue Star.
For two days and two nights the Cree village moved northward. Their progress was slow but steady, and there was much gaiety. There was much to look forward to, and many of the younger braves could hardly be kept from rushing on ahead of the tribe.
Soon other tribes began to join the Cree in their trek north. In all directions smoke signals could be seen, sent up by eager messengers reporting the movements of the tribes as they converged on the sacred grounds.
It was very clear to Swift Hawk now that friend and enemy were walking side by side. This was one time during the year when the burning desire to strike out at your enemy was replaced by a stronger desire to do worship together in the hope of a good year to come.
Soon the meadow of the Blue Star was reached, and the tribe of Swift Hawk chose a place to set its village in the great circle with the tribe’s sacred tepee as its center. Campfires began to burn merrily, and the smell of cooking food filled the air. Old and young warriors walked about to renew old acquaintances and talk about what had happened during the past year. Dancers could be seen here and there practicing seriously for the time of the great ceremony.
Soon word spread through the encampment that there were to be riding contests at the far west side of the meadow on the following day. These contests would be open to young braves who had made their first buffalo kill during the last year. This made Swift Hawk leap and shout for joy. Just last month he had brought down his first buffalo. This meant he could enter the riding contest. For many years now Swift Hawk had watched the contests from afar. Each year he promised himself that next year he would enter and win. Each year his father told him to be patient and that his time would come.
It was a very difficult contest to test the skills of the young warriors. Each boy was to start his ride from the top of a hill that sloped sharply down into the meadow. At every one-hundred-yard point along a twisting path down the steep slope, for a distance of five hundred yards, were four sets of poles, two poles to each set. Each set was driven in the ground a buffalo’s length apart until they stood between four and five feet above ground. Between these two poles a buffalo hide was stretched to look like a buffalo running directly toward the sloping path, his flank toward the young warriors as they rode down.
Each young brave was allowed a bow of his choice, four arrows, and a quiver. The brave, when given the signal to go, would race down the slope at full speed. Drawing an arrow from the quiver and bending his body down under the neck of his pony and holding on with his feet, he would aim his arrow under the neck of the pony and shoot the arrow into the buffalo hide. He would do this with each of the four arrows.
Such a contest would surely test the strength and courage of any young brave. But young Indians were brought up to fear little and to welcome a test like this. For this reason it was no surprise to the great chieftains when a rather large group of young braves gathered at the starting point the next morning. Each boy sat astride a fine looking pony, usually the gift of his father or some other leading member of the tribe. Each boy had his bow, his quiver, and four very special arrows which had been worked over and cared for like a pet or one of the family.
Final instructions were given to the young braves, and the riding contest was on! There was a great cheer from all who were watching as each rider left the starting point. This was a friendly match among boys from many tribes that often fought each other the rest of the year. Down the steep slope a lone warrior could be seen stationed at each buffalo hide. Here he could not only retrieve arrows but help to judge the young braves as they rode by and fired at the target.
Soon it was Swift Hawk’s turn. Remembering all that his father had taught him, he dug his heels into his pony’s sides and started his fast and dangerous ride. Carefully he drew an arrow from the quiver; then bending under the pony’s neck, he placed the arrow to the bow, and as the target came into view, Swift Hawk let his arrow fly! He heard the plunk as the arrow struck the hide. With his head still under the pony’s neck and riding so hard, he could hardly have seen where it had landed. But a loud cheer told him that he had made a good shot. Down the steep, winding course, Swift Hawk swiftly shot his arrows at the three other targets, and went back toward the starting point.
As he reached the hilltop he heard a great shout go up. Looking down the course he saw a young Crow brave just turning his pony to return to the starting point. The loud cheer meant that he had ridden well and made many good hits.
One by one each of the other young braves made his attempt but none could equal the riding and skill of the young Crow Indian. And so it was when the last contestant had made his ride and fired no better than the rest that the Crow brave was announced as the winner. Swift Hawk was one of the first to reach his side and congratulate him on his victory. Deep in his heart, Swift Hawk was sad. But he was also very happy for this young brave. Surely the young man had deserved to win; and, above all, Swift Hawk realized how happy the young brave and his family must be that he had won.
The contest over, Swift Hawk returned to his home and his father, disappointed but not unhappy now. There would be other contests, and this was a time of celebration and joy. His father found him sitting beside a tree stump.
“You did very well, my son,” Slow Tongue said, placing his hands upon Swift Hawk’s shoulders. “The Crow boy who won did just a little bit better, but all the Cree are proud of you. There will be other contests and many games. Soon your turn will come. But even if it should not, remember what I have told you. As long as you play fair with your fellow braves and obey the rules, there is nothing to be ashamed of when you lose to someone who plays fair and has great skill.”
“Thank you, father, I shall always remember that.”
Games and new contests were beginning. Just as Swift Hawk’s father had told him, his time would come and sooner than he expected. In the foot race he ran much faster than any of his fellow braves, winning easily. Swift Hawk was as good a winner as he had been a good loser, boasting to no one about his victory.
The Huron tribe were a rather typical tribe of the Eastern woodlands. They were a hunting and fishing tribe, and when their villages were built they were built to last for a long time.
In this particular village of the Hurons, there lived a young boy by the name of Singing Eagle. Now as was the custom among most of the tribes of that area, a young Indian child did not own any clothes at all until he reached the age of ten.
This particular day was to be a great one for Singing Eagle, but when he woke that late summer morning, it was just another day for him.
After eating his breakfast, he dashed away to play with the other children. Meanwhile back at the wigwam, Singing Eagle’s mother, Early Dawn, was very busy indeed. For many days and nights she had been working quite hard making Singing Eagle his first real set of clothing.
Singing Eagle’s father had hunted the big brown buck early last spring and his long chase had finally been rewarded, when he was able to shoot and kill a very fine large buck. Carefully skinning the buck, he had returned both the skin and the meat to his wigwam, where his wife immediately set to work tanning the skin in preparation for making it into a winter outfit for young Singing Eagle.
When the skin had been carefully tanned, Singing Eagle’s mother had fashioned from it a pair of leggings. The leggings of the woodland Indian were made in matched pairs. They covered the whole leg and fitted rather snugly and were held up with a thong fastened to the waistbelt. The buckskin was sewn together with threads of sinew.
The shirt, which Singing Eagle’s mother was so proud of, had long sleeves and would reach to Singing Eagle’s knees, but above all the shirt was beautifully decorated with painted pictures. When Singing Eagle grew up, the paintings would be upon his future shirts and beadwork would also be added. The shirt was of buckskin.
Finally Singing Eagle’s mother proudly held up, for her husband to see, the beautiful moccasins. The moccasins of the woodland Indian were fashioned from one piece of skin and were soft-soled and often these too were decorated with beadwork. Here Singing Eagle’s mother had decided not to wait until her son grew any more, but had put a beautiful beaded design on the toe of each moccasin. This was to be a truly wonderful day.
After lunch, Singing Eagle lay down to rest, for he had been playing very hard that morning with the other children. When he awoke, he looked around and his eyes fairly jumped from his head. There at the foot of his bed was his first suit of clothing. Quickly he grasped them to him and hugged them, feeling how soft and pliable they were, following the many days of work.
Quickly he slipped into the clothes and when he was completely dressed, ran from the wigwam to find his father and show him his beautiful clothes. Soon he found his father at the edge of the village talking with two other braves of the tribe. All excited, he pulled at his father’s sleeve until his father turned and noticing the clothes, quickly changed his expression from anger to one of surprise.
“How handsome you look, my son. Your mother has done a fine job on your clothes. I wish that my shirts were as beautiful as the one you now wear upon your back. You look very much like a man now, my son.”
Singing Eagle was very proud that his father had noticed his clothes and given him such fine compliments. But time was wasting. As was customary when a young Indian boy received his first full set of clothing to wear, the rest of the day was spent in showing off his new clothes to his many friends. And so that day, in a matter of a couple of hours, the whole Huron village knew that Singing Eagle had his first real Indian suit, made from a fine buck that his father had shot just for him.
The Blackfoot village was all astir to greet the new day. It was late in the springtime, and the great hunters of the tribe had been off to hunt the buffalo. Word had just reached the village that the hunt was over and the hunting party was on the way home.
This made Little Bird very happy, for she knew that her husband, Big Red Bear, would be returning to the tepee and that there would be much celebrating in the tribe. Everything must be made ready to greet the hunters.
The women of the village began dashing around preparing for the arrival of the hunting party. There was much to be done and much work lay ahead, now that the buffalo had been killed. The meat must be stored and some of it smoked, and the hides must be turned into new tepee covers and robes. All this would take place after the celebration, but still the women of the tribe knew they had a long job ahead.
The news was good. The hunt had been successful, and many buffalo had fallen before the weapons of the hunters. The buffalo had a good winter and were not thin or ragged. The grass had been full-grown and rich. Enough rain had fallen to provide the food and water necessary to make the buffalo fat and a good target for expert bowmen.
Soon all was in readiness and everyone waited impatiently for the first signs of the returning hunters. And then the signal came! A young brave on a shaggy brown pony came dashing through the village, announcing the arrival of the hunters.
Everyone was out to greet them and shout thanks and praise. Husbands and wives, fathers and children greeted each other warmly. The tribe was filled with joy.
Night came swiftly. Before long the beating drums told the people that the dancing and feasting was to begin. This celebration often lasted all night and sometimes into the next day; then as dancers tired, they would wander off to their tepees for the first really peaceful sleep since the hunting party had left the village.
Little Bird and her husband enjoyed the great feast and celebration. The next day Little Bird set to work on the buffalo skins for her family tepee. It had been a hard winter and the weather had damaged many Blackfoot homes. There were more than enough skins brought back by the hunters, so that those tepee coverings that had become worn and tattered could be replaced. So Little Bird set to work with the women of the tribe who were busy preparing and sewing together the buffalo hides to make new covers for the tepees.
One day Little Bird learned that a new tepee was to be built in the village. The old tepee of the chief had been damaged so badly by the winter snow and ice, and the poles had become so rotted, that the tribe agreed to build him a new tepee. The building of a new tepee was important because everybody in the tribe helped to make it. All the friends and neighbors would be invited to attend a great feast and when the feast was over, the women would begin sewing the skins together.
Little Bird and her husband went to the feast. When it was over, Little Bird sat down with the rest of the women and, taking up her bone needle, began to sew two buffalo hides together. The cutting of the skins had been entrusted to Slow Water, the wife of Black Fox, the tribe’s best hunter, since she had great skill in judging the number of skins needed by their size and shape. They used no patterns, so only a woman with this kind of skill was asked to do the cutting.
As the sewing continued and the tepee walls began to take shape, even more whispering went on around Little Bird. When Little Bird asked one of her friends what it was all about, her friend would only say, “Be patient, Little Bird, for soon we shall all know what they have been whispering about.”
The next day the women who had been working on the skins came to the tepee of Little Bird. Because her husband was away, Little Bird invited the women to sit and talk. There was a great deal of laughter as the women sat down. Slow Water, the skillful cutter, had been chosen to speak to Little Bird for all of them.
“Little Bird,” she began, “we are here to ask you to do something for our tribe. You always have a smile for everyone wherever you go in the village. As you know, we must choose someone who is always cheerful to work on the smoke flaps for the new tepee. We are here to ask you, Little Bird, to work on the smoke flaps of the new tepee, so that your happy spirit will be woven into the flap and the smoke will depart from the tepee evenly and smoothly.”
Little Bird smiled. Her heart was happy. This was truly a great honor. Now she understood why all the whispering had been going on the last couple of days.
“I will be happy to help sew the smoke flaps of the new tepee. It is a great honor for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
And some say that as long as that tepee stood, the chief never had to worry about the smoke rising out of the tepee easily, even on stormy, windy nights. The Indians believed that the happy spirit of Little Bird really lived in that flap.
When Little Dove, a Winnebago baby girl, was born she had everything a new-born baby could ask for. First of all, her father was chief of the Winnebagos, and her mother was considered one of the most beautiful women in the tribe.
There were many relatives who came to view the new child and left many precious gifts for her.
When she was born, Little Dove was strapped to a cradle board and carried by her mother in this fashion. Each day her mother would unwrap her and clean her body all over and massage her little limbs. Then she was wrapped once again on the board, and life continued this way until the baby was able to walk.
She was always fed when she was hungry and was never but a few feet from her mother’s side. But soon Little Dove began to walk and so she left the cradle board and began to run and play with the other children in the out of doors.
Everyone was affectionate and indulgent toward the girl as Indians always were toward their children. Soon, however, they realized that Little Dove was beginning to grow up. Little Dove was already ten summers old, when her mother called her to the side of their home to talk with her.
“Little Dove,” she commenced, “you must start to prepare for your life later on as a wife and a mother. If you are to be a good wife, you must learn the work that all Indian women must do.”
Most Indian girls welcomed this advice from their mothers, but Little Dove was different. Because she was the chief’s daughter some people had given her the idea that she would be waited upon for the rest of her life—if not by her mother or other women of the tribe, then eventually by her husband. When she told this to her mother, her mother tried to explain, but Little Dove did not want to listen and simply walked away.
Soft Feather, her mother, was very much concerned and went to talk to her husband. But just as many fathers do even today, the chief said,
“Be patient, she is young and she will learn.”
Soft Feather was quite disturbed and each day she would ask Little Dove to come and begin to learn, but each day Little Dove would run off to play with the younger children while the older children were busy learning the work that goes with adult life.
One day young Little Dove noticed an Indian boy that she had seen several times sitting by himself shaping a bow.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I am shaping a bow so that when I marry I will have a fine weapon with which to bring down the running deer.”
For a long while Little Dove sat with the young boy, and nothing more was said. Finally the young brave rose and, bidding good-bye to Little Dove, started for his home.
Little Dove was now twelve and each day she would see the young boy at work or play. Finally she went to her mother.
“Mother, the young boy who has the pretty belt and bone-handled knife, who is he?”
“That, my daughter, is your father’s best friend’s son, Straight Arrow. Why, do you like him especially?”
“I like him a lot.”
Several weeks passed, and one day as Little Dove was idling her time away dangling her feet in a stream, young Straight Arrow came to the water’s edge to wash some dirt from his arms and legs. He had been working in the garden with his father and now was going to clean up. Little Dove looked directly at him and said,
“Are you planning on taking a wife very soon, Straight Arrow?”
“I suppose so, Little Dove, for I am almost sixteen and my father said that I should be married now.”
“I too am planning to be married soon,” said Little Dove.
“Can you cook, or sew, or weave baskets?”
“No, I cannot do those things. Will I have to?”
“Well, I do not know about you but any girl that I marry must be able to do that and lots more. Well, I must be going now. It is time for lunch and I am very hungry and my sister is a very good cook.”
With that, Straight Arrow left the side of the stream and he left behind a very angry Little Dove.
Little Dove rushed home and told her mother what had happened. When she had finished blurting out her story, her mother said,
“And now what do you want me to do about it, my Little Dove?”
“Mother, will you teach me to weave baskets and sew and cook?”
So the lessons began that very afternoon. The cooking was easy but when it came to the weaving, that was a little more difficult and it was a long time before Little Dove could weave a basket that looked like a basket.
First, she and her mother would gather some thin ash and linden trees. These had to be straight and free of knots. They they would strip them of the bark. These they pounded until they came apart in long splints. Then these were dyed and woven into baskets. Also Little Dove learned how to make shredded basswood fibers. These were made almost the same way except that they were made into a strong thread by twisting them and rolling them against the thigh of one’s leg. These threads were used to weave belts and tump lines and square bags.
Soon Little Dove had become quite expert at cooking and sewing and weaving, and once again she looked for Straight Arrow. She found him one day seated by a small stream that ran near the village. She sat down and began throwing pebbles into the stream.
“I have learned to cook and to weave and to sew, Straight Arrow,” she said rather quickly.
“That is good,” he answered, “for now you will make someone a good wife.” With that he rose and walked slowly back to the village. Little Dove sat and cried. When she could cry no longer she sat and looked into the water until it was dark, and then she returned to the village. Her mother was waiting for her.
“Your father wishes to speak with you, Little Dove.”
“Yes, my father, you sent for me?”
“Little Dove, today a young brave came to see me. He wants you for his wife and he has offered me many fine horses. I think he will make you a good husband, so in four moons’ time you will be married, my daughter.”
Little Dove felt her heart sink.
“Who is it that has asked to marry me, father?”
“Straight Arrow, son of Big Bow, my daughter, for today you told him you could weave.”
Father and daughter smiled at each other, and then Little Dove left to talk with her mother and tell her how wrong a foolish young Indian girl could be.
Red Cloud was a young Algonquin lad who played and romped in his village along with the other young Indian braves and girls. He was a tall Indian for his age and quite good looking.
As was the custom among the Algonquins, however, no child, boy or girl, would be considered mature until he or she had a dream in which the powers of nature promised success and courage in his or her adult life.
Red Cloud entered adolescence and he knew that the time was fast approaching when he would be required to spend many lonely nights in the forest, fasting and waiting, until the Thunderbird, the Sun, or other powers of nature had spoken to him.
Each day Red Cloud would awake and expect his father to call him to inform him that today was the day. But many days passed, and still Great Cloud did not call for his son. Soon with the excitement of the games and the learning of lessons from his father concerning the use of weapons and tracking, the problem of coming into maturity left the mind of Red Cloud and going off alone into the forest was the farthest thing from his mind.
Each day in the beginning as he had padded along the trail with his father he had expected to be told of the ordeal he must go through, but as each day passed and nothing was said, Red Cloud began to look forward to his lessons and to forget even the possibility of anything else on these daily walks.
Several months passed, and Red Cloud became quite a good hunter and tracker and his ability with the bow was unchallenged. His father was very proud of him and each day as they returned along the trail, Great Cloud walked with his arm lovingly across the shoulders of his son.
One afternoon when they had returned from tracking a deer, Great Cloud summoned Red Cloud to his wigwam. Red Cloud thought that he might have done something on the hunt which displeased his father, but he entered the wigwam walking straight and proud as his father had taught him. Great Cloud motioned for his son to be seated and when he had done so, Great Cloud began to speak.
“My son, in your dreams have any of the powers of nature appeared to you promising success and courage in your adult life? Now think hard, for this is very important.”
Then and only then did Red Cloud realize that the time had come for him to be put to the test. Now he realized that his father was asking him whether he was a mature Indian brave or whether he was still a child.
“No, father, I have had no dream in which the powers of nature appeared.”
“Then you know, my son, what you have to do,” answered Great Cloud. “These many weeks you have probably wondered why I have not called you to me before. It was because I felt that you were not ready to bear the ordeal of spending many lonely nights in the forest alone. When one retires to the deep green of the forest to await the voice of the Thunderbird or the Sun or other powers of nature, one must go alone with just his weapons. Your education has been such that you would not have been able to survive in the forest very long before now, and that is why I have so carefully trained you in the many ways of nature and the forest these past few weeks. As you know, before you may be considered a mature Indian in the Algonquin tribe you must first hear the voice of one of the powers of nature promising you courage and success in your adult life. Are you now prepared to go into the great forest and endure this ordeal?”
Red Cloud hesitated, for he knew that his answer must be a straightforward one and honest, for truth was a sacred thing to the Indians.
“O my father, I must be truthful, for so you have taught me in my younger days. I have listened and watched patiently each day as I trotted at your heels along the trail and I have locked away in my heart and in my mind all the careful little bits of information you have given to me which would make me a boy worthy to be called the son of Great Cloud. The forest has been a friendly place to me, for I have spent many happy hours there with you. Now I am faced with a decision which I must make here and now, and all I can say to you, father, is that I, Red Cloud, your son, am ready to go into the great forest to await the word from the powers of nature.”
Great Cloud placed his hands upon the shoulders of his son and smiling at him said, “You have spoken well, my son. Tomorrow you shall leave for the forest and look for a place where you will not be disturbed. Take with you your weapons and your blanket, but no other goods such as food, for you must fast while you await the dream.”
With that Red Cloud departed from the wigwam to prepare for his journey the following morning.
There was no sleep for the young Red Cloud that evening, as he thought of his coming trip into the big forest. Finally the early light of dawn peeked through the door of the wigwam and before most of the village was even astir, Red Cloud was up from his bed and had gathered his precious weapons and his blanket for the trip.
He bade good-bye to his mother, Morning Star, and his father, Great Cloud, and started for the forest.
It was a beautiful morning. The bright sun shone down through the leaves of the great green trees of the forest and the spring flowers were all in gay bloom, dressed in their finest colors of reds, blues, yellows, purples, and oranges. As he trotted along the trail Red Cloud could hear overhead the many different calls and songs of the forest birds. Occasionally there was a rustle along the side of the trail or a rabbit would scamper across the path of Red Cloud.
Once through the branch of a low-hanging birch tree, Red Cloud saw the magnificent body of a full-grown buck with six points. Oh, how he regretted that he was not upon a hunting trip, for wouldn’t that buck have made a beautiful trophy to bring back to the village?
The buck, too, seemed to be aware of the reason for Red Cloud’s journey, for though the boy moved carefully he did stir the leaves as he walked and though the buck turned his majestic head he did not move from his spot in the glen of the forest.
Red Cloud smiled to himself, recalling words of his father, “Sometimes the wild animals seem to sense the reason for your journey and fear not the approach of a warrior who is not on a hunt.” At the time Red Cloud had not thought much about the statement but here beside the trail it had been proved to him by the actions of the majestic buck.
Soon Red Cloud felt that he had journeyed deep enough into the forest along the well-known trails, so he turned from the path to go into the forest where no trail was known to him. It was not easy going, for he had to cut small brush from his path. Occasionally he would take a small piece of bark from the side of a tree to mark the direction he had taken in order to find his way back to the main trail.
Soon he came to a stream and stooped to drink of the cool refreshing water. As he stood up once again he gazed up through the opening in the trees and noticed that evening was fast approaching and soon it would be dark. So he moved on more rapidly and he noticed that his direction was taking him up the side of a small ridge. Finally, tired and realizing that darkness would soon be upon him, Red Cloud decided to stop and make his camp. He found that where he had chosen to stop, there was a small formation of rocks which provided a natural shelter from the cool evening breezes.
Within the shelter of these rocks he built himself a small fire and then, wrapping his blanket around him, settled down to sleep through the comforting night, hoping as all boys do that the dream would come to him on this, his first night and that he could return to the warmth and shelter of his friendly wigwam and his family on the following day. But also Red Cloud was prepared to spend many days, if the need arose and many nights, for he had been taught endurance by his father.
The night passed quickly, and suddenly Red Cloud opened his eyes to the rays of the sun and a new day. Climbing from under the folds of his blanket he realized that he was quite thirsty and hungry. Water he could seek and drink, but he realized that until he had the dream he was to partake of no food regardless of how long he must wait. Unless, of course, he desired to return to the village and report that the spirits had not spoken to him in a dream and then as was the custom of his tribe he would be considered a poor unfortunate person with little hope of success in life. So Red Cloud put the thoughts of food from his mind and started in search of water.
In the great forest one did not have to look too far for water because all through the great forest there ran many streams of clear cool water. So it was not long before Red Cloud found such a stream and, after splashing the icy cold water in his face to chase the sleep from his eyes, he drank deeply until his thirst was satisfied. Then turning from the stream he started back toward his camp.
When he arrived back at his blanket, he spread it on the ground and then lay down to gaze up into the sky through the openings in the trees. He passed an hour or more making wonderful pictures in his mind from the formation of clouds that floated overhead across the heavens. Billowy white puffs of smoke they seemed to be, and Red Cloud marveled at how soft and pure they looked. But soon his restless heart made him rise from the blanket and he decided to explore. He started for the top of the ridge many miles away and when he had reached there he knelt, turning his head toward the heavens and raising his arms. And so as if reaching for the sun he made his prayers to the great Wakanda.
When he had knelt in this position for an hour or more he rose to start down the ridge toward his campsite again, planning to go in another direction from the campsite and eventually explore the whole surrounding area. It was then that he noticed a slight stirring in the brush. Quickly Red Cloud dropped behind a shelter of rock and watched the spot in the brush. He did not know what to expect, for this part of the forest was strange to him and he did not know what might be hidden in the brush. Then as he watched the brush he realized that the slight breeze that was blowing would be carrying his scent right toward whatever was concealed in the patch of brush.
Then he saw it was a tremendous brown bear which was six feet tall on its hind feet. Evidently the bear had been eating blueberries from the bushes which covered the side of the ridge and had suddenly become aware of the presence of someone or something which was foreign to him. The bear was now raised up on his hind paws in order to look over the tops of the bushes and see if he could discover this thing which had invaded his feeding grounds.
Red Cloud crouched even lower behind the rock, for he knew that a brown bear could be very mean, especially when he was hungry. Then Red Cloud thought of his weapons. In seeking water he had left his weapons at the campsite and had nothing with him but his hunting knife, which he felt would do him little good against a mad full-grown brown bear. So the best thing he could do was to attempt to circle the bear and get downwind from him so that the bear could no longer smell him. But he must do it by keeping out of sight.
Slowly Red Cloud edged himself out from behind the rock, keeping his body pressed close to the ground. Before he started to move he noticed that the bear had settled down to feeding once again. The breeze had died down but there was always the danger of a quick gust again and Red Cloud realized he was still in a dangerous position. He hugged the ground as hard as he could and continued to squirm away from and around this dangerous bear.
Then Red Cloud was aware of another danger. Having gone without food for almost two whole days, he was not the strong lad that he would have been when eating two hearty meals a day. He wondered, if the bear did see him, whether he would be able to run fast enough to get away from the bear. But getting downwind was the most important thing at this time, so Red Cloud continued to crawl and the rough stones on the forest floor cut through his shirt and into his skin, scraping it raw; but the more it hurt the harder Red Cloud pressed his body against the friendly earth.
He slowly raised his head and realized that he was now almost completely downwind from the bear and that the big fellow had gone back to munching the berries. For what seemed like hours, Red Cloud lay quietly in hiding behind a great oak tree, not daring to look out for fear the bear would be looking around just at the time he peeked out from behind the tree.
And then it happened. Red Cloud had been lying so still, afraid to move, that suddenly he felt his leg go numb and he realized that his leg had gone to sleep. He moved it slightly to bring circulation and life back into it and in so doing he dislodged a fairly large stone which began its noisy fall down the side of the ridge and as it rolled it would click against other stones and they too would join the miniature landslide. Red Cloud huddled behind the tree and then he heard a low growl. He decided he had better take a chance and glance from behind the tree, and as he did his heart leapt, for the bear was looking almost right at him. The bear let out another terrible growl, and then from above where Red Cloud lay in hiding, the young brave heard another growl.
Slowly turning his head so that he could look up the ridge, he saw the reason for the bear’s sudden anger. His berry patch had been invaded by another large brown bear who was now growling out a challenge. If either bear had spotted Red Cloud, he was forgotten now, for they had eyes only for each other and possession of the berry patch was the prize which they both sought.
With mighty growls they dropped to all fours and charged at each other. Red Cloud, at first fascinated by this battle between two creatures of the forest, stood rooted to his hiding place, but then thought more wisely of it and taking the chance offered him by the two bears being involved in a battle to the death, ran as swiftly as he could down the ridge and away from the danger that threatened his very life.
He did not stop running until he had reached his campsite miles away and then, throwing himself flat on the ground, thanked the great Wakanda for sparing him from this danger which had threatened and for bringing him safely to his campsite.
Once again he offered his prayers to the powers of nature and then, wrapping himself in his blanket and building up the fire, he settled down for the night.
It was during the warm sleep of that evening brought on by the fatigue of his day’s adventure that Red Cloud had his dream. In his dream the great Thunderbird appeared to him telling him that he would have much courage added to the courage already in his heart and that as an adult in the tribe he would have a great deal of success in all he attempted. Upon awakening at the first rays of the dawn, Red Cloud felt suddenly refreshed. He had been visited in his dreams and now could return to the village.
Gathering his weapons he put out the embers of the fire he had made and scattered the dead ashes. Then with a light heart and a quick step he started back upon the path he had blazed until he reached the main trail. There he quickened his step and just as dusk was beginning to fall, entered the village, being welcomed warmly by his many friends. His father and several of the lesser chiefs were at the door of his father’s wigwam and that evening a council was held at the central lodge.
There Red Cloud rose before the male members of his tribe and recounted his adventures in the great forest, closing by repeating his dream. As he finished there were many grunts of approval and words of praise.
But Great Cloud said nothing, and Red Cloud wondered about this until he looked into the eyes of his great father; and there he saw the fire of pride burning brightly and in his heart he was very happy. Together father and son left the central lodge that evening, and true to the dream, Red Cloud grew in the tribe to become one of its greatest warriors.
This story is based upon an incident in the life of Red Cloud, an Algonquin warrior, as told to the author by John Fitch, a farmer from Vermont.
The Apache warriors had been waiting a long time for this revenge upon the maurauding Kiowas and now the time had come. The leader of the Apache band raised his hand and the attack was on. The Apache war party swept down the hillside into the midst of the Kiowa camp. The camp had been caught off guard and the raiding Apaches were making short work of the few Kiowa braves who would stand and fight.
Broken Tooth, one of the most honored warriors of the Apache tribe, rode down to a Kiowa brave and touched him with his coup stick. Then he rode on a short ways, turned abruptly and sent an arrow into the Kiowa’s chest.
The battle was short and furious. The Apache raiders withdrew from the village and slowly returned home to count their coup and to sing of their victory at the great council. As they rode, Broken Tooth was thinking ahead to the great council that night. After this raid today a great event would take place in his tepee on the morrow.
The party entered the camp and there was much rejoicing. Finally, the evening meal was eaten and the word was sent out that the council would meet to hear the deeds of the day.
When all the men of the tribe had gathered in the council lodge, they rose one by one to recount their deeds of the day. Finally, Broken Tooth rose and told of his riding down upon the Kiowa warrior and touching him with his coup stick. He then related his other exploits of the day. The great chief rose from his place and then he spoke, “Broken Tooth, you have been a brave warrior and you have earned many honors. Today you have added even more honors for your brave deeds.”
The council then broke up, but the following day word was passed that Broken Tooth was on that day going to make a new headdress. As was the custom, the men of the tribe gathered that afternoon in the tepee of Broken Tooth and all his feathers were spread upon the ground. They were then sorted according to size, and the making of the headdress began. As each feather was being prepared for the headdress, Broken Tooth recounted for the men the story of the deed that had won him that feather. The men would listen and smoke and grunt approval after each story. Finally, the bonnet was finished and there was no more beautiful piece of handiwork in the whole village.
The following day there were reports from the scouts that the Arapaho were banding together and would be attacking in force. The Apaches gathered their warriors and rode forth to meet the enemy. A large plain between the two villages was picked as the place of battle and the tribes met in both hand-to-hand and long-range battle. It was a hard-fought battle and soon both tribes withdrew, bearing their dead and wounded.
Among the dead was Broken Tooth. As his body was borne back to the Apache village many praised the beauty of the war bonnet which had been worn so proudly by its owner for a single day.
The Oneidas were a tribe of the Iroquois Nation which had swept north to invade the lands of the Algonquins, spreading death and destruction. After having beaten all the surrounding Algonquin tribes badly, the Iroquois tribes fell to fighting among themselves—the Onondagas, Mohawks, Cayugas, and Senecas, as well as the Oneidas. This constant bloodshed in the Mohawk valley in time weakened the tribes so that they were always in danger of attack from the revenge-seeking Algonquins.
It was during this unhappy time that a young brave, Grey Squirrel, lived among the Oneida people. He was not an unusual Indian. He was of average build with average good looks and average abilities. He took part in only the things the average young man in his tribe enjoyed—hunting, fishing, trapping, and doing all the things they did. However, there was one difference that set Grey Squirrel aside from his brothers of the tribe: Grey Squirrel had never heard his name spoken by the chiefs of the tribe. All the other braves of his age had either heard the chiefs call their names while on the hunt, at a tribal ceremony, or while walking in the woods or swimming in the stream.
So Grey Squirrel began to wonder whether he had ever done anything which, in the eyes of the chiefs, made him unworthy. He had fought in great battles, but he had never been cowardly. So cowardice could not be the reason. He had never failed to hunt well, to keep his wigwam warm and sturdy, and to see that there was enough food for all the family. He could see no way in which he had been unworthy of the chiefs’ notice. Often Grey Squirrel would walk by the quiet stream and ponder the reason for his being a brave forgotten by the chiefs.
As Grey Squirrel’s heart grew troubled, he sought the wise advice of his father, Grey Owl. One evening, he approached his father’s wigwam and asked if he might speak with him about something which tormented his mind. Grey Owl invited him into his home and they both sat cross-legged around the small fire in the center of the wigwam. There was a long period of silence and then Grey Owl spoke.
“What is it that troubles you so deeply, my son? I have often watched you wander from the village to the near-by stream and sit and ponder. I have watched you return with a downcast look from the hunt or battle when you should have been joyful that your bow had proven straight and true in whatever task you set for it.” His father paused. “Speak, my son, unburden your heart to your father who has loved you and guided you from babyhood to fine young manhood.”
Grey Squirrel looked long at his father and as he watched his father’s eyes, his face softened and he said, “O wise and kind father, many years I walked the forest trails at your heels carefully watching every move, imitating all that you taught me to the best of my ability. Many, many hours we spent together beneath the sheltering branches of the towering oak trees, listening with our ears to the voices of the forest. You taught me how to listen and what to listen for, so that my ears have grown very keen. Today the deer may not tread the forest floor that I do not hear, nor the rabbit scurry for cover that I cannot uncover the entrance to his home, nor the bluebird set his wings for flight that I cannot immediately see his starting place. And yet, dear father, there is one sound I have listened for and have not heard.”
Grey Owl had been listening calmly to all that his young son had to say. Surprise crossed his face with his son’s last words, and then a gentle smile came upon his lips. “Tell me, Grey Squirrel, what is this sound you listen so hard for but cannot hear?”
“O father,” Grey Squirrel said, “I have listened for the voices of our great chiefs calling my name, but to this day I have not heard them. Am I not in favor with those who watch over our tribe and guide our feet along the safe paths? Tell me, father, why do I not hear my name spoken by them? I have listened along the forest trails or in the din of battle. I have lain awake in the quiet of my wigwam listening for just a whisper. All the other braves of our village are proud that they have heard their names repeated by the chiefs. I alone have not. What is wrong, father? I have come to you to seek your wise answer.”
Grey Owl lowered his eyes to the ground as he searched his thoughts for the right reply. Then he lifted his head slowly and studied his son’s face. He began to speak slowly and kindly. “My son, you have made one very great mistake. Without having meant to do so, you have done the one thing which could have prevented you from hearing the chiefs call your name.”
“Tell me, father,” Grey Squirrel said impatiently, “tell me what it is!”
Grey Owl rose and walked behind his son. Placing his hands upon the young man’s shoulders, he said, “Because you have walked in search of their praise you have spent many hours expecting to hear them praise you. Do not listen so hard, my son. Live your life the best you know how. One day you shall be rewarded by hearing the voices of the chiefs who watch over our tribe. Do not be troubled any longer. Return to your wigwam and your family and continue to be a good husband and father. If you allow it to worry you greatly, it will soon hurt your whole life. You are young, my son. You have not been forgotten.”
Grey Squirrel rose then, and faced his father. “Father,” he said, “your words are of little comfort. But I will follow your advice, for it has been wise and good through the years of my youth.” With that, Grey Squirrel turned and left his father’s wigwam.
He returned to his own home and was greeted warmly by his good wife, Morning Star, who had prepared a fine meal for him. All through his dinner, Grey Squirrel thought carefully about his father’s words. But when he went to bed that evening, he decided that he should drive these troubled thoughts from his mind. The weeks that followed were very pleasant for Grey Squirrel. The hunting and fishing were good. Everything was going well. The people of the village saw the sudden change in Grey Squirrel and the fact that he no longer appeared worried. Grey Squirrel felt better, greeting each new day happily.
One day Grey Squirrel shouldered his bow and chose his best arrows. Bidding his family good-bye, he started toward the forest to hunt for fresh meat for his family. He trotted easily along the forest trail, stopping now and then to study the ground and look for signs of moving game.
He had been on the trail for a while when he came to a narrow stream. Stooping to drink of the fresh, cool water, he stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth. He blinked his eyes and looked again into the stream, not moving a muscle. There, in a quiet pool next to his reflection was that of the head and antlers of a beautiful deer. Slowly the brave lifted his head until he was looking straight into the eyes of a magnificent buck standing directly across the stream, almost within reach. As Grey Squirrel straightened up slowly, the buck shied a little and backed off. Many thoughts passed through Grey Squirrel’s head, but the one which puzzled him most was why the buck shied only a little and then stood and watched him without any sign of fear after that.
Grey Squirrel lowered a hand slowly to reach for his bow which he had placed upon the ground as he was kneeling to drink. Grasping the bow firmly, he fitted an arrow onto the bow string and took careful aim. The great buck’s eyes stayed his hand from releasing the arrow and made him lower the bow. His mind told Grey Squirrel that this buck would provide good food, but his heart told him to stop. Then he noticed that the deer was favoring his right hoof and realized that the buck had an injury. The leg just above the hoof was swollen to almost twice its normal size. Grey Squirrel dropped his bow and arrow to the ground, and with careful and even steps, waded across the stream toward the buck.
The animal suddenly turned as if to spring into the forest, but his leg collapsed under him and he fell to the ground. Grey Squirrel guessed that the deer must have already used up his strength in escaping from whatever had caused the injury, had come to the stream to bathe the injured leg, and could go no further. Now the buck was struggling to rise and Grey Squirrel jumped quickly to his side. Firmly but gently, the Indian placed one knee against the buck’s side, one hand on the animal’s chest, the other on the buck’s neck to hold him steady. The animal was frightened and trembled. Grey Squirrel spoke softly to the buck and began to stroke its side, each time managing to bring his hand a little closer to the injured hoof. Finally the buck seemed to sigh and relaxed as though he understood that this man wanted to help him.
Grey Squirrel leaned over to look at the injured leg more closely. The buck apparently had run into some heavy brambles and a large thorn had lodged in the soft part of the leg just above the hoof, which had become infected and had begun to fester. Grey Squirrel took his knife from his belt and pressed the point of the blade into the flesh beside the thorn. The buck’s leg quivered slightly. Then the thorn and a misty fluid spurted from the wound. Grey Squirrel took wet leaves and mud from the bed of the stream and laid them over the wound. All through this operation the buck lay still, allowing Grey Squirrel to do as he pleased. The animal continued to lie there quietly as though waiting for any more help the Indian might gave him.
Grey Squirrel went back to the stream and, cupping his hands, brought some cool water for the animal. The buck drank it eagerly. A long time passed while Grey Squirrel kept vigil over the resting buck. Occasionally as he moved to another position, the buck would follow him with his eyes; when Grey Squirrel settled down again, the buck would put his head back on the earth and he too would rest again. Finally, dusk drew near and it began to darken in the forest. As if by signal, the buck arose, tested his injured leg, glanced at Grey Squirrel, and started for the protection of the dense trees. Grey Squirrel called and the buck stopped at the edge of the woods and turned to look back. He cocked his head to one side as if to say “thank you,” and then moved into the thick woods and out of sight.
Grey Squirrel suddenly became angry with himself and shouted aloud, “What a fool you are, Grey Squirrel! There, before you, was food for your family for a whole week. But you let the buck make you feel sorry for him. You cared for his injury, and now he has left you empty-handed after a whole day of hunting, with only the story of a deer who let you pet him—as if anyone would believe you! You are a fool, Grey Squirrel!”
Then there was a loud rustling near by. All of a sudden, Grey Squirrel heard a voice, calling his name.
“Grey Squirrel!” the voice boomed, echoing in the forest. “Don’t be angry with yourself. I witnessed what you did today. Your tribe will honor you. It takes courage to travel in the forests alone in search of food. But it takes greater courage to forget to be a hunter when his prey is so easy a target because of an injury. You sacrificed time and food for your family’s table to help the injured buck. If you had killed the animal, you would have felt cowardly. Return to our village, hold your head high, and tell of your deed today. Do not worry if they do not believe you at first. Your heart is happy for your kindness. Go, Grey Squirrel, it grows late. I will ask the chiefs to hear your story at the council fire tonight.”
In quiet wonder, Grey Squirrel stood gazing at Strong Heart, the great war chief of the Oneidas, who stepped out of the woods only a few paces from the spot where the buck had stopped briefly to gaze back at him. Lifting his bow from the ground, Grey Squirrel started back to his family and his wigwam. In his heart were a warmth and peace that he had never felt before.
It had been a very poor hunting year for the Choctaw Tribe. Little Fawn, daughter of Wolf’s Tooth, sat in her wigwam, thinking about her hunger. Not just Little Fawn, but everyone in the village was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. One month still remained before the ice would thaw in the lakes, and the fish would begin to swim again, and the young green sprouts of grass would burst through the earth and draw the game back to the hunting ground. A grave decision had to be made. When the Council had gathered, Wolf’s Tooth rose up and spoke.
“We need food. If we are not to starve, we must organize a strong hunting party, and travel south to seek out the animals that have wandered from our hunting grounds.”
There were many grunts of approval. The decision was made that a great hunting party would leave the following day for the south. There was much dancing and preparation for the hunt. Tough hickory bows were tested again and again for weak spots. Sinew cords that were old or might have weak spots were cast aside, and new ones strung on the hickory bows. Knives and tomahawks were made ready. The tension mounted until dawn when the hunting party started from the village toward the south.
Little Fawn gazed slowly around the encampment and immediately noticed that all the strong young braves were gone. All that remained were the old men, the sick, the women and children. This bothered Little Fawn, until she thought to herself, “What could happen? Nothing. We will be safe as long as we stay in our village.”
Before the men left on the trip, they had been so confident they would bring back home an ample supply of meat that they gave their families extra rations of meat and greens which they had been guarding well. Some of the families were careful and, though given plenty, still used the extra food sparingly; but many of the families could not resist the temptation to feast, and built up fires to cook the extra meat and greens. It was just this mistake that nearly cost many of the remaining Choctaw people their lives.
Just as the families were sitting down to eat, a howl echoed from out of the forest and then another and another from different directions. The women became frightened and some of the children began to cry. Some of the men began to cry too, because they realized that they were old and sick and could give little help to the women and children against the danger that was now just outside their village.
How well they knew the sounds which came from the forests on the edge of the camp! The wolves were hungry, for their hunting season had been a poor one too. These lean and starving savage beasts had been drawn to the outskirts of the village by the smell of the large quantities of meat cooking in the many vessels throughout the village. The howling continued, and it grew louder as many more voices joined the circle of wolves slowly closing in on the village.
Food and hunger were forgotten by the older squaws as they hurried to carry their children to the comparative safety of the wigwam. Suddenly, all were stricken with panic except Little Fawn. Though her little heart pounded in her breast, Little Fawn searched her mind for a solution to this threat of death to her people. She ran quickly to her home and there found her younger brother, Flying Squirrel, crouched in the corner of the wigwam, shaking with fear. Slowly she explained to him that he must stop shaking and listen carefully. Though only a young boy, she told him, he must now become a man. He must leave immediately upon the trail of the hunting party to bring help to the village while she, Little Fawn, stayed behind to do whatever she could to help her people.
Flying Squirrel knew the job he must do. So he immediately set out upon the trail of the hunting party, helped by the bright moon and driven on by thoughts of his brave young sister who was staying behind to face this howling menace of a pack of wolves. Both fear and courage lent wings to his feet as he sped through the circle of wolves and down the trail in pursuit of the hunting party.
Meanwhile, Little Fawn called two other young Indian girls to her and explained that the only reason the wolves were staying as far from the village was their fear of the many fires which still burned brightly in the village.
“So,” Little Fawn said, “it is our job to keep those fires burning all night, and to make torches and light them on the edge of the village to keep the wolves away.” Reluctantly the girls agreed, and fires were built up. The three girls made torches of pine knots and placed them in a wide circle at the edge of the village.
All night they kept the fires burning, and all night the howling of the wolves kept up. With the coming of dawn, however, the wolves scurried back into the forest. Only then did the girls who had helped Little Fawn decide to take a much needed rest. But Little Fawn could not rest because she was so worried about her little brother, Flying Squirrel. At just about this time, he reached the hunting party and, after explaining what had happened, collapsed in the arms of his father.
Wolf’s Tooth chose a half dozen warriors and immediately started home for the village which was almost a full day’s journey away.
Back at the village, Little Fawn was busy gathering wood for the fires that coming evening. Soon many willing hands were helping in this task. As the day wore on, Little Fawn anxiously watched the south trail for signs of the returning warriors. As the sun began to set, Little Fawn began to wonder if Flying Squirrel had been able to reach Wolf’s Tooth and his band. Little Fawn knew that the wolves would be back after the sun set.
It grew dark fast. Little Fawn went to look at the many torches around the village, lighting any that had gone out and preparing once again for the long wait. As she reached to set another torch ablaze, she heard a low, threatening growl almost beside her. Turning slowly around, Little Fawn found she was gazing into the sharp eyes of a hungry wolf who must have followed her right to this spot. Little Fawn drew back in fear until her back pressed against a hickory tree as the wolf crouched to spring. There was no escape and Little Fawn faced the wolf trembling. The wolf leaped. There was the sudden twang of a bowstring. A howl of agony came from the throat of the wolf as the arrow struck home. The rescue party had arrived just in time. Wolf’s Tooth’s arrow had found its mark. The rescue party killed most of the wolves and drove off the rest of the pack. All the next day Little Fawn and her brother, Flying Squirrel, were thanked and praised by her tribe.
Wolf Tooth told them: “I am very proud of my children. My son moves even more swiftly than a flying squirrel. My daughter may be as gentle as a little fawn, but she is braver than a pack of wolves.”
White Eagle was a young Iroquois boy. His favorite friend was Shining Star, a young Indian girl from his tribe. The small village in which they lived stood on the shore of a large and beautiful lake that could become very dangerous in a sudden storm.
Scattered in the lake were many small islands. When parents were sure that their children could handle the tribe’s canoes safely in the lake, they allowed them to explore these islands. A favorite sport of White Eagle and Shining Star was to paddle to one of these islands to search for berries and other wild fruit.
One sunny summer day, White Eagle and Shining Star decided to take a canoe trip to one of the islands farthest from their village. As far as White Eagle knew, the island they planned to visit was at the other end of the long lake. Excitedly, the two children went down to the shore and set out on their adventure across the calm, blue lake. They enjoyed paddling in the sun because its beams seemed to warm them to their hearts.
They had been paddling gaily and laughing a great deal for some time when Shining Star suddenly turned to White Eagle with an unhappy look on her pretty face.
“White Eagle,” she said sadly, “I am getting tired. I think we should visit one of the islands nearer home. I don’t think I can help you paddle all the way across this great lake and back again.”
“Very well,” said White Eagle kindly, “there is an island over there that we have never visited before. We will go ashore there and hunt for berries.”
Without saying any more, the children turned their canoe and headed for the island about one hundred paces away. Soon their canoe was scraping bottom on a sand bar that seemed to lead from the island into the water. Stepping from the canoe, White Eagle steadied it while Shining Star stepped ashore. Finally, he pulled the canoe up onto the shore so that it would not be carried away from the island into the lake and leave them stranded. Then, hand in hand, the children began to explore.
Now these islands were not small and, if one were not careful, he could really get lost for a little while. So the children were careful to mark their trail with broken branches as they went. In their eagerness to explore this island they forgot what they had actually come for.
“We have never been on this island before,” said White Eagle. “At least, I don’t remember having been on it before now.”
“No,” answered Shining Star. “We have never been here before.”
“Well, the only thing to do is look around.” Maybe White Eagle was thinking of himself as an Indian warrior when he added, “Let’s see if we can find any enemies.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, White Eagle! We won’t find any enemies on this island,” Shining Star said, laughing and forgetting how tired she had been.
“Don’t fool yourself, Shining Star. My father tells me that sometimes the enemy will set up camp on an island near a village to keep watch on the tribe. Then when they feel that the village is off guard, they attack.”
White Eagle said this with such a serious face that Shining Star became frightened. “Let’s go home, White Eagle, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be silly, little one, I was only fooling.” (Now he played the part of a warrior again.) “There is probably no living thing upon this island but ourselves. Come on! We’re wasting time. Let’s start exploring.”
The two children continued to investigate the island, always making sure that they were leaving a plain trail so that they could return to their canoe in safety. After several hours, they decided that there were no berries on this island so they might as well return home. They turned around and started back for the shore, trying to follow their trail carefully.
Sooner than he had expected, White Eagle could see the lake waters, but when they reached the shore he realized that this was not where they had landed. And there was no canoe. Looking out across the water, White Eagle knew that they were on another side of the island. Perhaps they had followed a fresh trail someone else had left.
Shining Star seated herself on a log about ten paces from the shore to rest and wait for White Eagle to make a decision.
“Come, Shining Star,” he said confidently, “we will walk along the shore until we reach our canoe.”
So taking hands once again, the children started along the shore of the island. Suddenly, the sky became black, a strong wind came up, and dark storm clouds started moving in over the lake.
“Hurry, Shining Star!” he said with just a touch of fear in his voice. “A storm is coming over the lake. We must hurry if we are to reach home before the waves get so high that we can’t paddle our canoe.”
Shining Star started to run, but stumbled and fell, twisting her ankle. She cried out in pain and White Eagle knelt by her side.
“Oh, I’ve hurt my ankle,” Shining Star told him, holding back her tears.
White Eagle lifted the young girl in his arms and started carrying her. Soon they reached the place where the canoe was beached. Placing her gently into the canoe, White Eagle shoved the canoe into the water and climbed inside.
The sky had become very dark. They could hear thunder and see flashes of lightning across the lake. Rain was beginning to fall fast. Now even White Eagle was afraid, but he tried his best to hide his fear from Shining Star. Using all the strength he could muster, he paddled furiously toward home, but the winds now were pounding the light canoe and seemed to drive him further and further from their village. Shining Star lay quietly in the bow of the canoe. She was too brave an Indian girl to cry but her eyes, peering through the driving rain toward White Eagle’s face, pleaded with him to get them safely home.
And then, without warning, a great gust of wind caught the bow of the canoe and swung it hard. White Eagle leaned in the opposite direction to balance the canoe. Suddenly, the wind shifted. Before White Eagle had a chance to turn the bow into the wind, it caught the canoe again and, with a loud swish, turned it over into the lake.
Amidst his surprise and confusion White Eagle’s first thought was for Shining Star. He heard the girl sputtering and coughing. He looked to see her head just appearing above the water beside the canoe. Reaching his hand out, he grasped her arm and pulled her to him. Then grasping the underside of the overturned canoe, he pulled Shining Star so that her arms rested on the canoe and she was able to grasp the keel.
Thus the two children hung on for what seemed like hours but actually was only a few minutes. The water was cold. White Eagle began to shiver, not so much because the water was cold, but because the rain was colder and the biting wind made it even worse.
And then as quickly as the storm had come, it was gone. White Eagle tried, but did not have the strength to hold on to Shining Star and turn the canoe. Just when he was giving up any chance of getting to shore, strong hands gripped his arms. It was then that White Eagle realized that he was losing consciousness. Everything went black.
When he finally woke, he found that he was in his bed in his own wigwam. His mother was kneeling by him with a cup of hot broth. Slowly he sipped. And then he could hold back no longer.
“My mother, what of Shining Star?”
“She is all right, my son. You have done well this day. It was feared that you children would be caught in the storm, so your father and Shining Star’s father set forth in their canoes and reached you both just as you were slipping from the canoe. You are a brave lad, White Eagle, and your father is proud as is the father of Shining Star. You saved her life and she was brave, as you were.”
Tani was a small Cherokee lad who lived during the great Hundred Years’ War between the Northern and Southern tribes. When he was twelve years old, Tani’s only wish was to own a bow like his father’s—a strong hickory bow with a stout hide thong and a quiver of straight strong arrows.
Each time he would approach his father about owning such a bow, his father would laugh, and placing his hand on his son’s head, tell him in a kindly voice that he was still a little too young to handle a man-sized hickory bow. This always made Tani feel a little sad because, being a boy of twelve, he thought he was man enough to own one.
One day Tani’s father called Tani to him and told him they would be going on a hunting trip and asked if he would like to go along. Tani was overjoyed and all he could think about for the next three days was the forthcoming trip with his father. When the time finally arrived, Tani prepared for the trip just as his father did and noticed his father place war paint on his face and chest and arms. Tani said good-bye to all, and when he said good-bye to his mother he noticed she was crying. He did not understand, for his father had not told him that the hunting trip they were going on was to seek out Talitanigska, one of the great Cherokee Chieftains, and report to him the movements of a large band of Seneca Indians. This was a very dangerous journey, for the Seneca Indians were deadly enemies of the Cherokee Tribe.
As Tani and his father traveled swiftly along the back paths of the vast forests toward the encampment of Talitanigska, one thought kept rushing through the little brave’s mind: What great adventure was his father leading him into? Tani soon learned the answer to this question. That evening, as Tani and his father were seated at a small guarded fire off to the side of the trail, Tani’s father told him the nature of their task.
The little brave’s heart pounded as he learned the reason for their journey. That night as they rolled in their blankets and slept, Tani dreamed of many Seneca Indians attacking his father and himself and of his standing back to back with his father, beating off the attackers.
When the dawn broke, Tani and his father were on their way. They were careful to avoid any soft earth that might leave signs for roving Senecas to find and follow.
About midafternoon Tani’s father turned into a shallow stream and started north against the current. Suddenly, his father slipped and fell heavily head first into the stream. Tani reached his father’s side and found his father could not stand. He helped him ashore and seated him against the trunk of a tree on the bank. A gash was red with blood across the forehead of Tani’s father. Tani saw that his father’s ankle was badly twisted. Not a word was spoken, but Tani built a small fire and made his father as comfortable as possible.
For several hours as the sun slowly sank behind the hills, Tani’s father worried about the situation he and his son were in. He was tired and he must have dozed, for he woke with a start as he felt his bow being lifted from his fingers. He watched in silence as Tani fitted an arrow to the bow, pulled back the string and let fly. The arrow buried itself in a near-by bush. There was a thud, followed by a terrifying scream. A Seneca sprang up and fell dead across the path. Tani rushed forward and, having made sure their enemy was dead, returned to his father’s side. Without a word he continued his sleepless watch.
The night passed without incident but as dawn approached, Tani heard a rustle in the near-by bush. He raised his bow ready to fire, but recognized the head feathers of his Cherokee brothers and let the bow drop to the ground. He leaped forward with a happy cry. The two braves were from Talitanigska’s camp. They quickly made a sling hammock to carry Tani’s father and soon the four of them set forth for the great Chieftain’s camp.
Once safely within the camp, Tani’s father was well cared for and soon was able to stand once again on his injured foot. Two weeks after their arrival at Talitanigska’s camp a great council fire was held to celebrate the victory of the Cherokees over their enemies, the Senecas. As the festivities came to a close, Talitanigska stepped to the center of the ring and asked that Tani step forward. Then, in front of the great Cherokee Chieftains, Talitanigska took his stout hickory bow from his shoulder and placed it in Tani’s hands.
“This is for you, Tani,” he said, “for you are a great brave and now a man among men. You stood full of courage in the face of great danger. Because of your quick thinking, you saved your father’s life and made it possible for your father to bring me the valuable information. This information helped our fellow tribesmen to meet and defeat the Senecas, our enemies.”
Tani did not know what to say; but the following morning, as he and his father prepared to leave, he stepped in front of Chief Talitanigska and thanked him for the gift. He said he would always cherish the great hickory bow and remember the great kindness shown him by one of the great Chiefs of the Cherokee nation. Tani had his bow, just like his father’s. There was no happier brave alive as he tramped closely behind his father on the path home.
Singing Waters’ work as an Indian maiden in the Teton-Dakota tribe was typical of the work of Indian maidens across the continent. Each year she would make new clothing for her family and each day of the year she would cook and do the many little things that were the duty of a good Indian squaw. The work was hard but Singing Waters did not mind, for she loved her husband and her children and was very happy and proud to be able to help them.
When she found that she had some free time, Singing Waters would join the other women of the tribe to boast about her husband’s great deeds on the hunt and in battle. This was a favorite pastime of all the squaws. They would spend many hours throughout the years to talk, over and over again about the adventures of their braves. Each time they would repeat the stories with even more enthusiasm.
One day, all the tribe’s braves had left to hunt down a great buffalo herd for food and clothing for the tribe. Singing Waters was seated in front of her tepee, teaching her two daughters how to cook, when the morning sky grew suddenly very black. A great quiet fell upon the village. Even the dogs that seemed to spend their day barking for no good reason were silent. Singing Waters heard only the wind as it whispered through the village.
Then from the distance, there came a rumble that seemed to come slowly nearer and nearer to the village. Singing Waters realized quickly that a dust storm was heading for her village. The other squaws had heard it, too, and were rushing to gather their children into their tepees and bind the skins across the entrances as tightly as they could. The dogs whimpered and scattered for whatever shelter they could find. The village did not have to wait long, for the winds were soon lashing against the tepees, straining their fastenings, and the dust was whipping through the village like a flood tide rushing over the rocks on the seashore.
The dust reached into every opening in Singing Waters’ tepee. It wasn’t long before a fine coating of it covered everything and everyone inside. Her two daughters huddled close to her, crying slightly because of their fear of the storm. But soon the wind blew out of the village, and the last dust clouds settled to the ground. One by one the flaps of the tepees swung back. Mothers, children and old men began to come out. They found that many things, left outside in the haste of escaping from the storm, were covered with coats of light brown dust. Everyone began cleaning up the village and sweeping away the dust which had piled up against the sides of the tepees.
While this was happening a young boy, named Fat Buffalo because he was short and very fat, came running through the village, crying that his mother was lost. Singing Waters halted him and shook him a little to make him stop his screaming. When he had quieted, she was able to learn that Brown Fawn, the boy’s mother, had left the tepee early that morning to seek fresh water. She had been gone only a little while when the storm struck. Now she was not back in the tepee and Fat Buffalo was frightened.
Singing Waters was worried, but did not tell Fat Buffalo. She knew that an Indian woman out in such a storm might easily fall under the stinging pelting of the sand, only to be smothered by it. She might never be found unless, years later, new storms should blow away the dust and reveal the dry bones of a skeleton and a few bits of her clothing. Though Singing Waters felt panic in her heart, she quieted herself and spoke calmly to Fat Buffalo.
“Go back to your tepee, Fat Buffalo, and wait. Your mother probably found shelter from the storm. Now that it has stopped she will be home soon. If it will make you feel better, I will go and look for her. Return now to your tepee. I wouldn’t be surprised if your mother were there already.”
How Singing Waters hoped that Brown Fawn was back in the village by now! It would be almost an impossible task to find her here on the plains if she were dead or even hurt. First, Singing Waters would not know in which direction to start. The water hole that she and most of the tribe used was to the south, but there were many water holes in many directions from the village. Singing Waters decided that she should go to Brown Fawn’s tepee and find out if anyone else in the family knew in which direction she had gone.
After warning her two daughters to stay close to home, saying that she would be back shortly, Singing Waters ran swiftly through the village. Reaching Brown Fawn’s tepee, she opened the tent flap and stepped inside. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she saw Fat Buffalo kneeling in the far corner of the tepee, crying. Approaching slowly, Singing Waters saw that there was someone else in the tepee and that Fat Buffalo was kneeling next to that person. As she drew near, her heart was happy, for she thought that Brown Fawn had returned and was comforting Fat Buffalo. She was about to turn and leave when she suddenly realized that this woman was not Brown Fawn, but Fat Buffalo’s grandmother, Little Otter, who held the boy’s head on her lap.
Singing Waters approached quietly and spoke softly to Little Otter. “Has Brown Fawn returned yet with the water?” she asked with slight hope in her voice.
“No,” said Little Otter, “and it was because of me that she went in search of water. We have some water here in the tepee. But I have not been feeling well, and Brown Fawn thought that herbs brewed in fresh spring water from the rocks on the near-by hills might make a tea which would help my sickness to leave.”
“But,” said Singing Waters, “the hills where the streams flow are many miles from here. If Brown Fawn left when the sun rose, then she might just have reached the spring when the storm came. She is probably on her way back to the village right now.”
The sad news about Brown Fawn soon reached everyone in the village. Many anxious eyes watched the trail that led from the hills. Each person hoped to be first to catch sight of Brown Fawn and bring happiness to Little Otter and Fat Buffalo.
Later that afternoon, Singing Waters came once again to Brown Fawn’s tepee. She talked quietly with Little Otter and then hurried back to her tepee and placed a warm buffalo jacket across her shoulders. Then taking her two little daughters, she went to her sister’s tepee and asked if she might leave the children there for supper while she went in search of Brown Fawn. Her sister looked at her and asked, “Why do you not wait until the warriors return? They should be coming any time now, and they could go in search of Brown Fawn! You have two little children to think about.”
“Yes,” said Singing Waters, “I have two little children to think about, but we do not know when the warriors will be back. If the hunting is good they may not return for another week. Brown Fawn may not be too far from the village.” Nothing Singing Waters’ sister could say to her would change her mind. So she set out from the village toward the mountain spring known to the members of her tribe as the medicine well. It was getting late in the day, and Singing Waters knew that she must hurry if she were to reach the medicine well before sunset. She knew the trail well. As a girl she had followed it many times, for there always seemed to be some sickness in her village.
Singing Waters finally came in sight of the ridge beyond which lay the medicine well, still having found no trace of Brown Fawn. Tirelessly, she trotted on until she had climbed the ridge and had worked her way to the place from which the water flowed into the medicine well. As Singing Waters approached the medicine well, she called Brown Fawn’s name softly, but heard no answer. Then she began to call more loudly. Suddenly, from far ahead she heard a voice answer. Now Singing Waters began to run, for she feared that Brown Fawn was in serious trouble. She ran until she reached the side of the medicine well, but still did not see Brown Fawn. Then she called again and the voice answered. “Help me, I am over here.”
The voice was coming from beyond the medicine well. Singing Waters ran on further; then she stopped and called again. The voice replied again, and Singing Waters knew that she was closer. Brown Fawn’s voice seemed to be coming from just behind a rise ahead of her. She ran swiftly to the top of the rise, and there she found a water bag. As she looked down the side of the rise through the gathering gloom she could make out Brown Fawn’s figure down the side of the hill. She sat leaning against a boulder, and she called out to Singing Waters to help her. Singing Waters slipped and slid in her haste down the side of the hill until she was at the side of Brown Fawn. Brown Fawn was so glad to see her that she cried, great tears rolling down her now pale cheeks.
Singing Waters could see that Brown Fawn had twisted her ankle. As she began to lift the injured woman, Singing Waters asked her how she had hurt herself and how she had escaped the storm. Brown Fawn told how she had reached the medicine well just as the dust storm had broken. After filling her water bag, she had turned quickly to go and had fallen, twisting her ankle. When she was once again able to rise, putting her weight on her other ankle, she found that she had lost all sense of direction and had started hobbling in the wrong direction.
“Why didn’t you lie down among the rocks until the storm passed?” Singing Waters asked.
“I wanted to rest,” Brown Fawn replied, “but then I would think of my mother and son and I felt I must return to her and Fat Buffalo immediately with the medicine water.”
“But,” said Singing Waters, “you are safe now. Now we must return to the village while there is still a little light or we may become lost out here on the prairie far away from the warmth of our tepees. Come, Brown Fawn, lean upon me and I will help you to walk.”
So Brown Fawn placed her arm across Singing Waters’ shoulders. Together they slowly started back to the village. It was dark by the time they had reached the fringe of the village, but bright fires had been lighted to show them the way home. There was much rejoicing as Singing Waters entered the village half carrying Brown Fawn. Gentle hands grasped Brown Fawn and placed her gently upon the buffalo robe in her tepee. Soon her eyelids flickered and she opened them wide, looking around for a face which meant much to her. But Singing Waters had returned to her own home and her children and was recounting for them the adventure she had just had. They smiled, knowing that their mother was a woman of great courage. They were very proud.
Little Turtle was a young Comanche who lived happily with his mother, father, and two older brothers on the great prairies. His father was well respected by the tribe, above all for having three sons who would grow to manhood and bring honor to the Comanche name.
Each day was a new adventure for Little Turtle and he welcomed each dawn with great excitement. He never knew just what was planned for him or what the other children of the village would decide to do, but he was always ready to take part in whatever would happen.
For some time now, Little Turtle, who had just turned ten, had been in the complete charge of his father. On certain days his father would take him far from the village to hunt and learn how to stalk wild game and find their signs. He learned his lessons well. At night in the tepee, he would sit next to his father because he was the youngest, and he would listen carefully while his father explained many things a young brave must know to become a strong and great Comanche warrior.
Because the Comanche village had been at peace for the last three years, Little Turtle had only love in his heart for everyone he knew or met. Sometimes his brothers and his father would speak to him of the hated Apache and Kiowa and the many reasons the Comanches had for hating them. But this meant very little to the lad. He never let such thoughts of war spoil his fun.
One evening after the three boys were asleep, Little Turtle’s father spoke with his mother.
“Blue Star,” he said, “for many days now I have talked to our youngest son of the Apaches and the Kiowas, but he does not seem to understand. I have told him of their many cruel ways and about our warriors who have fallen under the arrow and the tomahawk of the Apaches and the Kiowas. Still he refuses to speak harshly of such neighbors. Maybe Little Turtle is right. Maybe I am wrong in hating these neighbors to the north. You are wise, Blue Star. Your advice is often sought. Tell me now what I should teach our son. Shall I teach him to hate the horse stealers from the north? Or shall I not speak even their names in our daily talks?”
Blue Star thought for a moment and then said, “My husband and great warrior of the Comanches, hatred is a word which Little Turtle will learn soon enough. Now he is young and innocent. He enjoys the coming of each new day for the adventures that it will bring in his world of dreams. He is a happy child and to us a very wonderful boy. Do we want to change this wonderful boy to a grown warrior filled with hate? He knows nothing but love. Possibly peace will be a long time upon our village. We, his parents, would not want to spoil that happy world in which he lives.”
Great Hawk thought long about his wife’s words. Then he left the tepee to walk alone and solve this problem which lay so heavily upon his heart. Since his early days, Great Hawk had been taught to hate the Apaches and the Kiowas. His own father had lost his life in a battle with the Apaches. His brother’s hair now hung from the tepee of Grey Wolf, the Kiowa chieftain who sat at the head of the council lodge. And Grey Wolf was a cruel leader of a tribe that always looked for enemies to kill.
Great Hawk knew that he had strong personal reasons for hating the tribes to the north. But was it right for him to think of punishing his son for not hating them, too, in the way he did? Until he had talked with Blue Star, he had planned to question his son tomorrow about the Apaches and Kiowas, and if his son did not show a growing hatred toward them, then he would punish him. But now he was not sure. No, he would wait and be patient. After all, as Blue Star had said, there had been peace for three years now. Thoughts of war were kept alive only by the young bucks of the tribe who were eager for battle and glory. War was far from the minds of the older and wiser men of the tribe. They knew that peace had brought them prosperity and happiness, but war made them poor and brought them hunger and pain and the death of friends.
Great Hawk began thinking about Crooked Leg, one of the chieftains. He was the only member of the council of Comanche chieftains who was not happy that war had not come again.
Early in his youth Crooked Leg had fallen into the hands of the Kiowas and had been tortured badly. When his body was found being dragged by a Kiowa pony that had been turned loose, he had been beaten and twisted so badly that he lay close to death for many months. He had lived, but his leg had never healed straight. He always rose in pain and could never run again. Crooked Leg had stayed behind in the village during all later battles. His hate for the Kiowa had grown until he now thought about it all the time. At council meetings, he would always argue that the Comanches should once again take to the warpath against the Apaches and Kiowas. Each time he spoke, only a few council members would agree with him. So Crooked Leg was asked to be quiet while the council talked about tribal business. But the young bucks who thirsted for the taste of battle would carry his words through the village after each council meeting. For many days, the village would talk for war and against war. Soon the wise council members would win out, the bucks would quiet down, and Crooked Leg would be left to grumble in his tepee alone and forgotten for awhile.
Crooked Leg’s life had a lesson for Great Hawk. As he was returning to his tepee, he promised himself that he would not speak of hatred again to his son. He must not allow hatred to run his life as it had run Crooked Leg’s. If he did, even his friends might forget him and he would be of little use to anyone.
The following day promised little peace. Dawn brought a roaring storm that smashed at the Comanche village. The pounding rain had soon churned the ground into deep mud. Families remained indoors and fathers sat around their fires teaching sons how to make stout bows and straight arrows, knives, tomahawks, and other handmade tools a young brave needs to survive. Great Hawk used the time to talk to Little Turtle of the great powers of nature and peace and the Comanche people.
“As you grow,” he told Little Turtle, “remember to stay straight and true and do all things that are right, and you shall live a rich and happy life in our tribe. The Comanches have been favored greatly. We have lived in peace for the past three years and though it has been very dry, we have never been without water. Now the sky has opened and allowed the rains to fall so that we have water for our families and our horses. We have not suffered from great thirst since the great drought visited our land when we were last at war. After two years the supply of water was so small that our people were dying more from the great thirst than from the arrows of the enemy. Before long our chiefs sat down in council with our enemies to smoke the peace pipe. Now peace reigns over our people and they have plenty of food and water.”
Little Turtle had listened carefully while his father was speaking, then turned to his mother and said, “Mother, I am a very lucky boy to be a Comanche and to have such a wonderful family. I have a strong, wise, and kind father. You have cared for me as a baby and given me good food so that my bones would grow strong and straight. And I have two brothers of whom I am very proud.”
Blue Star smiled happily and began to make lunch. While the family was eating, the rain stopped. Soon the sun broke through the dark clouds and began to dry the earth. In the middle of the afternoon, Great Hawk rose and touched his son upon the shoulder.
“Come, Little Turtle,” he said. “It is time you learned to ride a horse. We will go to my string of ponies and pick one that you may ride and call your own. If you are to go on the hunt and take part in the many other riding events in the village, you must learn to ride well.”
Little Turtle’s heart leaped excitedly. He had been looking forward to the day his father would teach him to ride. Slowly Great Hawk and his son walked to where the tribe’s ponies were kept tied. Great Hawk began to look amongst the herd for a special pinto pony he had planned to give Little Turtle. It was small but strong and could run for a long time without getting winded. Great Hawk saw quickly that something was wrong. He began counting and discovered that three of his string, including the pinto, were gone. At first he thought that the storm had frightened them and they had broken loose from the main line which held the whole string. But as he reached the main line where the three ponies should have been tied, he saw the dangling ends of ropes that had been cut by a knife.
The pony guard must have left the herd to seek shelter during the storm. So it was easy for someone to steal his three ponies. Without thinking of Little Turtle, Great Hawk knelt in the mud to look closely at the clear tracks that the thieves had left. He rose to his feet quickly.
“The Apaches have stolen my ponies!” he cried out defiantly. “I shall ride after them and bring the ponies back even if blood must be shed!”
Then he remembered Little Turtle. “Go, Little Turtle,” he ordered. “Return to the tepee and explain to your mother what I must do. The Apaches have stolen three of my best ponies. I must ride fast to catch up with them before they get too far into the hills. I shall not rest until the ponies are back in our village or the scalps of the Apache thieves hang in our tepee.”
Then Great Hawk jumped onto a pony and sped off toward the hills.
Little Turtle ran home and told his mother and brothers what had happened.
Little Turtle’s brothers had been two of the young bucks who had agreed with Crooked Leg’s war talk. So they rushed out of the tepee, happy for this chance to fight. They stopped outside their tepee just long enough to pick up their weapons and shout the news to other young bucks of the tribe. Many of the young braves rallied quickly, grabbed their weapons, and dashed toward their ponies. This was just what Great Hawk had wanted to prevent. He thought that if he could overtake the thieves he would be able to bring them back as prisoners. Then the council of chieftains would decide how their stealing should be punished.
Only three Indians—not a large Apache band—were fleeing with the ponies. Great Hawk saw this clearly from the tracks he was following. He thought it might be three young Apache bucks who wanted to start trouble and had turned to stealing horses as a way of making the Comanches angry enough to fight. He must hurry, for if he did not reach the thieves before they got to the safety of the hills, he would have to report their escape to the council. Even the older Comanche chieftains probably would decide that war was the only answer.
When he reached the base of the hills, Great Hawk lost the trail of the thieves in the rocks. Slowly, he turned his mount and started for the village. This would now mean war. Great Hawk turned back toward the hills. Shaking his fist at the Apaches’ stronghold, he swore vengeance upon them. As he headed for home again, he met the war party of young Comanche bucks, led by his two sons.
“Wait!” he said, raising his hand. “Why do you ride so hard?”
“We ride to avenge the theft of your horses,” Great Hawk’s oldest son replied. “We will catch the Apache party and soak the foothills with their blood. No matter how many they are, we shall defeat them!”
“Wait!” Great Hawk pleaded. “There were only three men. They are already in the hills. We will lose many men if we try to attack them here. We do not know this ground, but the Apaches know it well. We must take this problem to our council.”
Just as Great Hawk spoke of the council, Crooked Leg rode out from amidst the young warriors. Great Hawk had not seen the old warrior who rode up close to Great Hawk.
“Out of the way, old and weak one,” Crooked Leg screamed. “You are afraid of these thieving vultures who steal from us under cover of a great storm. We are not afraid and we will go on until we find them. We have sat back too long getting fat and lazy on the buffalo meat. We have closed our eyes to the Apaches’ great war plans against our village!”
There were many shouts of approval from the young bucks, who were starting to move about impatiently.
“Wait!” shouted Great Hawk above the yelling of the young Comanche braves. “This long-planned war plan against our village was carried out by just three braves, as the trail will show you. They did not attack. They killed no one. They only stole three horses. This was no attack by the Apache tribe. It was probably the work of three young bucks, like many of you here, who could not be held back. They went off on their own to try to stir up trouble between our two tribes. They baited the trap and you are riding right into it. What has happened here must be settled by our council. Do not let Crooked Leg drive you into something you will regret the rest of your lives—if you live to regret it!”
The young men grew quiet as Great Hawk was speaking.
“And now I speak directly to my two sons,” he continued. “I, your father, order you to return with me to our tepee.”
But the fire that Crooked Leg had been building for so long burst into flame again as he urged the young bucks to go on. They surged forward toward the hills. Great Hawk was forced to rein his pony aside to avoid being run into. He knew that if Crooked Leg succeeded in clashing with the Apaches, he, Great Hawk, would lose importance in the tribe. But if Crooked Leg were defeated at the hands of the Apaches, the council would deliver fair judgment and punishment.
The young Comanche men had never fought before and might be defeated easily. So for the sake of his sons, Great Hawk turned his pony and fell in with the young bucks. When they saw that he had joined them, they urged their ponies ahead at a faster pace.
Soon they were deep in the hills of the Apaches. The party halted, and Great Hawk moved to the front. Grasping the bridle on Crooked Leg’s pony he swung the animal around sharply.
“You will ride no farther,” he told the old warrior. “I command you to go back to our village now. We have no idea where the horse thieves are. You are willing to gamble the lives of these brave young Comanches to satisfy a hate that burns deeply in your heart and mind.”
While Crooked Leg watched him angrily, Great Hawk spoke to the young men.
“Your wish to see justice done is good,” he began. “But the Apache has great strength, even greater here in his own home. We are few and most of us have never fought. If we fight here, our scalps will hang in the tepee of the Apaches before nightfall. Do not follow Crooked Leg any longer. What he suggests can bring only death to yourselves and much sadness to your families. We must return to the council and seek the wise advice of our chieftains.”
Great Hawk could see that his words were beginning to have an effect. He continued talking to the young bucks until their ranks began to break as a few turned their mounts toward home. Others followed, and Crooked Leg started screaming at them to come back and follow him to glory in the defeat of the Apaches. Then, just as the last few braves were heading back down the trail, the hills suddenly bristled with Apache warriors, each aiming an arrow at a young Comanche brave. As Great Hawk looked slowly around, he saw that there were twenty times more Apache than Comanche warriors.
The Comanche party was stunned. No one moved. Then one brave made a grab for his tomahawk. Great Hawk slapped his arm, saying, “Do not be a fool. You would be dead before your hand touched the tomahawk handle. Right now at least a dozen arrows are aimed at your body. Your tepee will be unhappy tonight if you are so foolish.”
Then Great Hawk rode out a little apart from the rest of the band. Raising his empty hands, he called to the Apaches.
“Who among you is the leader, for it is with him that I wish to talk?”
A tall, strong brave stepped from behind a boulder and made his way to the circle of warriors.
“I, Maskan, am leader here,” he said. “Why do you ride into our lands in such haste and with such anger on your faces?”
Then Great Hawk explained the events that had led up to this moment. When he finished, the Apache leader signaled, and three young Kiowa bucks were dragged from behind the boulders into plain sight of the Comanche party.
“These,” said Maskan, “are the three who stole your horses and ours. Their blood has run hot with the desire for adventure. So all alone, they set out last evening to invade your land and ours to steal horses. We have waited for them here among the rocks. We have watched you from the time they were taken by our warriors. You who seem to lead here have spoken wisely. The Kiowas will be punished as all Kiowa are in the Apache nation. We have your horses. They will be yours again. We ask you to go in peace from these hills. You have come in anger. Now you can leave in friendship. The older men of your tribe and ours know the trouble we are having with our young braves who want the glory of battle. One day war will come when the chieftains who want it are strong enough to convince the council. That day is not far away. But now return in peace to your village.”
Maskan turned and started for the boulder before Great Hawk could thank him. Maskan told his braves to bring out the stolen horses. At that moment Crooked Leg slipped his tomahawk from his belt and sent it sailing toward the Apache leader. It landed with a thud in the middle of Maskan’s back. Maskan cried out and fell to the ground, rolling in the dust. Immediately, Crooked Leg’s body was filled with arrows as shaft after shaft whined through the air. War whoops split the air as the Comanches rose to attack the Apaches who dodged behind the rocks that had sheltered them before.
Great Hawk realized that it would be useless to attempt any talk of peace now. With a sinking feeling in his heart he, too, joined the battle, struggling to reach his two sons. The great numbers of Apaches, well protected by large boulders, made the victory easy for them. The young Comanches fell under the hail of Apache arrows, and their war cries became screams of pain.
Then Great Hawk yelled to the warriors to retreat. The riddled band rushed toward their village. Sixteen young Comanche braves lay dead on the ground and seven strong Indian ponies were dead or dying. It was a ragged, tired, and bloody war party that entered the Comanche village that night. Badly beaten, their spirit defeated, they understood now that war was not as glorious as they had thought. As Great Hawk entered his tepee alone, Blue Star greeted him warmly but with fright in her eyes.
“Where are our two sons, Great Hawk?” she asked. Great Hawk looked at his wife and then at Little Turtle.
“Little Turtle, you have never learned to hate and you know nothing of war. Now both hatred and war must shatter your world of dreams. Your two brothers lie out there in the foothills, killed by sharp, well-aimed Apache arrows. They and fourteen others will no longer walk this earth with us. Among them lies Crooked Leg, who is to blame for these deaths today. Many Apaches and Comanches will yet die in a battle that never should have begun.”
From that day forward, Little Turtle left his dream world and walked in the real world of warring tribes, learning to hate his tribe’s enemies, to fight and revenge the death of his brothers.
The war continued for some time. Many Apache and Comanche braves were killed and injured. The council of Comanche chieftains met to discuss better ways of fighting the Apaches. Great Hawk, who had led so many attacks against the Apaches, stood in the council to speak. As he spoke, Little Turtle listened from just outside the lodge where he lay hidden.
“I, Great Hawk, have fought many battles with the Apaches. I am tired but I will fight as long as we must. Before this war started, I had great hate in my heart for the Apaches and Kiowas, as many of you know. I tried to teach this to my son. I know now how wrong I was. My son could not bring himself to hate someone or something he had not seen and who had done him no harm. On that unhappy day which could have ended peacefully, Crooked Leg sent a tomahawk into the back of Maskan, a brave and fair-minded warrior who tried to keep the peace. Then the war started. Two of my sons fell dead at my side, but still I fought on. When we who were left managed to escape with our lives and return to our village, I had to break the sad news to my family. Yet from that moment I held no hate for the Apaches.
“My oldest boys had gone from our village to follow Crooked Leg, a man whose whole life has been one of hate. They died because of that hate, though they died bravely, fighting as Comanches should. But now my youngest son has learned to hate as his brothers did and I am worried deeply. War comes with hate and is worse than disease or drought. The Comanches have always fought honorably, but Crooked Leg’s act will always dishonor our tribe. We cannot seek peace until we have cleansed our hearts of hate. We must do this for the happiness and well-being of our children and their children.”
The council was silent for several moments after Great Hawk had spoken. Then one of the head chiefs rose slowly and looked directly at Great Hawk. “You have spoken wisely, Great Hawk,” he began. “We must think this over carefully. If we want peace, it must be genuine and honorable. Let us go back to our tepees. Let us call the council to meet in two suns and make our decision then.”
When Great Hawk returned to his tepee, his son was waiting for him, having run ahead.
“Do not be troubled, father,” Little Turtle said, “for I have driven the hate from my heart. I hope this war will end soon and that there will be no room in anyone’s heart for hate. For hate eats men’s hearts and makes them like Crooked Leg, unhappy and selfish and cruel, bringing death and sorrow to those around them. These things are not for the Comanches.”
Little Horse was a member of the proud and courageous Delaware tribe. He grew up in his tribe among a people who were peaceful. They hunted and fished and sang and danced and celebrated much as most tribes did in the very early days, but there was to come a time when all was not peace and contentment.
Little Horse had been well trained by his father, Running Bear, and he had taken his lessons as a young boy very seriously. Though he had practiced very hard, he had never become very good with the bow and arrow or the tomahawk. But he had become very good at using and throwing the traditional hunting knife which was his proudest possession.
It was spring in the valley of the Delawares and day followed day with the peaceful and warm sun shining down upon the village in which Little Horse lived. Occasionally the soft rains would descend on the forest and hillside making everything wet and a rich green color. All was happiness in the village until that fateful day when Little Horse decided to take his long trip.
Shouldering his stout bow and a quiver of arrows he started out along the forest trail. He desired to go to the upper end of the valley and search out some wild turkey which he had heard many of the returning hunters speak about. The fact that the place where these turkeys lived was almost a day’s journey from his village did not seem to bother him, for he had placed in his food pouch enough dried venison and he would have berries and nuts along the way.
As he walked along, he looked from side to side watching for signs of wild game, not wanting to kill any so close to home but wanting to test his senses of hearing and sight which had been trained by his father so patiently.
Once in a while, Little Horse would stop in his journey to partake of some fresh water or just to rest on a moss patch under some large tree and think about the wonders of nature and the wonderful peace in his tribe.
Then he would rise and continue his journey which took him further and further from home with each step. And not realizing it, he had soon crossed into the land of the Iroquois, for his particular tribe had their village close to the line which separated the lands of the Delawares from the hunting grounds of the Iroquois.
This talk of tribal lands and borders did not mean much to Little Horse, although he had heard his father speak quite often of the Iroquois; and though he had been told never to wander too far from the village, he felt he was grown up enough by this time to take care of himself. One other thing which meant very little to Little Horse was the fact that in this period, neighboring tribes were often at war with each other, for war between tribes was rather common among the American Indians. Stealing and quarreling among individuals and trespassing upon hunting grounds were but a few reasons for this constant state of war and feuding. But to a young lad like Little Horse, who was so wrapped up in his desire to hunt the elusive turkey, war and fighting were the furthest things from his mind.
Meanwhile Running Bear, back at the village, was asking about for his son, for today he was to have taken him fishing in the great lake. No one seemed to know where the boy was until Running Bear asked a group of children playing on the edge of the village, and one of them replied that he had seen Little Horse with his food pouch at his belt and his bow over his shoulder trotting up the trail that led to the north and into the land of the Iroquois.
Fear gripped Running Bear’s heart. Just that morning one of the hunters had returned from the forest to tell of having found three Iroquois painted arrows stuck in the ground in a row, which was a sign of open warfare and he had the three arrows gripped in his hand which had been found close by to the village. This could mean but one thing. For some reason the Iroquois had been aroused, and now no Delaware would be safe alone any great distance from the home encampment. As long as this open warfare lasted, now they would have to travel in groups.
Running Bear feared for his son. So Running Bear gathered a few of his friends, and in a group they started up the trail toward the land of the Iroquois, hoping that Little Horse had not gone too far after all.
But they were to be sadly disappointed, for Little Horse at this moment was deep in Iroquois territory on the trail of wild turkey.
As Little Horse walked silently along the forest trails, he suddenly realized that it had become very quiet. He stopped to listen for the song of the birds but he heard none. He even found it so quiet that the breeze sounded like a windstorm. Someone or something else was near by, for only for that reason would all the forest creatures grow silent.
Then he heard the call of one solitary bird ahead and off to the left. And then behind him to the right he heard a similar call and then Little Horse knew.
It came upon him suddenly like a thundering in his ears. He realized that he was no longer in Delaware country, for this was the call of the Iroquois which his father had taught to him. But what had he to fear? The Delawares and the Iroquois were not at war, and so he boldly shouldered his bow and turned to start for home down the trail. But before he had taken two steps there was a loud whooping from many directions and before Little Horse could do anything, he was surrounded and his arms pinned by four husky Iroquois braves. One of them brandishing a shining knife was about to take the boy’s life when another brave stepped from the brush and spoke, “Put down your knife. This Delaware is tall, but he is only a boy.”
“But he is still a Delaware,” cried the brave, holding the knife close to the heart of Little Horse.
“No matter, he is young and strong. We will take him back to the village with us. We have not had much sport these days of late. This young one will make a fair game for us. We will have him run the gauntlet to see whether he will be permitted to live. I, Crooked Hand, have spoken.”
Little Horse then realized that Crooked Hand must be some sort of leader in the tribe, for there was no more argument. The arms of Little Horse were then tightly bound behind him and he was roughly shoved along the trail toward the village from whence these warriors had come. His weapons had been gathered, and one of the braves carried these as the party trotted easily along the trail, pressing Little Horse before them.
It was not too long after this that Running Bear and his rescue party arrived at the place where the struggle had taken place. It was soon evident to all the braves in the party that Little Horse had been taken prisoner, for once past the marks of the struggle, it was easy to pick out the markings of his moccasins in the soft earth of the trail and Little Horse had made sure to come down heavily on his feet in order to leave a trail plain enough for any who might follow to see.
Running Bear and his party pressed forward, going more stealthily now, for they were deep in the territory of the Iroquois and from all signs quite close to the village. Suddenly Running Bear stopped and signaled the party to flatten themselves upon the ground. Through the trees he had seen the feather of an Iroquois and, hardly daring to breathe, they waited. Detection now would mean almost certain death, for they were tired from their long race through the forest and the Iroquois, being close to home and fresh, would have made easy victims of the Delawares.
The lone Iroquois brave had stopped and looked around and then satisfying himself that nothing out of the ordinary was around had continued along the trail in pursuit of the rest of his party which had Little Horse captive.
Running Bear, when he felt it was safe, gathered his friends about him and then spoke in a whisper.
“We will wait until it is dark and then I will approach the village and see if it would be possible for us to rescue Little Horse and return to our village. It is very late and surely he will not be in danger tonight, for the thieving Iroquois will go into council to decide what to do with him. He is definitely a prisoner and most likely since he is young and strong but yet a boy they will make him run the gauntlet tomorrow as a test as to whether he will be permitted to live or must die.”
When darkness fell, Running Bear slipped through the forest to the edge of the Iroquois village and there, hidden in the brush, he was able to view the happenings in the village. He noticed one particular wigwam being well guarded and this he presumed was where Little Horse was being held prisoner. Then as his eyes wandered about the village he noticed a number of older men entering the large council lodge.
This was a fairly large village of the Iroquois, and Running Bear felt that it would be useless for his small band to attempt a rescue of Little Horse.
Suddenly he heard a slight rustling to the side of the trail and peering into the darkness he saw the figure of a brave approaching the trail. He waited and when the brave was almost upon him he reached out and throwing his arms around the throat of the Iroquois he drove his knife into the brave’s heart.
Without a sound the Iroquois slipped to the ground. Running Bear turned and fled back through the forest. They must leave the land quickly, for as soon as the dead brave was discovered a large party would be sent to look for the killers. So as soon as Running Bear had returned to his friends they made a hasty retreat from the vicinity of the village and, running at a steady pace, returned to their village to report the findings. Running Bear planned to gather a large force and the following evening they would attack the Iroquois village and seek to rescue Little Horse.
Meanwhile Little Horse sat in the wigwam of the Iroquois village awaiting the decision of the council and it was not long in coming. Soon a rather tall Iroquois brave entered and standing in the doorway he informed Little Horse that the council had agreed to spare his life if tomorrow he could prove himself worthy of the gift of life by running the gauntlet.
When the sun was directly overhead he would be placed at the head of two rows of Iroquois and at a given signal would run the gauntlet of war clubs prepared for him.
It would be ridiculous to say that Little Horse was not frightened, for at this particular time Little Horse was a very scared little brave. He had known nothing but comfort and warmth and friendliness since the day he was born, and the loving care and kindness of his family and friends had been his only contact with Indian life. Here in the village of a tribe which he had not thought to be hostile, he suddenly found himself a prisoner and about to be forced to run the gauntlet of war clubs.
He had heard a great deal about the gauntlet from his father who had witnessed the gauntlet and had told of his experience as one of the line of braves making up the gauntlet when they dealt with some of their prisoners.
Little Horse was afraid, and his fear kept him from resting his body for the coming ordeal. Then in the midst of this fear which gripped his heart, Little Horse remembered the words of his father.
“My son,” Running Bear had said to him one day, “if ever you should find yourself in trouble or in danger, remember that you are a Delaware and the Delawares are a strong and proud people. Rest as much as you can, force your body to relax so that you may be prepared for whatever ordeal you must face. You have been taught every skill possible except the skill of courage. This you must have in your heart and if courage abides in your heart as the beaver in the stream, then fear can be overcome and one can consider himself prepared for any hardship which may lie ahead.”
Remembering those words was great comfort to Little Horse and again and again he kept repeating them to himself. Soon the chill that seemed to be in his body left him and the cold fear that gripped his heart released its hold and he was calm once again. When his body relaxed and his mind was at ease, Little Horse slept.
No sense to worry over what tomorrow will bring, but remember the words of Running Bear. Twice more he repeated the words of his father to himself and with that he was asleep.
He had not been asleep long when the door of the wigwam was darkened by two of the braves who had aided in his capture that afternoon. As they viewed the boy asleep on the floor, the taller of the two spoke.
“He sleeps. Look how calm his face is. Notice the slight smile upon his lips. This is the sign of a growing warrior. Courage burns deep in his heart. For even now, knowing that tomorrow he may have to die, he sleeps the peaceful sleep of a baby. This lad can be no more than fifteen and yet he is tall and strong and he had a good face. For many moons we have been at peace with our brothers the Delawares and now war and bloodshed.” The other brave shook his head and, looking at the lad, he spoke.
“If you had not been present when he was captured, his hair would now be hanging from the wigwam of the vicious one. He has the blood of several Delawares upon his hands now and one more would only have added to his greatness even if it were only the scalp of a boy.
“Masi is a ruthless brave. Ever since he was beaten in battle by the brave Delaware, Running Bear, he has carried hatred in his heart for the Delawares. Their having sent hunting parties into the land of the Iroquois and taken game from our hunting grounds was all the excuse that was needed. And so our tribes are at war, and it will not cease until many are dead and there is much sadness in the wigwams of both tribes.” With these words, the warriors withdrew from the door.
Little Horse had heard all and pondered the words of the Iroquois. He had not known that any of their tribe had invaded the hunting grounds of the Iroquois unless it had been himself. This troubled him, but he pushed the thoughts from his mind and slept once again. Because of his training he slept soundly and as dawn broke through the greyness he awoke feeling quite hungry and thirsty.
The guards at his door looked in, and soon food and drink were brought to him. He ate hungrily and drank long of the cool water and when he had finished, his guards stepped forward and once again bound his wrists. However, they took him outside the wigwam and allowed him to walk up and down for a short while to give his muscles exercise. The morning passed quickly and soon it was time.
Little Horse felt the old fear once again returning to his breast and now there was nothing he could do to force it back. As the guards approached they noticed Little Horse looking upward as if to speak with someone and it was true, for Little Horse was calling upon the powers of nature to give him strength at this hour of trial.
His guards approached him and, grasping his arms, dragged him from the wigwam, for now fear had gripped the heart of Little Horse and he fought the hands of the Iroquois which held his arms in firm grip and he fought the tough thongs which bound his wrists. But twist and turn as he would, it did no good and soon he was standing before the elders of the tribe.
Across the center of the village he saw the gauntlet of tall powerful braves begin to form and his legs trembled slightly. The elders talked among themselves, and then one old man stepped forward and spoke to Little Horse.
“Your tribe has invaded the lands of the Iroquois in seeking wild game and in doing so they have broken the law of the tribes. If they had stayed on their own ground there would have been no need for war. But for the Iroquois to do nothing when their neighbor invades the sacred hunting ground would be as if we shouted through the forest that we were weak and afraid of the Delawares. You have been captured on our land and as an example to all Delawares you will be made to run the gauntlet. If you do so successfully your life will be spared, but if not the war clubs my braves now hold shall beat your body till it blends with the dirt of the forest floor and you are no more. Are you ready for the ordeal?”
Little Horse held his head high and looking straight into the eyes of the elder warrior, he said, “I know not of any of our braves that invaded your hunting grounds unless it was myself. In pursuit of the wild turkey, I ran quickly along the trail and was in the land of the Iroquois before I realized. I did not think that the great Iroquois would miss one little wild turkey.”
The old warrior looked stern and then he said, “It is not you but other braves of your tribe who have entered our grounds, but you and I are not here to argue, for I will not even discuss it, the law has been broken and war has been declared. Already the blood of one of our warriors had been spilled on the very edge of our camp.”
With this statement the heart of Little Horse beat just a little faster, for if one of the Iroquois had died close to the village then the Delawares must have followed and there was still hope that he would be rescued.
“I am ready for the gauntlet,” Little Horse said.
With that he was dragged to the head of the two lines. He looked down the two long rows of warriors standing like statues with war clubs raised, each one hoping that his blow would be the one that would deal death to this Delaware. Then the signal was given, and Little Horse took a deep breath and started running with top speed. As he ran he ducked from side to side and hesitated, forcing one blow to come down too soon or miss entirely. Halfway down the line he had not fared too badly, but as he came to the second half he was thrown a little off stride and could not duck so many of the blows. Several landed rather solidly upon his back and shoulders and arms and he began to feel weak, but with a last spurt of speed he reached the end of the line just as the club of Masi glanced off the side of his head. Instead of slumping to the ground between the two rows, Little Horse fell forward clear of the line and as Masi raised his club to strike again the elder stepped forward and raising his arms he said,
“Cease, Masi, for the boy is clear of the gauntlet. He has received quite a beating, but breath still stirs in his body. He is a brave lad and has earned the right to live.”
Little Horse was then carried to a wigwam where his bruises were cared for. Food and water were brought and he was made comfortable. The tall warrior that had prevented his death upon the trail entered the wigwam and spoke with Little Horse.
“O my brave young man, you have proved to be quite courageous this day, and the Iroquois admire the courage of even their enemies. You will rest now and when you are well we will talk.”
With that he left the wigwam, and sudden darkness came once again to Little Horse as he fell unconscious.
Meanwhile Running Bear had gathered quite a force of Delawares and was approaching the village from the south. Advance scouts who had been near the village of the Iroquois throughout the day reported the gauntlet and the exact location where they had placed the boy.
Running Bear swiftly gave his orders and the band advanced at a quicker pace, spreading out so that by the late afternoon a strong semicircle of Delaware braves surrounded the Iroquois stronghold.
At a given signal from Running Bear, the attack was on. The attack was such that the Iroquois were caught completely by surprise. Though the band of attacking Delawares was much smaller than the number of Iroquois in the village, they swooped into the village to surprise the guards surrounding the wigwam of Little Horse.
They rushed in and gathering the body of the still unconscious boy they rushed out again and into the forest, and were away before the Iroquois had gathered themselves together. By the time the Iroquois were ready to do battle, the Delawares had left, leaving the bodies of four Iroquois and two of their own attacking party dead upon the ground surrounding the wigwam where Little Horse had been held captive.
Once the rescue had been accomplished the attacking Delawares did not wait to join in battle with the now furious Iroquois but sped swiftly toward the south and the safety and security of their own village. They traveled at a very fast pace and though it was growing dark it was not long before they had placed many miles between themselves and the village of the Iroquois.
Onward through the night and into the next day they pressed until soon they could see the smoke of the Delaware village. They arrived in the middle of the village among the welcoming shouts of their friends and families who had awaited their return with growing anxiety.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Little Horse was placed in the warmth and seclusion of his father’s wigwam and when his hurts had been attended to, his father knelt by his side to add what comfort he could, and to add his praise to the courage of the boy. He promised that he, Running Bear, would not rest until he had paid back the Iroquois for the injuries they had inflicted upon his son.
“Now rest, my son,” Running Bear said, “and when you have rested and eaten we shall talk some more.” Running Bear turned to leave but Little Horse placed his hand upon his arm and bade him stay.
“Wait, my father, for there is something I must tell you. While at the village of our neighbors the Iroquois I learned why it was that they had declared war upon the Delawares. It was reported to them that the Delawares had invaded their hunting ground and made off with many kills. This being a breach of the peace between the tribes, they had no choice but to declare that war existed between their own tribe and that of the Delawares.”
“This is a serious matter, my son,” said Running Bear, “for we have had plenty of food on our own land and I see no reason for any of our braves going into the land of the Iroquois to hunt. But this matter is of grave importance and we must hold a council immediately, for the Iroquois are probably at this very moment preparing a great dance, since tomorrow they will no doubt move to attack our village.”
With that, Running Bear left his wigwam and calling the elder braves together, they immediately went into council. After telling the council all that his son had reported to him, Running Bear asked that the tribe be assembled and told of the situation that existed. The council agreed and very shortly the whole tribe was gathered in the center of the ring and one of the elders rose to speak.
“The Iroquois have declared war, and Little Horse tells us that the reason for this is that some of our braves have invaded their hunting grounds to kill the swift deer. If this is true we have done the Iroquois a grave injustice. The forest and fields of our land have yielded us much food this past year and I see no reason for having left our lands to hunt elsewhere. Who among you has caused the wrath of the Iroquois to be brought down upon our heads?”
One at a time the leaders of the families stepped forward to deny that they had left the sacred hunting grounds of the Delawares until all had spoken. When no one had accepted the guilt, Running Bear rose and spoke.
“If no one of our village has violated the sacred lands of the Iroquois, we have committed no crime. Of this I must speak further. For at this moment the Iroquois are probably on their way to our village to seek revenge for our attack last night. I will take with me two warriors and without weapons we shall go to speak of peace with our neighbors, the Iroquois.
“Already seven brave young men are dead, and my own son lies hurt and bleeding in my wigwam. In order to prevent the shed of further blood, I must go to meet the oncoming Iroquois with only talk of peace. Somewhere, somehow, an injustice has been done, and we must right this wrong before peace can once more prevail over our land.”
With that, Running Bear selected two stout warriors and leaving their weapons behind they proceeded at a steady pace back up the path toward the Iroquois country. They traveled swiftly and many hours later Running Bear suggested they stop and rest.
As the three warriors rested at the side of the trail, they were suddenly surrounded by many Iroquois braves. Their arms were tightly bound and menacing motions with tomahawk and knife were made. But the same warrior that had prevented the death of Little Horse stepped forward and, raising his arm for silence, he spoke to Running Bear.
“You appear to be the leader of this small party and I ask you why you come to the land of the Iroquois without arms when open war exists?”
Running Bear spoke loud and clear for the whole Iroquois war party to hear. “I, Running Bear, with my two fellow warriors come in peace to speak with the council of the great Iroquois. As you can see, we carry no arms and we rested in the open along the trail, hoping that we would find our Iroquois neighbors before they and the Delawares shed each other’s blood once again.”
The Iroquois brave said nothing, but having the wrists of the three Delawares bound they were herded along the trail back to the camp of the Iroquois.
As the party entered the camp they could hear much moaning and crying from the families of the Iroquois that had been slain and also they observed the menacing looks as the people of the village crowded around the party, pressing ever closer hoping for a reason to swing a club or a tomahawk or drive a knife deep into the head or hearts of these Delawares who so boldly approached the village without arms.
But the tall leader of the war party guided them safely to a wigwam where they were placed under heavy guard until the council lodge had been prepared for the great council.
When the elders and wise men of the tribe had gathered, the prisoners were led before them. Running Bear spoke briefly of their mission and then in a loud clear voice he said,
“The Delawares have sworn to their chiefs that none among our village have invaded the hunting grounds of the Iroquois and therefore there is no need for war between us.”
There was some hushed conversation and then one of the elders spoke to a guard at the door. “Summon the warrior known as Masi.” Masi was brought to the council and the elder who had summoned him spoke.
“Masi, it was you who reported to the council of the thievery of the Delaware and it was you who brought to our council the entrails of a deer to prove before the council your story of having seen the hunting party of Delawares invade our lands and kill much wild game. Now tell these warriors who come to us from the Delawares that you have seen this with your own eyes.”
Masi spoke and told of having seen a hunting party of some fifteen braves of the Delawares stalk, kill, and strip the carcasses of several deer and take several wild turkey and other wild game. When he had finished, the council looked first at Masi and then at Running Bear. The elder was about to speak once more when the tall warrior who had saved the life of Little Horse stepped forward and spoke to the council.
“I do not know why,” he said, “but my heart tells me the Delaware speaks truth. For many weeks now Masi has brooded over the death of his sister, and his mind has not been quite right since she died of the great sickness. We know that Masi has been a great warrior, but ask him once again to repeat what he saw. For when he first told his story the hunting party of Delawares were six in number. Suddenly they have increased to number fifteen.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Masi, “and there have been many, many more since that day. If we are not careful they will be in our village in one more sun and we shall all be murdered in our sleep.”
With that, Masi began to scream and he threw himself upon the ground, tearing at the ground and bemoaning the death of his young sister whom he had loved dearly. He was truly a grief-stricken brave gone mad.
The elder who seemed to be a leader in the council stepped forward then and placing his hands upon the shoulders of Running Bear, he said, “There has been a great wrong done here, and we must sit and smoke the peacepipe together. We ask forgiveness, for we have wronged each other greatly. Once again peace shall exist between the Iroquois and the Delawares and let us not allow anything to break that peace. Brothers we have been in the past, and brothers we will be again. Come sit with us and we shall smoke the pipe.”
With that, the peacepipe was passed from hand to hand and when all had smoked, food and drink were brought. Then there was much rejoicing as the village was told of the results of the council meeting. Loaded down with gifts, Running Bear and his two warriors returned to their village with the word of peace.
After telling of the good news, Running Bear went to his wigwam where he found Little Horse now able to sit up and partake of solid food. He seated himself next to his son and once again praised him for the courage he had showed and explained to him how important the information he had brought had been—how he, Running Bear, was able through talk with the council of Iroquois to bring about peace between the Delawares and the Iroquois.
Falling Water came galloping into the Dakota-Sioux camp on his brand-new pony. The pony had been a present from his uncle, Walking Bear, one of the leaders of the tribe. Proudly Falling Water rode it up and down through the camp so all the other young braves could see what a beautiful pony he had. When he felt that everyone had seen the pony he rode swiftly back to the tepee of his father and dismounting ran to show his father the fine gift.
One Horn, so named because he had lost an ear in a battle with a band of Shoshone braves a few years ago, stepped from the tepee and admired this fine gift.
“It is a strong pony and a young one, my son. Treat it well, for a horse can be your best friend.”
“Yes, father, I will take good care of the pony and I will ride him on the hunt. I am now a man and with my own weapons and my own horse, I can now go on the hunt.”
“Yes, my son. In fact tomorrow your uncle is leading a hunting party in search of the buffalo, for it is almost time for the big buffalo hunt. So see to your weapons and be sure you are ready for the great hunt.”
Falling Water rushed into the tepee and the rest of the day he spent working on his weapons in preparation for the hunt. He was sixteen now and considered a man but until now he had not been on any of the big hunts, for he had been sick the season of the hunt last year and now he was well and strong and prepared to ride with the best of them.
The following morning, Walking Bear gathered the warriors about him and made sure that all were prepared for the trip ahead.
“We will divide into three groups and go in different directions. When the sun has crossed the great sky twice we will meet where the Whispering River flows. There we will compare what each group has found, and the largest herd shall become our target. Let me warn you each and every one that though we are hunting buffalo, we must be ever aware that our enemies the Shoshones are all about us and we must be on guard that these jackals do not add our scalps to their belts. Calling Hawk, you will lead one party, Speaks Like Thunder, you will lead the second party, and I will lead the third. Good hunting, and may we all meet with our hair still upon our heads, come the end of the second day.”
So it was that Falling Water, in Calling Hawk’s party, was off on an adventure that was to earn him his first feathers for bravery.
Calling Hawk led his party to the west, for scouts had reported a fine herd of buffalo moving in that direction. The party moved steadily along keeping their eyes alert for signs of dust clouds that would signify a moving herd or horsemen. One or two braves were sent ahead to sweep wide of the main party to see what they could possibly find. From time to time these scouts would ride back to the main party and two more would take their place.
The first day ended with no sight of buffalo or of marauding Shoshones, and the group made camp in a small clump of trees.
The following morning after a breakfast of pemmican they were on their way once again.
It was late in the morning when a scout riding hard brought his pony to a halt in front of Calling Hawk. He reported that he had spotted a herd of buffalo about a quarter of a mile ahead of the group. And so the party quickened its pace and soon came to the top of a rise. There below it on the prairie was a fine large herd of buffalo. They were not moving and therefore no dust cloud had been seen.
Calling Hawk asked two of the braves to remain and keep watch on the herd while the others continued to the Whispering River which was but a short distance ahead, there to join with Walking Bear and make their report.
Unknown to Calling Hawk and his party, the herd had also been seen by a hunting party of Shoshones, slightly larger than the Dakota-Sioux party, and also at the same time they had seen the party of Calling Hawk. As the Sioux moved toward the river, the Shoshones moved parallel awaiting the best place to attack.
And now it was Falling Water’s turn to ride scout and he moved out from the party. He rode hard to get a long lead on the party and then began to move steadily to the side of the group and ever toward the river. Soon he felt it was time to return to the group.
It was getting late in the afternoon, and as he turned to return he saw to the north a small cloud of dust. Urging his horse to the top of a near-by rise he slid from his back and, crawling to the very edge, peered over into the valley below. There he saw a sight which made his blood run hot.
A band of perhaps twenty Shoshones were riding hard toward the unsuspecting Sioux party which was about twelve in number. Quickly mounting his horse, Falling Water rode like the wind back toward his brothers. Finally coming over a slight hill he saw the party moving slowly forward. Then he began to shout his warning of Shoshones and Calling Hawk called his party to a halt.
Falling Water galloped up and reported what he had seen. Quickly the Sioux formed a line and drawing their weapons they moved forward to meet the Shoshones.
Soon the Sioux saw the oncoming enemy and urged their horses to even greater speed.
The two groups clashed, and there was a mixture of rearing horses and screaming men. Knives flashed and arrows swished through the air, some flying harmlessly or some thudding into flesh.
Falling Water, right in the middle, rode toward a large Shoshone buck. As he did, a knife thrust slashed his arm and he dropped his weapons, but now he was too close to the Shoshone to stop the forward move of his horse. Ducking under the slashing knife of the Shoshone warrior, he placed his hand upon the brave’s shoulder and pushed. The brave was thrown off balance and almost lost his seat and, while he was trying to regain his seat, Falling Water dashed to the outer circle.
Soon the fight was over and twelve Shoshones and three Sioux lay dead upon the ground while a badly beaten group of Shoshones beat a hasty retreat into the distance. The felled warriors were placed across their horses’ backs, and the group continued to their meeting place.
When Calling Hawk reported to Walking Bear their fight with the Shoshone, Walking Bear ordered a return to the village.
When the party entered the village the people were immediately aware of what had happened because of the bodies and the Shoshone scalps hanging from the belts of several warriors.
That evening a council was held, and Falling Water rose to report to the council of his great deed of courage. He had rushed in and touched an enemy while still alive. When he had finished, Walking Bear said,
“Are there any here that were witnesses to this event?”
Calling Hawk stepped forward and in very descriptive words retold the event. The others told their stories of bravery and then Falling Water was called before the chief, his uncle.
“I am very proud of you, my brother’s son. You have proven yourself a great warrior this day and for that you shall be privileged to wear two eagle feathers.”
There were many shouts of praise and approval, and Falling Water felt a warm glow as his father placed his hands across his shoulders and said, “I am proud of you, my son.”
Today Falling Water had earned his first feathers.
In the high range of mountains lived the great and powerful Apaches. For many, many years the war between the Long Knives and the Apaches had been waging back and forth.
The Long Knives, as the white men’s cavalry were known in those days, had at last worked out a treaty with the Apaches and all was peaceful for the time being. With the coming of peace to the Apaches, the return of normal family life was slowly but surely noticed by the younger of the warriors.
There was more time now to teach the young braves their lessons, and the women were happier than they had been. For the past few years all the talk had been of war and killing, but now conversation turned to other topics. Of course there were a few young bucks who still chanted for war, but the wiser chiefs desired to stay at peace for as long as was possible.
One evening some of the older chiefs were seated around the fire smoking and talking to pass the evening hours away when their attention was called to Chief Running Dog, one of the older chiefs of the tribe, who had been sitting quietly in the circle not saying much but gazing off into the night as if he were looking for something.
Twisted Wolf spoke. “What do you look for, friend Running Dog? Do you see something in the distance with those old eyes that the rest of us should be looking for?”
“No, Twisted Wolf, I do not look for anything in the present, but rather I am looking far into the past, to a time when I was just a small boy and there had been peace and happiness in our tribe for many years.”
“Why should you think about the past now, old one? Is there something particular that you are trying to recall?”
Running Dog laughed, “Oh, I do not have to think too hard to recall what I want to think about. Something happened when I was a young boy that I shall long remember. Some of you should remember this one adventure too, for some of you were just about my age at the time.”
“Tell us,” they cried, “tell us what adventure you recall as a boy.”
“Well,” said Chief Running Dog, “the story I remember is one which my father liked to call the Race of Death. But I do not want to bore you with tales of my childhood. They are only memories of an old man who lives in a world of dreams.”
“Now, Running Dog, do you want us to coax you? I have never known you to need prompting to tell a story. Why do you need coaxing at this time?”
“Well, it is not a funny story and to me at the time it was not a very nice experience to go through. Just recalling it brings back some of the fears which filled my heart at the time. But, if it is your desire, then I shall tell you the story. Fill your pipes and settle back, because it is quite a long story and we will be here at the fire for some time until I have finished. But remember that I warned you. If you get bored, it is your own fault, for you have asked for this story.”
“Do not ramble, Running Dog. Get on with the story.”
So it was that Running Dog, old Apache warrior, told his story that evening on the plateau of Apache country around a blazing council fire with his friends there to relive the experience of his childhood once again.
“It was many years ago,” Running Dog began. “The Apache village in which I lived had a very long and difficult time of sickness. Many of our number had died of the great coughing sickness which the Long Knives call pneumonia, but it seemed that at last the sickness was leaving us and our people were returning to a time of good health and prosperity. There was much mourning for loved ones, but our family had been very lucky. My father and mother had both survived the epidemic and I, their only son, had been well all through the siege of sickness.
“The sick continued to get well and little by little the tribe returned to its normal activity. Once again the contests and games took place and there was much joy at the ceremonial dances and feasts.
“It was just after one of these feasts that my friend White Cloud and I decided to take a hunting trip into the far hills. We sought the permission of our fathers, and packing some food and blankets we placed these upon a pack horse and started off for the distant high mountains.
“What exactly we were going to hunt we did not know, but we were so excited about the prospect of living by ourselves for a few days that the problem of what to hunt did not seem to bother us too much at the time.
“One thing my father had cautioned me about. ‘My son, Running Dog,’ he said, ‘on your trip be aware of any strangers. Not too far to the north is the land of the Kiowas and they have been seen recently in this area. Just a few scattered here and there, but you and your friend White Cloud are riding two very fine ponies; and the Kiowas, I am sure, would like nothing better than to return to their village in the possession of three more very fine Apache horses, for their very life is one of horse stealing. The pack horse you take is just as strong and fast as the other two, so be careful and do not get careless on your trip. You are old enough now to realize the dangers an Apache faces in this country.
“‘Besides the wandering Kiowas you had best be alert to the cats that roam the rock ledges. Keep your bow and arrow handy and make sure your hand is steady, for you will get but one chance to stop the wild leap of a mountain lion if he chooses to spring. Now I must bid you good-bye. I have asked the gods to protect you and your friend White Cloud. May they guide you safely to a successful hunt and a safe return to your homes and your families. I will ride part way and see you on your way. Come, I will get my horse.’”
So the two boys, along with Running Dog’s father, rode to the edge of the camp and a little way farther on, where Running Dog’s father bade them a fond good-bye once again and turned to return to the village.
The two boys waved until they were out of sight and then concentrated on the long trip they felt they must make before they would enter good hunting territory. As they rode they kept careful watch along the trail for signs of anyone having recently been there.
Occasionally they saw signs where Indian ponies had been but these were all many days old. They found evidence too of wild game, but at no time did they catch sight of anything more than a rabbit or two.
After traveling most of the day and stopping only for lunch the two boys decided to halt and make camp for the night. They found a beautiful spot near a water hole and after staking their horses out they unrolled their blankets and prepared the evening meal. In the darkness they could hear the coyote baying at the moon and Running Dog remarked how sad and plaintive was the call of the coyote. White Cloud agreed, “Yes, Running Dog, it is quite a sad sound, but after all the coyote is a very lonely animal. You too would not feel much like laughing if you had to spend all of your life alone without friends.”
The two boys laughed and then wrapping themselves in their blankets were soon fast asleep.
The following morning the boys rose and after eating breakfast, packed their equipment once again and were soon on the trail, traveling ever northward. Soon they had entered land that was not at all familiar to them, but they began to notice plentiful signs of game and so they kept eagerly onward.
“Look,” cried Running Dog, “pony tracks, and they are fresh. Not too long ago Indian ponies passed this way. In fact I would say they are not more than a day old. See, it has been damp here and the impression of the ponies’ hoofs has not had time to harden through. I wonder though, White Cloud, why our brothers would be this far north?”
White Cloud thought for a moment and then he said, “But, Running Dog, you do not think that we are the only ones off on a hunting party. These are probably the tracks of some of our men who are also seeking game and have come this far north in search of it.”
“That may be true, White Cloud; on the other hand, these may be the hoof prints of Kiowa ponies and if so then we are much further north than I figured and are now in Kiowa territory. That is not a healthy place to be.”
“What should we do, Running Dog?”
“I do not know. For if we are in the land of the Kiowas we should turn and return to our own land; but if we are not and these are the tracks of friendly Apaches we would be silly to turn back, for only now have the signs of game become plentiful. The problem is whether we should stay and take our chances or return empty-handed with our tails between our legs.”
“You are older, Running Dog, you make the decision.”
“All right then, we shall stay and take our chances. I have seen many signs of deer and we shall find ourselves a large buck to kill before we return to our village. But come, it is getting late. Let us find a good place to camp.”
The two young braves traveled a little farther on, and then when they both agreed that an ideal place was not to be located, they settled for a small clump of trees nestled in a gully. There was water not too far distant, and about two hundred yards from where they camped, there was a large mass of rock ledges that rose up from the ground, eventually growing into a cliff. In among these boulders and rock ledges they were able to find a source of water, and so they decided to make this their base of operations.
To the west of where they camped they had seen a small woodland and swamp area which they figured would make a good hunting place for wild game. The boys went about setting up their camping ground and when they had completed the task at hand they settled down to going over their hunting equipment.
The two boys having checked their bows and arrows went off to attempt to find some fresh meat for supper. White Cloud headed for the woodlands to the west and Running Dog started for the rock formation to the north. After about two hours of hunting and searching, Running Dog returned to the campsite empty-handed, but soon he saw his friend White Cloud riding like the wind toward the camp.
Slung over his horse’s neck was an object that flopped loosely back and forth as he rose. Soon he was in the camp and swinging down from his pony’s back he placed a plump young rabbit on the ground in front of Running Dog and smiled, saying, “Here, little friend, is our dinner for tonight.”
Soon the fire was blazing, and the two boys settled down to a delicious meal of roast rabbit. When they had finished their dinner they rolled up in their blankets and were soon asleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, for they were determined to track down some large game and make their kill, for their supplies were running low and they must start the return trip to the village the following afternoon.
The night passed without incident and when the dawn broke it was raining slightly. The two boys looked at the heavens frowning, but in about a half hour the sky had cleared and the sun shone through again.
The boys started off for the woodland and their big game hunt. They had not gone very far when Running Dog glanced up toward the high rock formations. He did not know what caused him to look in that direction, but suddenly he stopped and called to White Cloud who had been riding a little ahead, anxious to reach the woods.
“Wait, White Cloud. Look, look to the north, beyond that formation of rocks.”
White Cloud turned and gazed in the direction Running Dog pointed. There rising above the rock formation were puffs of smoke. “Maybe it is the campfire of another hunting party, Running Dog?”
“No,” said Running Dog, “that is not campfire, those are Kiowa smoke signals. I will try to make them out.”
“Are you sure they are Kiowa smoke signals, Running Do?”
“Oh yes, White Cloud, many moons ago my father taught me of the Kiowa smoke signals. Though all tribes use this method the Kiowas have a definite series of signals before their message. Look, White Cloud. See that series of short puffs of smoke? That is peculiar only to the Kiowas. Let me see if I can make out what they are sending.”
The two boys sat astride their ponies watching the signals of smoke rise in the distance. Running Dog studied the signals as diligently as he could and seeking back into his memory for everything his father had taught him about smoke signals.
Then he turned to White Cloud, “Come, my friend, we must hurry. Those signals are to a band of Kiowas to the south that we are here in their hunting grounds and therefore have broken the law of the Kiowa and must die. They are calling to this band to bring our scalps on their war lances triumphantly to the village. We must hurry, White Cloud. There is no telling how long that message has been playing in the sky. We did not notice it until now but that does not mean that it has not been sent before just now. We must ride to camp and take our other horse and start for home.”
The two boys wheeled their ponies about and sped back for the camp. They entered the camp and quickly gathering their possessions together they put them aboard the pack horse and climbing upon their own ponies they started swiftly southward. They rode steadily for about an hour, and then Running Dog pulled up his pony.
“Wait, White Cloud, we are doing just what they wish us to do. We are running and we have a long hard trip to make. Besides, that signal was evidently for a band to the south of our camp. If we are not careful we shall find that we have ridden right into a trap. Let us plan our trip more carefully. First we must stay away from the main trails. We must take to the foothills and work our way south that way. It will take us longer, but there will be less chance of being ambushed, I believe, if we stay away from the well-used main trails. The Kiowas are a very tricky people and we would be in a trap before we knew it. They will be sure to be covering the water holes for they know we must have water. As far as I know there are but three between here and our village. How much water do you have in your pouch?”
“My pouch is about empty, Running Dog, but surely we will find water elsewhere than at the three water holes.”
“There is a good chance that we will, but I do not want to count on it. After all, our hunters are the ones that are familiar with this land. We are strangers here and not acquainted with the good and bad points. Come, our horses have rested. We will leave the main trail now and continue cross country. It is going to be a hard journey, White Cloud, but we are racing death.”
With that the two boys steered their ponies from the main trail and began to travel in a southeasterly direction. Here there was no clear trail, and they had only the uncanny sense of a homing pigeon to guide them. They pushed their ponies easily for the first couple of hours, but finally the steady pace began to tell and they had to come to a stop.
They had entered a green valley and as they rode they noticed an abundance of game. “Too bad that we are in a race,” remarked White Cloud, “for here is a paradise of game.” Running Dog said nothing, and the two boys brought their ponies to a stop. They stepped from their ponies and rested, allowing the horses to crop grass.
As they lay there, White Cloud glanced back in the direction from which they had come. Again he could see the ominous puffs of smoke rising from behind the small hills that separated them from the main band of Kiowas.
After resting a short while and allowing their ponies to blow, they mounted again and continued their gallop toward their village and security. Night was approaching now and the boys were glad for they knew that they could travel much more swiftly at night because it would be cooler. Besides, they knew that the Kiowas would not attack unless they were sure they could kill both the boys.
They rode more swiftly now, and suddenly Running Dog’s pony whinnied aloud and swerved to one side. Running Dog tried to pull him back but the pony galloped off in a slightly different direction from the one in which they had been traveling. Then Running Dog understood why, for suddenly he heard the hoofs of his horse splashing. The horse had found water. What a break! The boys threw themselves from their horses and lay flat in the water. Suddenly Running Dog lifted himself from the water and grasping White Cloud’s arm he said:
“We are foolish. Suppose they are watching this water hole. We sit here like two fat frogs waiting for the hook. Come quickly, we must leave this place.” The two boys mounted once again and rode on. Suddenly the pack horse stumbled and fell. The boys stopped their ponies and returned to the side of the pack horse. “He will be all right,” said White Cloud, “he is just winded.”
“We must leave him,” said Running Dog. “We cannot wait for him to regain his breath and his strength. We must ride.”
Now the two boys could travel a little faster without the pack horse to slow them down, although they hated the thought of leaving a pony for the blood-thirsty Kiowas. Finally they brought their ponies to a halt and dismounted.
“We must rest several hours or our ponies will die underneath us. Try to sleep, White Cloud. I will stand guard. I will wake you in a short time and then I will sleep. Do not worry, I am tired, but my eyes and ears are sharp.”
White Cloud was exhausted and in a matter of seconds he was asleep. Running Dog kept careful watch and a short time later he wakened White Cloud. Then Running Dog slept and shortly just as dawn was breaking White Cloud shook his friend and the two thrust some dried venison into their mouths to chew and each one taking a long drink of water they mounted and were soon on their way once again.
They had been riding for about an hour when Running Dog glanced back in the direction they had just come and there on a hillside a few miles back he saw a small band of Kiowas. They were evidently looking for something or someone.
It was not a puzzle to Running Dog long, for he saw the band of Kiowas break from the hillside in their direction. “They have seen us, White Cloud! Ride as you have never ridden before. We are near to our land, but it is still a hard ride and the worst is yet to come. I cannot be sure if that is a band that is pursuing us or whether it is the band from the south. In any case, we must keep going. Ride, White Cloud, ride for your life.”
The two ponies thundered on. Soon they had entered a series of hills. The second day was fast drawing to a close. Then it happened.
White Cloud’s pony caught his foot in a gopher hole, and down went pony and rider.
Running Dog pulled his pony to a halt and rode back to where his friend had fallen. Both boy and pony were down. The pony had evidently a broken leg and White Cloud had hit his head upon a stone and was unconscious. Running Dog took his knife and put the horse out of his misery and then he dragged his friend to the shelter of a rock and poured some water on his face. Soon White Cloud shook his head.
“What happened?”
“Your horse stumbled. I have had to use my knife on him, his leg was broken. But how do you feel?”
“Oh, I am a little dizzy and very tired. But go, Running Dog, you must ride to the village for help.”
“Yes, White Cloud, I must do that, but I am lost. I do not know where we are and the sky is black tonight. We must stay here until dawn. My pony is all done in anyway. He would not get very far tonight. We will rest. I will stand guard first.”
With that, Running Dog moved off to a small crevice of rock and settled down to keep watch. But the grind had been too much even for him, and before too long his head hung low upon his chest and both boys slept.
Suddenly Running Dog woke with a start, hands of steel were holding his arms and legs, pinning him where he sat. He struggled and then he heard a familiar voice, “Why do you struggle so hard, my son?”
“Father, it is you. Oh father, I am so glad to see you. But tell me, how did you find us?”
“Well,” said Running Dog’s father, “we too have eyes and saw the Kiowa signals while off gathering some horses that had strayed. We rode to meet the invader, for we knew that they would have come far into Apache territory to catch those that they pursued. So we rode to attack the band. We were able to defeat them and send them running for their homes, but before that we were able to learn from one of their dying braves that you, their quarry, had ridden in this direction.
“I am sorry we were holding you when you awoke but you are mighty fast with the knife and I did not want to take the chance of being killed by my own son.”
They laughed and then the party returned without further incident to the safety of their village.
* * * * * * * *
“Here my story ends,” said Running Dog, “but I shall long remember the events of that Race with Death.”
In the Algonquin tribe, Masequah had grown to manhood through the many winters and summers that his tribe lived in peace. He was a very tall, strong and good-looking Indian brave. He was bravest of all in battle, a good hunter, and a good husband to his wife, Senan, and their son, Pyan. Masequah was very proud of his son. As the baby grew, his mother no longer had to carry him upon her back. Soon Masequah was able to walk hand in hand with Pyan through the forest.
As his son grew older, Masequah began to train him for manhood. One day Masequah and Pyan stepped into a canoe and paddled across the wide lake to look for berries and nuts. Pyan was now seven years of age, and his training had begun in earnest. While they were on the other shore, a great storm arose, and the wind brought huge angry waves to the lake. Masequah feared that their light canoe would be broken by the waves. He told Pyan that it would be much safer to stay where they were until morning.
They found a small cove that would give them some shelter. Then they started hunting for food, while the rain beat down on them. Pyan spotted two rabbits, and his father shot both of them. Then they went back to the cove, found dry wood, and built a fire to cook the rabbits. Masequah and Pyan settled themselves as comfortably as they could for the long night.
The winds began to blow even harder and the rain began to fall more heavily. Pyan snuggled closer to his father’s side to keep warm. As the warrior looked at his son, he saw fear in his son’s eyes. Masequah had taught his son that Indians were never afraid, but suddenly he realized that lessons were not enough. Even an Indian needed to understand the thing he feared in order to drive fear away.
“Don’t be afraid, Pyan,” he said kindly. “The rain that falls around us brings strength to food we have planted and to the trees in the forest. At the worst, it can only wet us. We are too wise to battle the wind on the lake. The bright bolts of lightning could not strike us here easily in this cove, and the thunder is only a loud noise like a war drum. There is nothing to fear.”
As Masequah watched his son’s face in the flickering light of the fire, he knew that his words had been of little comfort. “I want to go home,” said Pyan, “I want my mother and the warmth of my bed. I am afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, Pyan,” Masequah said, “your father is with you.”
“Can you stop the lightning?” asked Pyan. “Can you stop the rain? That will stop my fear. The wind that is blowing so strong frightens me.”
Masequah picked up his son and carried him to the shelter of a cave and after placing his son in the cave he said, “Wait, I shall return. I must get an answer to your questions.” Masequah walked to the edge of the lake and, facing straight into the wind, shouted, “O great storm, tell me what answers I should give my son! He is afraid and I have told him not to be afraid. The wind, the lightning, and the rain frighten him and he wants to return to his home. To try to paddle our light canoe across the rough waters of the lake could mean death for my son and me. I am not afraid to die, but my son is young and his whole life lies before him. Tell me what I can do to stop his fear. He has asked me to stop the rain and the wind. This I cannot do, but you, great storm, hear a father’s plea and blow away from our land!”
Masequah shivered, for the storm seemed to be getting worse. He turned from the lake and walked back to the cave. Taking his son’s hand, he said, “Pyan, come, follow your father. We are going home.”
“But, father,” said Pyan, “the winds and the rain and the lightning have not stopped. The water is rough and our canoe is light. We will be drowned.”
Pyan held back as his father took his hand. His father spoke kindly and firmly: “Come, Pyan, do not be afraid. Your father will protect you.”
As they reached the shore Pyan began to tremble and felt heartsick because he was cowardly while his father was so brave. Pyan stepped into the canoe and his father followed. Masequah pointed to the sky.
“Look, Pyan, the sky is beginning to brighten. Now the storm will halt long enough for us to reach the safety of our village.”
There was a blinding flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder. The rain stopped suddenly, the winds died down, and the waves on the lake became calm. Masequah pushed the canoe from the shore and paddled swiftly across the lake.
When they reached home, Pyan told his mother excitedly how the storm had stopped when his father ordered it to halt. Pyan’s mother turned slowly to Masequah.
“My husband,” she said with wonder in her voice, “until just now as you and Pyan arrived, the storm hasn’t paused once tonight.”
For many years until Masequah’s death, the members of his tribe looked upon Masequah as a brave gifted with mysterious powers. They would tell of a hunting party that had reached the lake at the same time that Masequah and Pyan had started for home; the hunters had been whipped by the raging storm while they stood on a hill top overlooking the lake; suddenly they had seen the storm stop and the lake below them grow calm; and then they had watched a small canoe, with a man and a boy in it, glide swiftly across the peaceful waters. To them it was a miracle, but Masequah knew better.
Masequah would always deny that he had any mysterious powers. Over and over again, he would remind his friends that no storm covers all the earth, and that every storm has its edges just as the lake does, or like the shadow of a fleecy cloud on a sunny day.
No matter how often he told them that the edge of the storm had moved away from the lake, most of his friends still insisted that it was a miracle. Even Pyan, who believed that his father was wise and truthful, sometimes wondered.
This story was told to the author by Barney Mason, a Canadian Scout, who had learned it from living descendants of the Algonquin Tribe.
The Montagnais village of the great Northern forest was large with many fine wigwams. The village had been built in a meadow near a great lake, and the smell of woodfires was always in the air, as the smoke curled skyward from each wigwam. It was a busy time of year for the Montagnais because winter would soon be upon them. Families were repairing their homes and making new clothing for the winter months.
It was on one of these busy days that Bald Eagle informed his family that he believed they should build a new wigwam. So the work was organized. First Bald Eagle selected a good place to build it. Then he scratched lines on the ground to show where the frame would be set. Having cut saplings and put them in place, bending the ends to make arches for the roof, he bound them together with withes made from a peeled basswood sapling about three fingers thick that bent very easily. The making of these withes had fallen to Sleeping Bear, Bald Eagle’s son. It is about this job that our story is concerned.
When Sleeping Bear was asked to make the withes, he was proud. This was the first time his father had ever asked him to do such an important job. Dashing off into the forest, he came upon a young basswood sapling about three fingers thick. Taking his knife from its beaded sheath, he proceeded to cut the sapling. The flint blade of his knife did a very neat job and he soon had the young sapling down and trimmed.
Then Sleeping Bear set to work to strip the bark from the sapling. When he had all the bark peeled away, he dashed home to show his father what good work he had done.
Bald Eagle smiled. “That is fine, my son, but now we must have the withes to tie the ends of the frame together.”
Sleeping Bear squatted upon the ground and began to cut thin strips from the basswood. He worked very carefully until he had cut a very, very thin strip from the sapling. Then he cut another and another, until he had a good supply. Picking them all up, he walked to where his father was working and proudly he said:
“Here, father, are the strips you can use for withes.”
Without looking up, Bald Eagle said, “That is fine, my son. How many have you cut for me?”
“I have cut about thirty,” said Sleeping Bear.
Bald Eagle looked up. Reaching toward his son’s outstretched hands, he grasped the basswood strips.
“These will make very fine fishing lines, my son, but they are much too thin for withes. You must make them thicker, so that they will hold the frame in the position we want.” Handing the strips back to Sleeping Bear, Bald Eagle smiled and continued to work upon the frame of the wigwam.
Sadly, Sleeping Bear turned and headed back into the forest to find more basswood saplings. As he walked along, he was not thinking about the basswood, but about how foolish he had felt when his father told him that the strips he had cut were too thin. He kicked at the pebbles and was very angry with himself. He did not realize that he had walked quite a distance from the village, until suddenly it got very dark.
Looking up, Sleeping Bear realized that he was close to the swamp area and that he must have come quite a distance. Slowly, he turned and started back along the trail looking to either side for basswood saplings. Finally, he saw two or three set back in the forest a short way. Leaving the trail, he reached the saplings and started to cut them down and trim them. He had out two when there was a low growl behind him. Turning, he saw a bear standing on his hind feet and testing the air for scent with his snout.
Sleeping Bear was suddenly very frightened. Crouching low to the ground, he began to edge his way toward the path again. Soon he reached the path. Then he began to run until he was safe in the camp once again. Dashing up to his father he stood a minute catching his breath, and then he blurted out the story of the bear.
Bald Eagle put his arm around his son’s shoulders and said:
“You see how much trouble can be brought on by one foolish mistake? If you had watched your father carefully, you would have known how to make a withe the right thickness. Because you were angry, you did not look for basswood saplings close to home, but wandered deep into the forest and almost became the dinner of brother bear. Rushing to escape the bear, you left your basswood saplings behind. So the task of making withes begins all over again. Be careful, my son, that when you do something, you do it right, or if you make a mistake, you do not waste time brooding over it. Better to accept it and go forth to do the job better.”
And so Sleeping Bear learned a great lesson that day.
A small Cherokee lad by the name of White Eagle lived with his father and mother on the shores of a large lake in the Appalachian Mountains. He was a lad of about eleven years. His father, Great Eagle, was known in the tribe as one of the bravest of warriors. In this Cherokee tribe there was much talk of war with other tribes, and the tribe’s highest honors and respect always went to the bravest and most daring warrior.
Not many suns away lived another woodlands tribe, the Eries. This story concerns a young captive from this Erie tribe and White Eagle, the Cherokee boy.
Very rarely did any tribe go so far afield in its hunting, but this one winter food was very scarce for the Cherokees and they traveled quite a distance north in search of additional game. They moved into the hunting grounds of the Iroquois, quickly made their kills, and started for home. On their way, they came upon an Erie boy whom Great Eagle decided to bring home to his tepee as a brother to his son.
The Cherokee tribe lived in a sentry-patrolled, fortified village. When Little Frog, as the Erie lad was called, first saw the village, he was frightened. He realized that he was near the entire tribe of fearful Cherokees whose wars his father had often recounted to him. Great Eagle sensed the boy’s fear and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. Great Eagle took him to his home and introduced him to White Eagle. White Eagle was pleased to have a boy of his own age to play with in his own wigwam. That night there was much dancing and merry-making to celebrate the successful hunting raid into the Iroquois lands.
The following morning Great Eagle roused the boys to tell them that today they would go in search of small game to improve their shooting ability. Each boy was given a small amount of food, and they started off for the forest with Great Eagle. Little Frog began to look upon Great Eagle as his father and felt happy. His own father had been killed in an early tribal raid.
As they padded through the forest, they could hear the cry of wild birds and every now and then the snapping of a twig. Great Eagle signaled with his hand for the two youngsters to wait. Then he moved off to the side to investigate the noise; but once again he returned to the trail, indicating that the game they were after was not to be seen.
When the sun had risen high in the heavens, Great Eagle decided they would sit and rest and eat some food. As they were eating, Little Frog asked White Eagle, “Do you often travel with your father?” White Eagle replied, “Right now I am being trained by my father to become a great warrior.”
The Erie boy was very much impressed with this and thought of himself how wonderful it would be if he had a father. White Eagle then asked Little Frog, “Do you miss your village and your people?” “No,” Little Frog replied, “because in my village I was not wanted by anyone. My father had been killed in battle. My mother died of a great sickness and I was cast out of my father’s wigwam by a new brave. I was made to work for myself to get food and to live as best I could.” White Eagle realized then how lucky he was to have such a fine warrior father as Great Eagle.
After drinking some water to wash down the dried deer meat, Great Eagle arose and the boys stood up quickly, and they started forward. The brave signaled the boys to follow him more softly now. Little Eagle noticed that they were approaching a stream where beaver had built their dams and homes. As they approached the stream, Great Eagle pointed to the brush where the boys should wait while he looked about for the beaver. Not having seen any, Great Eagle returned to where the boys were hidden and told them they would start back to the village and search for wild turkeys and rabbits. White Eagle felt a slight disappointment at not having been able to try out his new arrows on the beaver, but he trusted the wisdom of his father. So he and Little Frog returned along the trail with Great Eagle.
When they had almost reached the edge of the forest, Great Eagle stopped and pointed into the brush at the side of the trail. There, crouching in hiding, was a small cotton-tail rabbit. Quickly, White Eagle raised his bow and let fly an arrow. The rabbit took one leap and fell dead. White Eagle was so excited that he danced up and down, shouting at the top of his lungs that he had made his kill. Great Eagle quieted his son and then looked slowly in Little Frog’s direction. Approaching the rabbit, Great Eagle noticed that two arrows had struck it. He knew that Little Frog must have shot his arrow at the same time as White Eagle. White Eagle and Little Frog began to argue about whose arrow had really killed the rabbit. Naturally, each claimed that his arrow had made the kill.
Great Eagle was at a loss as to just what to do. He was always fair in his decisions and did not want to favor one boy over the other, especially because it involved his son. So Great Eagle said, “Let us agree; say that each of your arrows shared in killing the rabbit, for I can see that you are both like stubborn elm trees—and you are both better with your bows than I had thought.”
With that, Great Eagle picked up the rabbit and put it in his pouch and the three of them started for home. Both boys seemed quite happy now that Great Eagle had made the decision. However, that night Little Frog leaned over in his bed and tapped White Eagle’s shoulder. “White Eagle,” he said, “what does your father mean when he says we are like the stubborn elm?” “Tomorrow morning,” said White Eagle, “I will show you what my father meant.” With that the boys went to sleep.
The following morning when they arose, Little Frog was impatient to learn why Great Eagle had called them stubborn like the elm, and he quickly reminded White Eagle of his promise of the night before. Hand in hand, they started for the great forest. As they went along, White Eagle kept breaking branches of the different trees along the way. Little Frog was imitating White Eagle as they walked until they came upon a small young elm tree. White Eagle did his best to break the elm tree, but all it did was bend. Then Little Frog tried to help him break the tree; but despite their weight and strength, it still only bent.
Just then they heard a voice behind them and Great Eagle stepped up and placed his hands on the shoulders of both boys.
“Now,” he said, “you have found the reason why I called you stubborn as the elm. Many, many of the trees of the forest can be broken and forced to the earth. But the elm tree will bend and not break unless the strength of several braves is put upon it. So it is with two proud young Indian boys who both believe they are right, putting their equal strength against each other in an argument. Neither gives way, just as the elm will not give away. If I attempted to add my strength on either side of the argument, the other might have bent to the earth like the elm if we all put our weight upon it. So remember this tree. As long as you believe honestly that you are right, you can be strong and straight like the elm tree; but once you leave the path of truth and wisdom you become weak and brittle, and your enemy can bow you to the ground in shame and defeat.”
This story was told to the author by James Ariga, a boy of part Cherokee blood, at the Ten Mile River Scout Reservation in the year 1947.
Winter had come to the many Indian villages in the northeastern woodlands, and with it, the snow, the wind, and the cold. The winter was so severe that even the strongest braves hesitated to wander far from their villages, knowing that death could overtake an adventurous brave if a sudden blizzard should catch him far from familiar ground.
This story is about two such adventurous young Oneida Indians that winter. Naltan and Ceysoda were outstanding young boys of their tribe. Time and time again before winter set in, they had taken part in the games and contests of the tribe, and one or the other had won each time. This had continued until the other young boys in the village decided that Naltan and Ceysoda were just too good for them, and that something must be done to prevent their running away with all the prizes.
So one fall day, when they were sure that Ceysoda and Naltan were not around, all the youngsters gathered to discuss a plan. On the following day, there were to be foot races in the village. The group plotted that at the start of the foot race, two of the faster young braves would trip Naltan and Ceysoda so that they would fall and thus be put out of the race. The boys who had tripped them would be scored out of the race, too, but at least they would have the satisfaction of knowing that someone besides Naltan and Ceysoda would win the foot race for a change.
Just at that moment they saw Naltan coming around one of the wigwams, and they all started walking away in different directions. Naltan walked up to one of the leaders of the group and asked:
“What have I missed, friend Beartooth? Ceysoda and I have been busy repairing and sharpening our hunting weapons. We did not know that there was to be a meeting of all the boys of the village.”
Beartooth was quick to recover from his surprise and then in a very calm voice said:
“Oh, Naltan, that was no meeting of all the boys. It was merely a few of us talking about the foot races tomorrow and the weather. It has been very cold, and soon winter will be here with her snow and winds and bitter cold. Tomorrow we are going to have the foot races. So we were talking about who we thought would be victorious.”
“Do you think there are any among you who can defeat Ceysoda and me in the foot race, Beartooth? If you do, you had better forget about it,” Naltan boasted. “Ceysoda and I will win the race tomorrow, as we always do.”
“We shall see,” said Beartooth with a note of warning in his voice. “We shall see.” Then he turned and walked away from Naltan toward his father’s wigwam.
Naltan shrugged his shoulders and, thinking no more about it, dashed off to find Ceysoda. He looked all around the camp and finally found him practicing with his bow and arrow a short distance from the village. Naltan told him what Beartooth had said. Ceysoda was silent for a few moments, thinking.
“Naltan, my friend,” he said, “I have a strange feeling that our brothers plot against us. I have no good reason for feeling this way, but I can’t help it. For some reason our friends have planned a way to make us lose the race. What it is and how I know I cannot tell you, but the feeling is upon me.”
“You are foolish, Ceysoda. The fact that we have won many contests and games from our friends surely wouldn’t give them a reason to plot any harm.”
“I do not say that they want to harm us; but in some way they will try to make sure we do not win the foot races tomorrow. Wait and see, Naltan.”
The two boys spoke no further and soon it was time to return to their wigwams for the evening meal. When Naltan and his father had finished eating, Naltan told his father that he would like to get his advice. So father and son sat down by the blazing coals of the fire in the middle of their wigwam.
“Father,” Naltan began, “today Ceysoda told me that our friends were planning some trick to make us lose in the foot race tomorrow. He also said that he did not know why he had this feeling, but he did have it. Surely, father, our friends would not try to harm us?”
“No, my son, I do not believe that your friends would want to harm you, but is there any reason that you would have to believe that what your friend Ceysoda tells you might be true?”
“No, father, there isn’t anything—yes, wait a minute! There might be. Late this afternoon when Ceysoda and I had finished working on our bows, I went down to Beartooth’s wigwam to borrow some thongs for my moccasins. Just as I reached the small clearing near Beartooth’s home, I saw almost all of our friends gathered together talking; but when they saw me they scattered, each one heading for his own home. When I questioned Beartooth about it, he said that they had been talking about the coming winter and the foot races tomorrow, and had just finished when I arrived.”
“Well, do not worry about it, my son. Whoever is strongest and fastest will win tomorrow. It will soon be time for bed. Go out and play for a little while, but when your mother calls, come to bed, for you will need your rest for the foot races.” With that Naltan’s father rose to leave.
“You know, father, my thoughts became so confused when I saw the crowd of boys that I forgot to ask Beartooth for the thongs. I will go down now before he goes to sleep so that I may work a little more on my bow tonight before I go to sleep.”
Naltan left his home and walked quickly to Beartooth’s home. As he neared Beartooth’s wigwam he heard voices. Beartooth was talking to one of the other young braves. “Yes, that’s right,” he was saying, “make sure that you are next to Naltan at the start of the race tomorrow. When the signal is given, pretend to trip so that you will fall against Naltan and tumble him to the ground. I will do the same to Ceysoda. Then we can be sure that someone else will win the race.”
Naltan decided that he did not need the extra thong that night, but hurried to see his friend, Ceysoda. Reaching the wigwam where he lived, he called until Ceysoda came to the entrance.
“What do you want, Naltan? It is late and I am tired. I was just about to go to bed.”
“Ceysoda, I have discovered what our friends plan for us tomorrow.” Naltan repeated what he had heard at Beartooth’s wigwam. When he had finished, he waited to see how Ceysoda would take the news. He did not have to wait long, for suddenly Ceysoda’s face took on an angry look. “Those crawling mud worms,” he cried. “Have they become so jealous because they cannot win at the games and contests that they have to use trickery against us? I knew that the feeling I had was a true one. Now we know exactly what they are going to do. But how can we prevent this from happening tomorrow, Naltan?”
“I have a plan,” said Naltan. “Tomorrow when we line up for the race we will ask that the others be given a slight lead over us because we have won so many races. We should be able to tell by what they say to that whether or not they would still try to carry out such a plan.”
“That is a very good idea, Naltan,” said Ceysoda, yawning. “Now I must say goodnight, for I am tired, and we have some hard running ahead of us tomorrow.”
The boys said goodnight. Ceysoda turned back into his wigwam and Naltan started to go home to his own bed. On the way, he wondered whether he should tell his father what had happened. He decided to handle this in his own way, without the help of any adults.
The following day was very crisp and cool. Off to the northwest clouds warned that a snowstorm might be building up. But everyone was too excited to take much notice of anything besides the preparations going on all around for the big foot race. Fathers and sons together made the final inspection of the boys’ clothing for the big race. The boys’ moccasins especially were looked over carefully for any weak spots where the leather might break. A torn moccasin could mean lost time and a lost race.
At last, the call went up through the village for all who were entering the race to gather at the starting line just outside the village on the border of a great meadow. The young boys gathered, joined by their proud fathers, each of whom hoped that his son would cross the finish line first and win the beautiful bone-handled hunting knife which the tribe’s medicine man had offered as the first prize.
When all the contestants had gathered at the starting line, the warrior in charge of the race began to give instructions. He called for the attention of all the runners. At that moment, Ceysoda and Naltan stepped forward and asked that they be allowed to start ten paces behind the others so that this could be a more even race. There were many shouts from the other boys that Ceysoda and Naltan were only boasting. They said that they wanted the two boys to start with them. If Ceysoda and Naltan won the race, all well and good! But if they had to start back and lost the race then someone would always complain that it was not an even race. The warrior in charge then made his decision.
“I believe,” he said, “that Naltan and Ceysoda are being very fair. So far they have won all foot races by a great margin. Now they offer to start late in order to give every one of you a better chance to win. I have no doubt that many of you have been practicing hard for this event, but these two have been practicing just as hard. So it would be a very unfair race unless I did give them a handicap to even up the chances for you all.”
Beartooth knew that if they argued against this ruling, suspicion might be aroused. So he bade his friends be quiet and line up again for the race.
The course for the race this year had been chosen very carefully. The boys were to run across the meadow and into the woods up the game trail until they reached the blaze marked on a fallen birch. Then they were to turn off the trail and head east until they came to the singing rock. That, Naltan knew, was the rock from which water trickled during and after a heavy rain, and made an unusual, almost tinkling sound. At the rock the boys would turn south, break from the forest, cross the meadow, and head for home. The first one to cross the finish line would be declared the winner and receive the coveted hunting knife.
The instructions were clear. The boys waited eagerly. When the warrior had made sure that all were lined up correctly, he gave them the starting signal. Instead of leaping forward, the racers began to mill around. Then several boys broke from the group and started to run along the course. Five young Indian braves, including Beartooth, Naltan, and Ceysoda, could be seen lying on the ground. Naltan and Ceysoda leaped quickly to their feet and began running. They had already lost a great deal of valuable ground, but the desire to win this race now burned especially bright in their hearts. They ran swiftly across the meadow in pursuit of the fast-disappearing figures of the leading braves, while others trailed behind them.
As they reached the woods, they began to overtake the other boys one at a time, because the running became harder as they got deeper into the woods. There were rocks and branches to hinder their way, and the footing was often unsure. As the two boys reached the blazed birch tree they turned eastward and continued swiftly on their way. They soon passed more of the young braves. As they reached the singing rock and turned for home only two boys were still between them and the finish line. When they broke into the open and reached the meadow, the gap between the boys narrowed rapidly, and they were greeted by cheers. It was clear to all that Naltan and Ceysoda would overtake the two leaders. The cheering grew louder when, with a sudden burst of speed, Naltan and Ceysoda passed them and sped across the finish line at exactly the same moment. They were declared winners in a tied race, and each was given a beautiful knife.
After the award was made, Naltan looked around for Beartooth, but could not find him. On the way home, Naltan asked his father if he had seen Beartooth.
“Why, my son,” his father said, “he was standing close to me as you and Ceysoda broke from the woods into the meadow on the last part of the race. Then he disappeared. Why are you so concerned. When you had picked yourself up from the ground and started after the other boys, the warrior in charge of the race spoke to Beartooth. Beartooth confessed his plan which, it seems, did not work out successfully. He will be punished for his plot. There is no need for you to be worried.”
“But I am worried, father, for there is no need to punish Beartooth. What he did was wrong, but I am sure he is sorry. And after all, no harm was done. I will go to him and speak with him and show him that I am not angry. Then I will talk to the warrior who started the race?”
Naltan left his father and went to Beartooth’s house. He called to his friend but there was no answer. When he called again, Beartooth’s mother came out of the wigwam and told him that her son had not returned from the foot race.
“But all the contestants have finished in the race and are home by now. Where could Beartooth have gone? I will look for him.”
Naltan left to find Ceysoda, who was showing his beautiful knife proudly to his many friends.
“Ceysoda,” Naltan called as he drew near. “Come, I must talk with you.” When he finished telling Ceysoda about Beartooth’s not returning home, the two boys went in search of him. They looked all through the village but could not find him anywhere. They asked all the children but they had not seen him. Finally, they found the boy to whom Beartooth had spoken about the plot and who was to have helped him. At first the boy denied knowing anything about where Beartooth might be; but finally after continued questioning from Naltan, the boy told them.
“Beartooth was afraid when the warrior at the racing field told him that he would have to be punished. So while everyone was milling around and shouting at the end of the race, he stole off and ran into the wood. He feared not only the punishment of the warrior and council, but also the punishment that you and Ceysoda would bring down upon him for playing such a trick.”
While they were talking, a few snowflakes began to fall.
“Come,” said Naltan, “we must go after him quickly. From the looks of the sky and this snow, there will be a heavy storm. Beartooth has had little experience with snow. His days alone in the forest have been few. If we do not go after him, he may be lost in the storm and threatened by the wild animals of the forest.”
“I cannot go,” the boy answered. “My father would not allow it. Besides, how would we know where to look?”
The boys stepped back and stared at the boy. “You are a coward,” Naltan said angrily. “I cannot waste time arguing with you. Come, Ceysoda, we must leave immediately.”
Without further words, the two friends turned and started for the forest. The snow was beginning to fall faster and thicker now. As they reached the forest, they stopped to choose the most likely trail that Beartooth would follow. The race had tired Ceysoda, and he was breathing heavily now.
“Wait, Naltan,” he pleaded. “The boy was right. How would we know which direction Beartooth would take? Besides, at the rate this snow is falling any trace of him would be covered. Is it wise to go on?”
“Wise or not, Ceysoda, we must go on. Beartooth must be found. Not knowing the forest too well, he would probably travel the main trail toward the north. We will go in that direction. If we hurry, we may be able to pick up a sign of his route before the snow has a chance to cover it completely, and reach him before he goes too far.”
The boys spoke no further but hurried up the trail to the north, keeping their eyes toward the ground to look for signs of the boy’s having passed that way. Soon Naltan stopped and pointed to a place in the trail where the snow had been disturbed.
“He must have fallen here. See the way the snow has been pushed aside. Come, quickly, Ceysoda, he cannot be too far ahead.” The two boys continued swiftly on the trail. Soon they were able to make out signs of fresh moccasin prints in the snow. But just when they felt they were getting close, the wind began to blow harder, sweeping along the trail and covering any tracks or other signs that they might have found. The boys had been traveling at a fast pace for some time, when Ceysoda stopped suddenly.
“Wait, Naltan, I must rest,” he said. “I am tired. I cannot go on without rest. Just for a moment let me catch my breath. Surely Beartooth will not continue without rest, too, and we will lose no ground by stopping for a short while.”
“All right,” said Naltan, “but just for a moment. The day is growing late.” The two boys squatted down by the side of the trail and breathed deeply to get their wind back again. Suddenly, Nathan gazed up through the trees and then, stretching his hands out in front of him, he said, “Ceysoda, my friend, look! It has stopped snowing. We are in luck. But we must hurry even so, because the storm will no longer slow Beartooth’s pace.”
The two boys rose and sped on up the trail. Truly they were in luck, for soon they came upon a place in the snow where someone had stopped to rest at the side of the trail. The prints of small moccasins were plain in the snow and led straight up the trail. Now the boys increased their efforts, for they knew they must be close. Suddenly, the tracks stopped and turned off the trail into the thick woods. This puzzled Naltan, but he turned to follow them. The two boys began finding the going a little rougher. Suddenly, they found that they not only were following moccasin tracks, but another set of tracks now appeared not far behind the boy’s. These were the tracks of a bear!
The bear, Naltan thought, must have been late in going into hibernation for the winter because he had not found enough food. Now a delicious morsel of warm-blooded food was on the trail ahead of him. Now Naltan understood why Beartooth had left the trail; he must have seen the bear ahead on the trail and turned off to escape him. But the hear was not going to be avoided so easily. Naltan suddenly stopped and turned to Ceysoda.
“What shall we do if we do come upon the bear and Beartooth?” he asked. “We are not armed with our bows and arrows. We could hardly defend ourselves against such a worthy opponent as a bear. Two young Indians such as we, no matter how brave, would be easy prey for a large bear. Yet we must go on and see if there is any help we can give. To turn back now would certainly mark us as cowards.”
Ceysoda did not like the idea of fighting a full-grown bear; yet he liked less the thought of turning his back on danger and returning to the village to meet his friends’ ridicule and his father’s anger for having been so cowardly. They would have trouble enough as it was, for having left the village without letting their parents or friends know where they had gone. Naltan’s voice swung his thoughts back to his present plight.
“I have an idea, Ceysoda. Between us we have two knives. Let us cut a couple of stout saplings to use as spears if we should need them. At least we will have some chance, even if it is not a very good one, against the bear.”
So the two boys immediately began cutting stout saplings to hack into crude spears—poor weapons against an angry bear, but the best the boys could think of at the moment. When they sharpened the points on their spears, they continued following the very clear trail in the snow. They did not travel as fast now because they sensed a danger lurking ahead of them. They did not know just how far ahead the bear was, whether he was still following Beartooth, or whether he had discovered them. In fact, at this very moment, he might be awaiting them, hidden among the rocks up ahead, which they could plainly see now as they watched the forest in front of them cautiously while following the tracks carefully in the snow.
They were continuing their anxious march in silence when they were startled by a sound that echoed through the forest, a sound all too familiar to them—the growl of an angry bear. It had come from in front and to the right of them. So the boys went on with even more caution. Suddenly, Naltan signaled to Ceysoda and the two boys crouched low to the ground. Ahead of them, about a hundred paces, the natural trail they had been following came to an end in a boxlike formation of rocks. The rocks reached almost straight up to the height of an elm tree. On top of this enclosure stood the bear and about ten feet below him on a ledge sticking out from the rocks was Beartooth. Behind the bear the boys noticed that the rocks continued to rise and they figured that they had come upon almost a dead end. Beartooth, Naltan figured, had reached the dead end and panic-stricken because of the bear, had either fallen or jumped to the ledge. For the moment he was safe, for the bear did not want to chance jumping to the ledge and there was no way that he could climb down. Suddenly he turned to the side and calmly walked around and down beside the wall until he was once again on the forest floor. He trotted to a spot directly beneath where the boy lay and studied the situation, trying to figure a way to get at this thing that had invaded the privacy of his forest at a time when he had been almost mad with hunger.
The wind was blowing into the faces of the boys so they knew for the time being they were safe because the bear could not smell them, but if the wind should shift they would then be in trouble, for the bear would turn his attention to them. This also gave them time to think and work out a plan. Suddenly Ceysoda touched Naltan’s shoulder.
“My brother,” he said, “he moved. Beartooth moved; he is alive. We must do something.” “Yes,” said Naltan, “for in his present situation he might fall from the ledge and then it would be all over. If we can somehow drive the bear off, we could then rescue Beartooth and return to the village.”
“That is a good idea, Naltan, but tell me, friend, how do we get Beartooth off the ledge once we have chased the bear away, if we can chase him away?”
This was a serious problem, for the boys had nothing they could use as a rope and, besides, Naltan could for the moment think of no way to get rid of the bear.
Just then the boys noticed Beartooth moving again, but this time he rolled even closer to the ledge. Without thinking, Ceysoda stood straight up and shouted at Beartooth. “Look out, Beartooth, you are right at the edge of the ledge. Look out, you will fall.”
Then Ceysoda realized what he had done, and he stood frozen as the bear turned and raising himself on his hind legs, emitting a terrible growl, started for the boys. Ceysoda’s shouts had roused Beartooth and he worked his way back from the edge of the ledge close to the wall and safety. Meanwhile the bear was increasing his speed toward the two boys. The boys stood almost frozen with fear, but suddenly they were able to shake off the paralysis that had gripped them, and both boys drew their rustic spears in front of them to await the charge of the bear who was coming ever closer.
Naltan stepped slightly in front of Ceysoda in order to take the brunt of the attack, but Ceysoda would have none of it and edged up right next to Naltan. By this time the bear was almost upon them and with a terrifying snarl came rushing the last few yards.
Naltan and Ceysoda, with the ends of the spears jammed into the ground held fast as the bear rushed right into the sharp points. The bear stopped in his tracks as if suddenly he had forgotten something and then with an agonizing snarl fell over dead, the two spears protruding from his body. Immediately Naltan and Ceysoda ran forward to the base of the ledge. Climbing to the top above Beartooth, the boys cut a long stout staff and lowered the end to Beartooth who grasped it and was pulled to safety. Then swiftly the three boys started for the village. On the way, each in turn told their story.
First Beartooth told of how he had run away and how he had been chased to the top of the rock formation by the bear and, in trying to avoid him, had fallen. The two boys told how they had followed Beartooth to bring him back and of their coming upon the bear and their narrow escape.
When they reached the warmth and security of their village again, Naltan and Ceysoda went with Beartooth to his wigwam and there assured him that they had no desire to punish him in any way for his trickery of that morning. “What you did was wrong, but what has happened to you today we firmly believe is punishment enough. Let us forget the incidents of this day. We are still friends and friends we must remain, for only through unity and friendship will we grow into strong good Oneida warriors.”
Beartooth smiled and thanked his two friends, and he continued to smile as Naltan and Ceysoda walked off arm in arm toward their homes and large suppers that awaited the returning heroes.
The Blackfoot tribe was on the move. The buffalo had begun to search for new pasture. So the tribe had packed all its tepees on the travois and were moving to follow the herd. Their lives depended upon these prairie beasts, and they did not dare to be too far from them. For two days the herd moved until it found enough grass and water, and then it milled around and started to graze. How long or how short a time they would stay in this new place, no one knew; but here the tribe must make its camp until the buffalo forced them to move again.
As soon as his family’s tepee was set up, Little Thunderbird wandered off in search of some excitement. He was a Blackfoot lad who seemed to be able to get into trouble no matter where he was—like the day he cut the string on his father’s bow, or the day he burned a hole in his mother’s new dress. These are only samples of the kinds of mischief Thunderbird got himself into. So today he planned to stay far from his home until mealtime and in that way keep out of trouble.
Skipping through the village, he saw some of his friends throwing stones to see who could throw the farthest, and he ran up to them to ask if he could play. His friends told him to get in line and wait his turn. Soon he was throwing stones along with the other children. After they had played this game for a while, the children decided to play Follow the Leader. There was a great deal of talk about who would be leader for the game. Finally, one of the older boys was chosen, and he led off by dodging through a rack of drying buffalo meat.
After everyone had run through the rack, the leader headed for the strings of ponies which were picketed out on the edge of the village. Here he ducked under the lines of many ponies that reared and whinnied from fright as the shouting youths leaped past them one after another. This kept on until one of the braves who was guarding the ponies chased the boys back into the village. The leader ran over boulders, danced between tepees, and did many other stunts which each boy repeated until finally the leader sat down, tired out. All the other boys admitted they were tired, too, and the group sat around talking about their fathers’ great deeds.
Soon it was Little Thunderbird’s turn and he stood and walked to the center of the circle, the way the big braves did in council. Then he raised his hands for silence from the group.
“My father is the greatest of Blackfoot warriors,” Thunderbird began. “One day, while he was out on a hunt with some other braves of the tribe, he spotted a mountain lion. They were high in the hills and they had been looking for some ponies that had strayed from the herd. When my father saw the mountain lion, he spoke with the other braves and they decided to kill the beast. As you know, the mountain lion preys upon our pony herds. By killing this one, that would be one less lion to worry about. My father looked around the circle of braves and asked who would go with him to kill the lion. The braves talked a great deal and at last two of them stepped forward and said that they would go.
“Slowly the three men began the climb into the hills. The lion had seen them coming and headed for higher ground. But finally he came to a solid wall and could climb no farther. My father stepped forward and drew his bow and shot an arrow toward the lion. He missed and the lion started toward him, snarling. The other braves turned and ran for their lives. There was no time to shoot another arrow, so my father drew his knife and waited for the lion’s charge.
“The beast leaped, and my father caught the lion on his knife. Again and again, he plunged the knife into the lion. The fight ended quickly. The lion lay dead at my father’s feet. My father had not even been scratched. Dancing around his victim, my father cut the lion’s tail off and placed it in his pouch. Then he caught up with the other braves farther down the trail, and they continued on the hunt for the ponies.
“After they found the ponies and brought them back to the village, my father told the council of his brave fight and held the tail of the lion on high for all to see. For his courage, he was allowed to wear another feather in his headdress. Now he is really a brave worthy of honor from all. But the two who deserted him were cowards and do not deserve to be members of our tribe.”
When Little Thunderbird had finished, he seated himself in the circle once again. He was proud of the way the other boys listened to his story and the way they talked of his father as a great brave. Little Thunderbird enjoyed the attention he was getting, but in his heart he was troubled. He had made up the whole story. There was no truth at all in it. Then the test came.
“Take us to see the lion’s tail, Little Thunderbird,” one of the boys said. “We want to see the lion’s tail.” And the rest of the boys took up the cry.
Now what was Little Thunderbird to do? But he decided to bluff it out anyway. He led the boys to his father’s tepee. When they got there, he searched hurriedly for something that looked like a lion’s tail. But he could not find anything. The boys began to get angry.
“You lied to us, Little Thunderbird,” one of them said. “Your father never killed a lion, and he is not the greatest brave in the tribe!”
The other boys agreed. They ran out, leaving Little Thunderbird standing at the entrance to his father’s tepee. Suddenly, Little Thunderbird felt very much alone. In the next few days, he began to feel even more lonely because the other boys would not play with him or speak to him. This went on, until one day Little Thunderbird refused to leave the tepee. His mother asked him if he felt sick, and he told her he was “just a little tired.” But Little Thunderbird’s mother knew that something must be wrong and so she talked with her husband about it.
“I know what is wrong, my dear wife. My friends have told me of Little Thunderbird’s tale to the other boys one day about the brave deed of his father, the greatest warrior the Blackfoot have ever known. When they asked Little Thunderbird to prove the story, he could not. He had lied to his friends and his conscience is punishing him.”
“But can’t you help him?” the boy’s mother pleaded.
“There is nothing I can do. Many moons ago I taught my son the strength of truth. He does not have to lie now. If he is not proud of his father, let him say so. I am not ashamed that I have not done something great and have not done something very brave. I have done no more and no less than most of the braves of the tribe. Surely I am not the greatest warrior in the tribe, and I have never given Little Thunderbird any reason to say that I am. The boys will not make fun of him if he tells the truth. They know that their fathers are like me. The boys will probably praise him if he admits that he lied.”
Little Thunderbird lay just inside the tepee and had heard his father speaking with his mother. Rising from his bed, he ran out of the tepee and headed through the village to find his friends. His parents understood and did not try to call him back. Finally, he found them, once again seated in a council circle like the men of the tribe. When they saw him coming, the tallest arose from his place and stopped Little Thunderbird before he could reach the circle.
“What is it you want here, teller of lies?” he asked angrily. “We do not want you for a friend. Go from this place. There is none here that you could call a friend.”
“Wait, let me speak,” Little Thunderbird begged. “I have something important to say and I want to be heard.”
“All right, speak,” the tall lad said, “but be brief—and none of your lies!”
Little Thunderbird stepped to the center of the circle. He was about to raise his arms for silence as he had done before, but he thought better of it and waited until the boys were quiet once again.
“The last time I stood before you I told you of my father’s brave deed in fighting a mountain lion.” The boys began to laugh, but Little Thunderbird went on. “I lied to you. My father is a brave man but he has never had to fight a mountain lion. My father taught me to tell the truth when I was very young. He trusted that I would, and I have broken that trust. But I have learned my lesson. Lies can bring nothing but hurt to the liar and to all who trust him. If we speak with a straight tongue, our friends will believe in us and trust us. I ask you now to trust me. I will never lie again. Your friendship means too much to me.”
The tall boy rose from the circle. The other boys watched him closely to see what he would do. Everyone was very quiet.
“Here truly is a brave Blackfoot,” the tall boy said. “It took real courage for Little Thunderbird to come before this council and admit he was wrong.” He paused and looked at Little Thunderbird. “I offer you my hand in friendship once again. Come, take your place in the council.”
Little Thunderbird smiled and took his place. A short distance from the circle, a tall brave smiled, too. Little Thunderbird’s father had been sure to speak loudly so that his voice would be heard by the young boy inside the tepee.
Based on an idea from a story told to the author by Mr. Walter Elliott.
The dawn came slowly as the sun tried to fight its way through the mist that hung in the valleys. The spring had been cool, and for nearly a moon rain had been drenching the ground. By midmorning, the sun had burned away the haze, and its rays beat down upon the little Kickapoo village, warming and drying everything that had been wet and cold for so long.
When Little Snapping Turtle walked from his father’s wigwam and saw the bright sun and the blue skies, he called to his father who was still inside.
“Father, father, come here! See, the sun has won. The storm clouds have run from the battle with the sun. Once again we have light and warmth. Is this not a good reason for a celebration?”
“Yes, my son, it is reason enough for you and your friends to celebrate. But we should be glad for the rain we have had because it makes the forest green and gives the streams new strength and makes the lakes rise so that all the animals may drink. Of course, it has also kept the young braves in their houses, so now that the sun is out again we should have a celebration.”
“What shall we do, father? Can we go on a hunt or a fishing trip? Can we, father?”
“No, my son, there is not time for that yet. Now that the sun is with us again, there is much gardening to do right here in the village. But late this afternoon we shall have a race to see who has lost the most speed during this lazy vacation. Go to the other young braves in the tribe and tell them that I, Big Snapping Turtle, Medicine Man of the Kickapoo tribe, will give a fine belt and knife as a prize to the young brave who wins the race this afternoon.”
“What kind of a race will it be, father?”
“Oh, it would not be fair to tell you, my young son, for then you would have an advantage over the other young braves. Just spread the news and this afternoon we will gather in the meadow for the race.”
Eagerly Little Snapping Turtle ran to tell all the young boys to gather in the meadow north of the village late in the afternoon for a race. He also told them about the prize that any young brave would want. Most of the boys he talked to were working hard in the gardens to make up for time lost during the rain. But they stopped long enough to listen excitedly to the news Little Snapping Turtle brought. All of them said they would be there, and then went back to work. The rain had been good for the seed, but it had also been good for the weeds. When Little Snapping Turtle got back home, he went to work cheerfully with his father in their garden to clear out the weeds.
Finally the time neared for the big contest, and the young boys began to gather in the meadow. Soon every boy in the village was present, and Big Snapping Turtle stepped to the front to explain the rules.
He first gave each boy a small container made of birch bark. After this had been done, Big Snapping Turtle signaled for all to be quiet.
“A quarter of a mile from here there are several small lakes,” he said. “In one of those lakes, as you know, there are some very small fish. Each of you has a container. At the signal you will run to that lake and trap a small fish. Making sure to keep the fish in the container, you will run back to the meadow. The first boy to return with a fish still alive in the container will win the race. Then after the prize has been awarded, we will put all the fish you caught into the stream that runs through our village so that they can swim to the great lake to the south.”
The boys waited impatiently for the signal. When it was given, they shouted and laughed as they raced toward the lake that held the small fish. Little Snapping Turtle soon was far ahead of the other young boys. When he reached the lake shore, he waded knee deep into the lake and placed his container halfway under and then stood perfectly still, waiting for the curious little fish to swim into the trap.
As he stood there quietly, peering at the sandy bottom, several of the others arrived and began to follow his lead. Soon there were fifteen or twenty of them spread out near the shore standing motionless waiting for the fish. Now and then a boy would shout that he had made a catch only to find that the fish had escaped.
Finally patience rewarded Little Snapping Turtle. With a flick of his wrist, Little Snapping Turtle scooped his container into the water. When he looked into it, he discovered that he had trapped two fish instead of one. Quickly he waded toward shore and he saw that two boys had also trapped their fish and were on the way back to the meadow. He stopped only a moment to tear a large leaf from a plant that grew along the lake shore. Then he wrapped it tightly over the mouth of the container and started running again.
The two boys were running swiftly ahead of him along the trail, each with a container in his hand. Suddenly, one of the boys slipped and fell and his container and fish went flying off into the brush. Now only one boy, Crying Hawk, stood between Little Snapping Turtle and victory. Using all the strength he had, he began to catch up with the young boy ahead of him.
As he began to pass Crying Hawk, he noticed that the boy was limping. Looking at the boy’s feet, he saw that Crying Hawk’s moccasins were loose, and he guessed that a pebble must have fallen into one of them. The boy stopped to take the pebble out. As he did, Little Snapping Turtle sped by him. Turning to look at Crying Hawk, Little Snapping Turtle found that the boy had just sat down and was crying. He stopped and went back to him.
“What is the trouble, Crying Hawk?” Little Snapping Turtle asked kindly.
“I thought that for once I could win a game and own a new knife and belt. But a pebble has cut my foot, and I cannot hope to win now. I was lucky enough to catch my fish first and I thought that I had a good head start. But as it always has happened, an accident will make me lose the race. I will never be a winner. Don’t wait for me, Little Snapping Turtle. If you stay with me any longer, the other boys will catch up with you.”
Then Little Snapping Turtle remembered that Crying Hawk had never won any contest. He was a little slower than the other boys, and not so skilled as many of them. He, Little Snapping Turtle, had won many contests and many prizes. Quickly he took off his own new doeskin moccasins and slipped them onto Crying Hawk’s feet.
“These will protect your feet,” he told Crying Hawk. “Run quickly now, for you still have a chance. Take my container, too. I have sealed a leaf tightly over the top and little water will spill. Today you will win the race.”
Crying Hawk started to complain, but Little Snapping Turtle silenced him. He pulled the other boy to his feet and, shoving the container into his hand, sent him on his way. With the new moccasins, the boy ran more easily and soon was out of sight. Little Snapping Turtle picked up Crying Hawk’s container and put his feet into the ill-fitting moccasins. He trotted slowly after Crying Hawk, keeping just far enough behind to make sure the boy would win.
He heard several pairs of feet moving swiftly along the trail just in back of him. From here to the meadow, the trail narrowed and only one boy could use it at one time. So Little Snapping Turtle kept his slow pace and kept the others from passing Crying Hawk. Little Snapping Turtle could see the clearing now and he sped toward the meadow. There he saw Crying Hawk standing proudly next to Little Snapping Turtle’s father. He ran up to Crying Hawk.
“Say nothing of what happened on the trail,” he whispered. “You have run a good race, Crying Hawk.”
Soon all the boys were back and the inspection of the containers began. When Big Snapping Turtle had seen all of them, he stepped to the front and declared Crying Hawk the winner. Everyone cheered as the boy received the knife and belt from the smiling Medicine Man. Then they all started back toward the village to place the fish in the stream and then go home.
As Little Snapping Turtle and his father walked along the trail, the Medicine Man asked, “Where did you get that container, my son?”
Little Snapping Turtle blushed as he looked up at his father, but his father smiled. “It is well, my son. I knew each container that I had given out and at the end of the race you did not have the one you had started with. I also noticed the beautiful moccasins that Crying Hawk was wearing. I discovered, too, how big my son’s heart really is. Today you lost a race, but the happiness you won is the best possible prize.”
Among the American Indians truth was respected as most sacred. Parents took great pains to teach their children that above all else, a good Indian was one who had honor and spoke nothing but the truth, or, as the Indians would say, spoke with a straight tongue. It is about the power of truth that this story is told.
The Blackfoot Indians were a wandering tribe of the Western plains. Their very lives depended upon the great buffalo herds. From the buffalo meat and hides, the Blackfeet were able to get their food, skins for clothing, and their tepees; and from the head, horns, and tail, decorations for costume and headdress.
Blackfoot villages were always moving, since they were set up near the grazing herds of buffalo. When the herd moved, the whole tribe would tie its belongings onto travois drawn by horses, and move with the buffalo until the animals stopped once again to graze where there was more prairie grass.
Young Deerfoot, the son of a great warrior of the Blackfeet, Sleeping Bear, prided himself on being one of the strongest of the tribe’s young braves. While growing into young manhood, he had won many honors in his tribe as a warrior and a great hunter. Blind Dog was another young brave about Deerfoot’s age. The son of Black Dog, he also had become quite famous among the Blackfeet for his honors in war and hunting.
Both young braves were guarding the tribe’s horses, one very warm summer evening as the chiefs of the Blackfeet were gathered in the center of the village around the blazing campfires. The chiefs had met to talk of tribal problems and to plan ahead for fall and winter. At this time, life had been unusually peaceful on the plains. There had been some horse stealing and a few occasional skirmishes among small parties of raiders from different tribes. Outside of that, there had not been much excitement.
As the chiefs sat around the fire, Blind Dog and Deerfoot were taking their job of standing guard over the horses very seriously. The quiet was broken by a noise off to one side of the herd of horses. Deerfoot signaled silently to Blind Dog to draw near so that they might speak. When Blind Dog had reached Deerfoot’s side the two crouched low behind the horses, and Deerfoot whispered that he had heard a noise slightly to the west of the herd.
The two braves crept forward on their hands and knees, keeping the horses between themselves and whatever had made the noise. The horses began moving uneasily as the two young braves drew closer to the spot from which the noise had come.
Deerfoot stopped abruptly. He slapped Blind Dog’s shoulder and began to laugh. Not two paces from them was a small mongrel dog which had wandered down among the horses seeking a cool place in which to lie and rest for a while. When Blind Dog saw what had amused Deerfoot so much, he laughed too, because they had been so alarmed by a dog.
“If it were not so quiet tonight,” Deerfoot remarked, “we would not have been so worried by anything so unimportant as a puppy.”
“Yes,” Blind Dog agreed, “it has been much too quiet. We have not had much excitement. Things have been far too peaceful.”
“Do you wish to have a war on your hands, Blind Dog?” Deerfoot asked with a smile.
“Well, it would be a very welcome change from horse herd duty at night, and repairing bridles and broken weapons in the daytime.”
“You are getting restless, my friend.” Deerfoot spoke soberly now. “That is not good. When one gets restless, one becomes careless. That can be dangerous.”
At first, Blind Dog refused to be serious. “Oh, do not worry, Deerfoot. I may have become restless, but I will never become careless.” Then he added gravely, “To become careless even for a moment might mean death to a warrior like myself. There is many a brave in other tribes who would love to see my scalp hanging from his tepee pole. But I like the feel of my scalp right where it is. Anyway, nothing—not even a puppy—will ever catch me off guard.”
“Do not be so sure of yourself, Blind Dog. Being so sure can make any brave careless. You must always be alert. It may seem too peaceful to us here now, but even the quiet shadows of this very night could conceal our enemies. As we sit here talking noisily about not being careless, they could be stealing some of our best horses. Let us go back to our guard posts so that we can watch the herd as we should.”
Deerfoot and Blind Dog mounted their horses and had started to circle the herd to see that nothing had disturbed the horses. When they had finished checking and had dismounted, Blind Dog complained that he felt ill.
“Since we have just checked the herd and everything is all right,” Deerfoot said, “why don’t you return to the village, Blind Dog, and go to your tepee? It is almost time for the other guards to take our places. I can stand guard alone for that short time.”
Blind Dog said that he should not leave his friend, but with Deerfoot’s urging, he finally agreed and walked slowly back toward the village. Arriving at his tepee, he found that his father must still be at the council meeting. The night air had become chilly and he wrapped himself in a warm buffalo robe and curled up in the corner of the tepee. Blind Dog was just about to fall off to sleep when he heard men shouting excitedly and horses snorting and pounding their hoofs. He struggled out of the robe and stepped outside of the tepee in time to see several chieftains break from the council ring and head toward the horses.
As they reached the edge of the herd, they called out for the guard but there was no response. They called again and again, but their only answer was the stomping of horses and the frightened neighing of ponies. It was very dark and it was some time before the chieftains discovered that about six of their finest animals were missing. Where were the guards, they wondered, and how had the horses gotten loose? Then someone noticed Blind Dog and called to him.
“Blind Dog, were you not on watch with Deerfoot? What did you see? What happened? Who raided our herd?”
Blind Dog looked at Great Owl and his father, Black Dog, who stood waiting for his answer. Just then they heard the clopping of a single pony’s hoofs. Peering into the darkness, they could make out the figure of a lone horseman riding wildly toward the standing group. As the rider came nearer, Blind Dog saw that it was his friend. Deerfoot jumped from his pony and stood, breathless and bleeding, before the chieftains, waiting for silence so that he could report what had happened. When everyone was quiet, Deerfoot began his story. For the moment, Blind Dog was forgotten.
“Blind Dog and I were on guard here at the horse herd,” Deerfoot said, “when we heard a strange noise. We found that it was only a stray dog that had wandered down here to the horse herd. We went back to our guard posts and settled down again, keeping careful watch.
“After some time had passed, I heard another noise much like the dog had made so I did not pay any attention. Suddenly, the horses became uneasy. When I went to see what the trouble was, I was struck a blow on the side of my head. It was not too hard a blow and only made me a little dizzy. As I shook off the shadows from my brain, I spotted a small group of warriors who were cutting some of our best ponies loose from the herd. Then I called for Blind Dog and started after the raiders. By the time I had reached the place the raiders had been, they were already heading back into the night, driving several of our ponies before them. I quickly mounted a pony and started to chase the thieves, but I lost them in the darkness. Perhaps I was closer to them than I realized because they let some of the stolen ponies go. I have been able to round up some of the ponies, but I believe there are still a few missing. I will mount up again and start after them immediately.”
But Chief Great Owl stopped Deerfoot with a wave of his hand and said, “No, Deerfoot, let some of the other braves round them up. You are hurt and need rest. But first we must speak with Blind Dog. Who has seen Blind Dog?”
Without any hesitation, Blind Dog stepped from the circle of braves and stood next to Deerfoot.
“You summoned me, Chief Great Owl?” he asked politely.
“Blind Dog, were you on herd guard duty tonight with Deerfoot?”
“Yes, Great Chief, I was.”
“When Deerfoot called you to assist him, why did you not answer?”
“Because I was not where I could hear Deerfoot.”
“Where were you then?”
“When Deerfoot called for help, I was in my tepee just about to go off to sleep.”
Great Owl glared at Blind Dog. “Do you mean that you had left your guard post to sleep in your tepee, leaving Deerfoot here alone to watch the herd?”
Black Dog waited for his son to answer. “Speak, my son,” he pleaded. “Tell Great Owl that you did not desert your friend and leave him alone on duty.”
“I am sorry, father, but what he says is true. I was not at my guard post when the raiders came in the night. I did neglect my duty and for that I shall take proper punishment.”
“My son,” Black Dog said with great sorrow in his voice, “do you know what you are saying? You are admitting that you have shirked your duty. Is guarding the herd not important to the whole tribe?”
“Yes, father, it is very important. I am ashamed of what I have done.”
Great Owl ordered Blind Dog to be held under guard until the council should decide his punishment.
Quietly, Blind Dog went with the guards. He glanced back toward Deerfoot, but Deerfoot would not meet his gaze. Dropping his head upon his chest, Blind Dog was troubled that Deerfoot had avoided looking at him. He was worried, too, about why Deerfoot had not told the rest of the story—how Deerfoot had insisted that he go to his tepee when he had felt ill. Then he guessed that Deerfoot must have had a good reason, so Blind Dog would not change his friend’s story unless he really had to. He vowed, however, that he would try to speak with Deerfoot and discover for himself just why Deerfoot had not told them the whole story.
The tepee in which Blind Dog was held under guard was close to the center of the village where the council had met. Suddenly, he heard many voices talking excitedly and realized that the council had gathered again. What had been a calm council before had now become an angry group of men seeking revenge upon the horse stealers. He heard Deerfoot repeating his story and the chieftains questioning him closely. Above all they wanted to know of what tribe the raiders were members. Then he could hear Deerfoot reply vaguely, “It was dark and I was still confused from the blow upon my head. I would not want to accuse any tribe unless I were sure. But who could be this close to us?”
Many of the chiefs shook their heads in doubt, but Sleeping Bear rose to plead for war, repeating by his own son’s account of the stealing of fine horses by a neighboring tribe.
Crouched in the tepee, Blind Dog realized now why Deerfoot had not told the complete story. Rushing to the entrance of the tepee, he begged the guards to take him before Chief Great Owl and the council. One of the guards ran to the council and reported the prisoner’s mysterious request. Chief Great Owl said that Blind Dog should be permitted to enter the council ring and speak to the council.
With head held high, Blind Dog stepped to the center of the ring and gazed around at the unfriendly eyes which peered at him from faces of stone. Finally Blind Dog spoke.
“Since I was but a tiny boy holding tightly to my father’s hand so that I would not stumble, I have been taught to respect the property of others. I have been taught to honor my parents and the elders of our tribe. I have been taught to learn well the many things a good brave should learn. Above all, I have learned the power of truth.
“My father has told me many times that I would never gain by telling a lie. I have seen the truth of this often. Now, more strongly than ever, I see the power that truth can have. I wondered a while ago why Deerfoot had not told the whole story, but now I know.
“Yes, we were on guard duty together, as he told you, and we did hear a noise after that of the dog. We circled the herd to see that all was well. Upon returning to our starting place, I told Deerfoot that I was not feeling well. I had suddenly become chilled and sick to my stomach. Deerfoot reminded me that it was almost time for us to be relieved, but that I should go immediately to my tepee to rest. He said that he would be glad to stand guard alone. I realized that what I did then was wrong, but I felt so sick that I followed Deerfoot’s suggestion and went to my father’s tepee. There I rolled myself in a buffalo blanket and lay in pain for some time until I, too, heard Deerfoot’s shouts and the hoofbeats of the horses running away from our camp.
“I, too, rushed to the herd and reached there a short time before most of you. I looked around quickly for signs that would show how many raiders there had been. But oh, Great Chieftain, there were no tracks of any ponies other than our own.
“Deerfoot has used this story to try to arouse our tribe to a war. He thirsts for the excitement that fighting would bring him. Now I am sure that Deerfoot ran those ponies off himself in order to cause a war between our tribe and our nearest neighbors. If I am lying now, punish me doubly; but if I am right, let the punishment fall where it belongs, even upon my friend.”
Great Owl rose and called upon Deerfoot to defend himself. All eyes were turned in his direction as Deerfoot rose to face Blind Dog.
“Oh, Great Chief,” said Deerfoot, “all that Blind Dog has told you is true. I sent him from the herd and I ran the ponies off into the night. I made the wound that you see on my head. We had no raiders in our camp tonight. Blind Dog has just taught me the true meaning of loyalty to my tribe.
“The fact that he was placed under guard and was to be punished made little difference to him. But when he discovered that my plan was to hurt more than him and me, he spoke out for what he believed was the truth. Yes, I had hoped to force our tribe into war. I hoped that I might be honored for bravery in war, even though I would sacrifice the honor and friendship of my boyhood companion, Blind Dog, and many of our braves might be killed in useless fighting. To make myself once again a man in Blind Dog’s sight, let me repeat his words. ‘I am ashamed of what I have done.’ Let the council punish me so that I will not forget again the sacredness of truth and friendship and loyalty to my tribe.”
The incident around which this story is woven was told to the author by Sam Carpin, trapper, hunter, and former member of the Butte, Montana, Police Force.
Long Bow for many moons had been the champion of the canoe racers in the Ottawa village and had accepted every challenge that had ever come his way.
From the time he was a young boy he had spent many hours upon the waters of the great lake practicing his canoeing until he felt there wasn’t another boy in the tribe that could come at all close to beating him in a fair race.
Soon the great hunt was upon them, and the warriors gathered their weapons and headed north to hunt the elusive deer. Whenever they went off on these hunts Black Rock, a short husky young warrior, always could be seen as the constant companion of Long Bow.
As the hunting party trotted along the woodland trail getting farther and farther from the village, Black Rock and Long Bow would hold conversation in sentences with very few words.
“I think we will have a good hunt, Long Bow.”
“Yes, Black Rock, for the signs of deer in this area are many.”
“We have had a good year, and if the gods bless us we will have another good year.”
“Soon the winter will be upon us and we must wait a long time for the spring.”
“Long Bow, you speak of the winter when here it is just late spring.”
“It will be a long summer for me.”
“Why so, friend Long Bow?”
“It used to be that during the summer when we held our games and contests there would be excitement and thrills.”
“Are there still not excitement and thrills for you?”
“Black Rock, my friend, I have become so skilled that there are none left in our tribe who give me any competition.”
“That is not a wise way to talk, Long Bow. One must never set himself above all others; that can be said only by the council.”
As they continued along the trail, Black Rock said no more to his friend, and Long Bow did not seem concerned that his friend offered no more conversation.
Soon they both forgot about the talk, for the hunting party had begun to split up in search of the game. For the next few hours the party made many fine shots and then it was time to return to the village.
Each of the two braves had a fine buck strung upon a pole between them as they walked easily along the trail homeward. Once again Black Rock and Long Bow were a team.
Now the excitement of the hunt was over and the catch was good, and all the braves were feeling very good about their success. And so as a result there was much talk and laughing and joking about the misses and successful shots. Long Bow noticed that Black Rock was especially quiet as they walked along the trail.
“Black Rock, my friend, what makes your tongue so still? You have made a fine kill this day and there will be much fresh meat for the village, yet you walk with a heavy step and your voice is still.”
“I am silent for a good reason, Long Bow my friend, for I fear that if I speak my heart will speak rather than my lips.”
Long Bow said nothing for a long while, trying to figure out what Black Rock meant by such a statement. Finally the leader of the hunt called a halt and the warriors placed their heavy burdens upon the ground and seated themselves under the shade trees to rest and drink of the water pouches before the journey homeward.
As Black Rock and Long Bow sat beneath a tree, Long Bow chanced a question of his friend.
“What did you mean, friend Black Rock, that your heart would speak rather than your lips?”
“As we approached the hunting grounds, my friend, you said that your summer would not be enjoyable because there was no competition for you. Would the fact that you are among your people not give you joy enough? Must there always be competition or contests to make your blood run fast?”
“Black Rock, you are one who can be contented with every-day living in our village. I cannot, and the yearly games and contests I have always looked forward to with great anticipation; but for the past three years there has been no competition among the braves, especially in the king of contests, the canoe race. Eagerly the young braves have met me on the lake, but I am so skilled that no one has been able to come even close to winning in the canoe race.”
“This is not a good way to feel, friend Long Bow, so I guess it is time that someone told you so. I, Black Rock, will challenge you upon the lake and then we shall see if there is no competition left in the village.”
Now Long Bow had never raced against his friend Black Rock, for Black Rock had never entered the canoe race, leaving the glory to his friend Long Bow. He also knew that Black Rock was considered a good man in a canoe but not good enough to defeat the great Long Bow.
“Then this is a challenge, friend Black Rock?”
“Yes, Long Bow, when the moon is full, on the following dawn we shall man our canoes on the great blue water. We shall race and see who best handles the canoe.”
Long Bow laughed. “Oh, Black Rock, are you serious? Do you really think that you can beat your friend Long Bow in a canoe race?”
“I do not know, Long Bow, but someone has to try.”
The leader called, and the men picked up their burdens and continued on their way home.
In the days that followed, whenever Long Bow had no work to do he could be found out on the lake paddling up and down the shore line practicing hard for the coming event. Black Rock on the other hand very rarely would be seen in a canoe unless he were fishing or trapping.
Word had spread swiftly through the village about the canoe race, and the excitement was growing as each night the moon appeared more full. Finally the moon was full and that night there was a great celebration in the camp in preparation for the big event.
Many of the braves were making wagers as to who would win, and there even were some hot words; but the men realized that this was to be a friendly challenge. Suddenly one of the braves realized that Black Rock was nowhere to be seen. This was unheard of the night before a great contest and they looked high and low but could find no trace of him. Finally one of the men thought to ask his wife who had been sitting quietly off to one side.
“He has taken a walk before retiring. He said that he wished to be alone this night.”
Black Rock was alone. He had walked to a small glen a short way from the camp, and there if one had come he would have seen a young warrior kneeling talking to someone although no other person could be seen.
“O, Great Manitou, who guides the lives of all red men, give me strength tomorrow to wield a strong and sure paddle. Carry my canoe swiftly across the waters and on to victory. Not for the glory that it will bring me but to wipe from the heart of my friend Long Bow his feeling that he is above the other men of the tribe. If he can be made to see right again, as a good Ottawa brave should, this is all that I ask.”
When he had finished Black Rock rose and returned to his home. The celebrating was still going on, but quietly Black Rock said good-night to his wife and wrapped himself in his blanket and was soon asleep. He had been troubled, but his walk and his prayer had eased his mind, for now he knew that it rested with the great spirits.
The following day dawned bright and clear, and before the sun had risen very far in the heavens the lake shore was crowded with eager spectators waiting for the start of the race.
The rules were outlined to the two warriors and then each took his position along the shore, standing in their respective canoes. About a mile down the shore of the lake a warrior stood with a gayly colored coup stick. This was the point which would indicate the finish line. The signal was given, and the two men bent to the task.
The crowd cheered as the two canoes sped down the shore line, neither one getting far ahead before the other would pull alongside. As they neared the finish line, the watchers on the shore could see the muscles of the two men striving in their backs and shoulders.
Finally the finish line was just a few yards away, and with a mighty surge, Black Rock drove his canoe across the finish line first.
There was a mixed chorus of groans and cheers as the men returned to the starting point and beached their canoes. The crowd milled around Black Rock as he stepped ashore, but he raised his arms for silence.
“Long Bow has lost the race this day, but let no man say that he is not a good man with the canoe; for there are none among us who to this day have been able to defeat him. I shake the hand of my brother Long Bow and to him I say, it was a great race and I have won, but it was a close race and if we raced again I might not be so lucky.”
“No, Black Rock, it was not luck this day that won the race, but rather a strong back being helped by a true loyal heart. I know now why you challenged me and I could not have won if you had tied one hand behind your back. I have been selfish and ungrateful for the many friends and good things that have been showered upon me. I have lost this battle of the canoes, but it has helped me win a battle with myself. I thank you, Black Rock, for bringing a straying warrior once again into the camp of good Ottawas.”
When the excitement was over in Flying Arrow’s wigwam and all the Shawnee had returned to their own homes to sit and talk of the birth of a new son to Flying Arrow, Standing Fawn, daughter to Flying Arrow, wandered off from the wickiup to think about this thing that had happened.
Until this day, little Standing Fawn had been the center of attention in the home of her mother and father and also when they went to visit friends; but now a new baby boy had been born, and everyone was very excited. When Standing Fawn had come running to tell her mother how she had helped her grandmother to dry rabbit skins and to make furry ropes for blankets her mother had said how nice that was, but went right back to taking care of the little boy Indian that now held the place of honor in the home of Flying Arrow.
This Standing Fawn could not understand, but for the time being she did not think about it any more but went to join the other girls that were gathering nuts. The girls had to hurry so that they gathered enough nuts for the tribal families before the squirrels got them all.
The walnut and butternut hulls were used for dyeing quills and so many, many nuts had to be gathered that soon the baskets were bulging with these and beechnuts, hazelnuts, and hickory nuts. When the task was over Standing Fawn returned home to her father and mother and her little brother.
As she entered the wickiup she could hear her mother singing softly to the new baby. There against the wall was the carrying case for the baby which Standing Fawn had helped her mother to make. That was fun working with her mother, but now mother was busy with the new baby and so Standing Fawn felt that she was no longer loved.
After supper, she crawled into her warm blankets and was soon asleep, but she awakened a short time later as the new baby cried for food. The crying continued until he was fed and then Standing Fawn was asleep once again.
For many weeks there was a great deal of work to be done with the new baby in the house, and Standing Fawn found that more and more she was asked to carry on the duties that her mother had done before this time.
When friends came to visit, they still had a smile and warm pat on the head for Standing Fawn, but most of the attention was given to her little brother, or so it seemed to Standing Fawn.
One night the little baby was very restless and did a lot of crying. Standing Fawn did not sleep well that night and in the morning when she rose to stir the coals for the morning fire and prepare to cook the breakfast she was feeling very cross. Her mother called to her from the wickiup.
“Standing Fawn, will you go to the stream and fetch some fresh water and heat it for me, please?”
“Yes, mother, I will go, but I am so tired,” Standing Fawn heard herself answer. “Today I would like to go to grandmother’s to help her with the quills if I may.”
“But, Standing Fawn, I need your help here today.”
“I want to go to grandmother’s today.”
“All right, Standing Fawn, you may go to grandmother’s today. I will manage alone.”
So after Standing Fawn had fetched the water she skipped merrily on her way to join her grandmother who was busy this winter in making fancy quill work upon moccasins and leggings, knife sheaths, and anything else that needed bright decoration.
“Welcome, Standing Fawn, you have not been to see your grandmother for a long time. I was beginning to think that you had forgotten old Granny.”
“No, grandmother, it is just that with the new baby I have been kept so busy that I have not been able to leave home for very long at all. I wish the new boy had never come to our home.” With that Standing Fawn kicked her foot at some soft rabbit hides that lay on the floor of the wickiup, more angry at herself than anything else.
“Now, now,” said her grandmother. “That is no way to feel, especially about a little boy who was not able to choose whether he would come to the house of your father or not. He is very small and he does not understand if you are angry with him, but he does understand love and attention.”
“Yes, grandmother, and he is getting plenty of that from everyone who comes to our house. Since he has come I have been very unhappy, and I shouldn’t be unhappy, should I, grandmother?”
“No, Standing Fawn, that is not the right feeling to have in your heart. Let me explain something to you as best I can.
“When you were born your father was disappointed, for you were a girl and he had hoped so for a warrior son, but he loved you as much as if you were a boy; for, as your mother said to him, your daughter will bear many sons. Your parents loved you and cherished you and did everything they could to make your life a happy and pleasant one. When your mother was heavy with child you were a great help to her around the wickiup. When your brother was born, there was much excitement in the village, for it was a boy and now your father had a warrior son and a beautiful daughter.
“For this he was very thankful and went to the hills to thank the great spirit for blessing his home so. When he returned there was great rejoicing once again just as there was when you were born, but then the work started just as when you were born, and your mother had no one to help her when you were a very small baby, but now she had you and she depends a great deal upon you to help her with your little brother. Soon he will be big and strong and you will be very proud to be called his sister. But now he is small and needs your love and attention.”
“I understand, grandmother, and I have been a very foolish girl. I will try to make up to my brother for this feeling I have had in my heart that is bad.”
“I am glad, granddaughter, to hear you say that. Now you had best run along, for your mother will be needing help this day.”
“Yes, my grandmother, but first I have something I must do.” So Standing Fawn strolled off to a corner of her grandmother’s wickiup and there she gathered some items into her lap and began working busily at something. Soon it was finished and she rose and saying good-bye to her grandmother, walked back to her own wickiup. Her mother was busy preparing supper, for the project Standing Fawn worked on had taken most of the day.
“Well, my daughter, did you have a nice day with your grandmother?”
“Oh yes, mother, a very nice day.” Standing Fawn was sure to keep her hands behind her back so that her mother could not see what she held.
Finally she excused herself and ran into the wickiup. There where he usually hung was her baby brother in his cradleboard, warm and sleeping. To the large cradle loop above his head, Standing Fawn hung a dainty little doll, all dressed in buckskin, that she had been so busy making that day. Next to the doll she placed a very small bow and arrows and tiny moccasins. Just at that moment her father entered the wickiup.
“See, father, what I have made for my little brother, who will one day be a great warrior. When he sees this doll it will make him want to run fast and shoot straight and carry himself as a warrior should.”
As Standing Fawn talked her mother had entered and was standing next to her father.
Flying Arrow motioned for his daughter to come to him and then kneeling on the ground and placing his hands upon his daughter’s shoulders he said:
“Surely, my daughter, if he were not destined to be a great warrior he would not be blessed with such a fine and beautiful sister. I am a very proud man to have such a wonderful family.”
Standing Fawn looked at her mother, and her mother was smiling. And inside, Standing Fawn felt all warm and good.
It had been many weeks since the Seneca hunting party had seen the friendly smoke of their own village and as they lay among the pines, resting now, they were thinking of how it would be in their village when they returned the following day to speak of their success on the hunt. Their catch was large and there would be much dancing and celebration when they did return.
Black Cloud, leader of the hunting party, lay stretched out beneath the boughs of a large pine and gazed up through the branches at the clear sky lighted this evening by a bright full moon. The heavens were filled with stars, and this would mean a good clear day for travel when dawn finally broke upon the forest.
The party had traveled far in search of food but their labors were not in vain for they were returning loaded down with good fresh meat for their tribe.
The trip had been an exciting one from the standpoint of the hunt, but now the excitement was over and the warriors were tired. A half day’s journey lay between them and their homes, and they were eager to start the next morning.
The canoes had been pulled up the side of the lake and rigged for shelter in case of rain but all the party were sleeping in the open. As Black Cloud lay gazing at the stars he remembered back to his days as a boy when he had made his first hunting trip with his father.
“Come, father, hurry, we must get started!” Little Black Cloud had called as he waited at the beach for his father to join him. His father finally arrived and, approving of the canoe which his son had chosen, he turned it upright and pushed it into the lake. They loaded their packs and hunting weapons and soon Black Cloud was seated in the middle of the canoe as his father pushed from shore.
“Where are we going to hunt, father?” asked Little Black Cloud.
“Well, my son, I thought that we would try Bear Lake; for many of our warriors have reported fine deer around Bear Lake, and you saw the two beauties that were brought to the camp last week.”
“Yes, father, they were beautiful bucks, and I hope we are as fortunate.”
“We have a hard long journey ahead, my son, and so pull hard upon the paddle; for we must reach the upper end of the lake before nightfall. There we will make camp and tomorrow we shall carry our canoe to the upper lake known as Bear Lake. It is quite a distance and though it may seem close it will take us some time to reach our destination.”
Father and son pulled upon the paddles, and soon the canoe was moving steadily forward toward the upper end of the lake. As the craft skimmed through the water, Little Black Cloud’s father pointed out the many signs of wild game that could be seen along the shore.
Here was evidence of where brother beaver had been at work cutting logs or here was a grey muddy hole near the lake’s edge to which the forest animals came to drink. Always the canoe was kept near the shoreline, for this made the trip more interesting since there was much to see.
As noon approached, Little Black Cloud’s father directed the canoe in to the shore and beached it in a small cove. Father and son stepped ashore and pulled the canoe up after them. Near by there were some fine berry bushes and, walking inland a short way, they came upon a clear swift flowing stream. They picked some berries and, seating themselves near the stream, they made a meal of some fried venison they had brought with them, berries, and water. After eating they relaxed for a few moments and then the two walked back to the lake edge and climbing aboard their canoe once again were soon continuing their journey up the lake shore.
It was near dark when they reached the top of the lake. Little Black Cloud’s father guided the canoe into a small stream leading from the lake and, calling to his son to stop paddling, he guided the canoe softly against the shore of the stream. The two Indians stepped from their canoe and then, lifting the canoe from the water, set it upon the shore.
“We shall make camp here for the night, my son. You will gather some wood and I will see if I can catch us some fish for our supper. I shall not be gone long and there will still be plenty of daylight.” Saying this, Little Black Cloud’s father took up his fishing line and bone hook and a bright spinner and started back through the woods for the lake shore.
Little Black Cloud meanwhile started busily preparing camp and gathering wood for a fire. In an hour his father was back carrying a fine fish and soon they were having fresh fish steaks broiled on green sticks. These they flavored with some sugar, which they always carried, and washed it down with fresh water.
“And now, my son, we must sleep, for in the morning we have a long walk ahead to reach the Bear Lake.”
Father and son rolled into their blankets and the night noises around them provided a lullaby.
When dawn broke, Little Black Cloud found that his father had been up for some time and that breakfast was ready and waiting.
Following a hearty breakfast, Little Black Cloud picked up his pack. His father strapped his own pack upon his back and, balancing the light birch bark canoe upon his head, led the way through the forest toward the lake. The woodland Indians often had to make portages like this in order to reach their final destination.
After traveling for some time in this manner, Little Black Cloud noticed a clear space among the trees ahead. His father seemed to sense what he was thinking, for he called to his son, “That is Bear Lake just ahead. It was given that name many moons ago by our people, for it used to be the home of many bears who lived and thrived here, but when our people discovered that many fine fish lived in these waters they had to drive the bears off in order to make the fishing grounds safe for our people.
“Since the disappearance of the bears the deer have flocked to the shores of this fine lake, and now whenever fresh meat is needed a small party of us come to the lake and in a short time we have enough meat for the needs of our people.”
Soon the two had reached the shores of Bear Lake and, looking out upon the calm waters, Little Black Cloud said, “My, how peaceful the waters look, father. It seems as though nothing or no one had ever visited these shores before.”
Then a short distance down the shore there was a rustling in the brush and a splash, and soon the head of a doe would be seen bending to drink, and then another and another; and then the eight-pointed head of a buck could be seen a short distance beyond the does.
“Look, father, look. How many deer are there?” Little Black Cloud was very excited, for never before had he seen such a large number of deer in one place at the same time.
“Come, my son, we must leave our gear here and go in pursuit of the fine deer. They abide all along these shores and back away from the lakes in the shaded glens and the open meadows. It may not be as easy to catch them as it is to see them.”
Once again the canoe was placed in the water, and father and son set off to hunt the deer. They moved quietly down the shore, but no sooner had they reached a spot near enough to fire an arrow when the deer would turn and disappear into the woodlands. For several hours they paddled the shore but try as they might to approach the deer quietly the animals would turn as if warned and, with a flick of their tails, were deep in the woods by the time the canoe was within striking distance.
Soon dusk was drawing nigh, and the two turned their canoe to return to where they had left their gear.
“Come,” said Little Black Cloud’s father, “we will have some supper and when it is dark we shall hunt again.”
“But, father, how can you hunt when it is dark? You cannot see the deer.”
“I will show you, my son. First we must gather some pine knots.”
And so the supper was prepared and two very hungry Indians feasted and then sat back to allow the food to settle. Finally the father rose and taking his boy by the hand they wandered into the woods to gather pine knots. Finally they had gathered about ten pine knots and these they placed in the bottom of the canoe.
Then Little Black Cloud’s father made an attachment on the front of the canoe which would hold a burning pine knot. It was getting dark faster now, and so the two Indians loaded their weapons into the canoe and then strapping a piece of birch bark to the bow of the canoe to act as a reflector they pushed away from shore after lighting a pine knot and placing it in the holder which contained sand so the fire would not burn the canoe. It was then that Little Black Cloud was able to see why his father wanted the pine knots.
As they skimmed along the shore, the deer would see the light and be attracted by it to the shore. This would then make them easy targets, for their bodies would then be outlined on the shore.
Slowly the canoe moved along the shore until Little Black Cloud’s father motioned for him to stop paddling. Placing his paddle in the bottom of the canoe, Little Black Cloud took his bow and arrow and stood waiting. Soon the flash of a pair of eyes was seen and then Little Black Cloud fired.
There was a splash and all was still. They steered the canoe toward the place they had seen the deer and there lay a small buck. This was placed in the canoe and they moved on.
Little Black Cloud shot another deer that night, and then father and son returned to camp to skin and dress the two deer.
The following day they returned to the lake where they had started and were soon paddling down the lake shore for home. Little Black Cloud’s father decided not to stop that evening and so continued paddling swiftly until the friendly fires of the village were in sight. He beached the canoe, and a proud father and a very tired young Indian boy entered the village that night with two fine specimens of deer.
Black Cloud sighed as he lay under the pine. Yes, these were fond memories he had of the days when he was a youth.
But soon he would be doing the same thing his father had done twelve summers ago for when he returned to the village the next day, he did not know that his wife would be waiting for him with a new-born baby son, a boy who would some day paddle swiftly along the lake shore with his father.
The drums beat slowly. A cloud of sadness hung over the Iroquois village. People moved slowly about their tasks. Even the pets of the village seemed to have lost their playfulness. The little children were playing quietly at sitting games, rather than the usual noisy running games that they liked so well.
As Little Rock, a young Iroquois warrior, rode into the village with a dead buck slung across his pony, he became suddenly aware of the great feeling of sadness that was upon his village. Instead of hearing the usual gay greetings from the people of the tribe, Little Rock noticed that when he looked at them they would shake their heads and turn slowly away. Little Rock feared that great trouble had come and wanted to know what it was. So he dug his heels into his pony’s sides and sped toward his father’s wigwam. As he drew near, he saw a number of people gathered close to the entrance. The drums boomed slowly and sadly. As Little Rock came nearer his friend, Little Red Cloud, stopped him.
“Wait, Little Rock!” his friend warned gently. “Do not go to your father now. The Medicine Man is with him.”
“What is the trouble with my father?”
“Do not worry, Little Rock. Great Rock is a great and strong Chief. He will be all right.”
“As my friend, Little Red Cloud, I ask you once again. What is the matter with my father? It cannot be so simple, when half the tribe gathers outside the entrance to my father’s wigwam. They usually come to talk or seek advice, but now they are silent and their faces are sad. Tell me, Little Red Cloud, what is wrong?”
Little Rock could not wait for an answer. He jumped from his pony and ran swiftly toward his father’s wigwam. He was met at the entrance by his mother.
“Wait, Little Rock! Do not come in yet. Tall Spear is making medicine for your father. He is very ill.”
“I must go to him. He may need me.”
Just then the Medicine Man joined Little Rock’s mother.
“Your father is asking for you, Little Rock,” the old man said. “You can see him now.”
Little Rock stepped inside the wigwam and found his father lying on the great buffalo robe, his head propped up. Great Rock’s face looked drawn and tired and he breathed with great difficulty. As Little Rock knelt beside his father, the sick man’s eyes opened wide.
“My son, you have returned.” Great Rock spoke slowly as though each word pained him greatly. “Did you have a good hunt?”
“Yes, my father. There was much game and I was able to bring a really fine buck back to our village. He will give us much fine meat, and his skin will make you a fine shirt.”
Great Rock closed his eyes for a few moments while Little Rock, his mother, and the Medicine Man waited anxiously in silence. Then Great Rock opened his eyes, wet his lips, and started speaking with great effort again.
“That is good, my son. You have learned the ways of the forest well. This was your first trip alone into the great forest, yet you have tracked down a fine buck.” The old chief seemed more tired than before.
Little Rock reached for a bowl of soup near by and spooned some of this to his father’s lips. The old man started to sip the soup slowly. Then he raised his hand weakly.
“My son, your father is old. Last night this sickness came upon me. I feel that the time is growing near when I shall journey to the Happy Hunting Grounds. I have raised you to be a warrior in our tribe. I have taught you the way of the bear and the way of the fox. You will have to be the man of the family now and provide for your mother.”
“But, my father,” said Little Rock, “you must not leave us now. Our tribe and all the Iroquois need you now more than ever before. There is trouble among the tribes. Soon the Great Council will meet. If your seat at the Council is taken by one who is not so wise, the trouble among our tribes will continue and become greater. You must get well, father, for much depends upon you.”
“There are others as wise, my son. My voice is but a small breeze in a big windstorm. The men who lead our tribes are wise in the ways of peace. They will make good decisions. Of that I am certain. But now leave me, my son, for I wish to be alone. I am tired and I must rest for the final journey.”
“Yes, my father, I will go now, but it is not to pine and weep, as the others do. I know you will get well. Tall Spear will make strong medicine. I have no fear.”
Little Rock left the wigwam and, without saying a word to anyone, he mounted his pony and rode swiftly from the village. For many hours he rode until it was nearly dark. Then he stopped his pony in a pine grove. Leaving the pony to graze, he walked deep into the grove until he came to a place where an opening in the trees allowed the last rays of light to stream in.
Under the spreading branches of a great pine tree, Little Rock knelt and started digging with his knife to root up some plants. When he had gathered a handful of roots, he arose. He walked toward a stream and near it he picked some berries from a bush. He dropped the roots and berries into a small leather pouch and rode back to the village. He thrust the pouch into his mother’s hand and asked her to brew the roots quickly in some fresh water.
When the broth had been bubbling for a short time, Little Rock grasped the gourd from the fire and carried it toward the wigwam where his father lay ill with fever. As he approached the wigwam, Tall Spear stopped him.
“Little Rock, what is it you carry in the gourd?” the Medicine Man asked.
“Many moons ago, my father and I traveled deep into the forest. Finally we came to a large pine grove. Deep within the pine grove, my father pointed out certain roots and berries that grew there and nowhere else near our village. He told me that those berries and roots would make strong medicine for anyone sick with hotness of the skin. When I spoke with my father, I remembered those roots and berries. I thought that a broth made from them might save his life. So I have brought them to his wigwam.”
The Medicine Man grasped the gourd and was about to turn away when Little Rock seized his arm.
“Make him drink, Tall Spear. Tell him this is broth made from the plants in the pine grove. He will understand and he will drink.”
“I will give him the medicine and I will tell him. You have done well, Little Rock. Your respect for your father’s wisdom is very great.”
With that the Medicine Man disappeared inside the wigwam, and Little Rock sat upon the ground to wait. Soon Tall Spear came out again.
“Your father has sipped the broth. He told me to clasp your hand as he would in thanks for bringing the roots. He is resting now. All we can do is wait.”
As time went by, Little Rock became drowsy and soon could keep his eyes open no longer. As he fell asleep, the old Medicine Man took his blanket and wrapped it around the young brave’s shoulders.
A new day was dawning as Little Rock awoke. He looked quickly toward the entrance of the wigwam. Suddenly Tall Spear appeared, his face looking cheerful.
“Your father is asking for you. He is weak but he will not die. He will sit at the Council soon to decide for peace. Go to him and go with your head held high, for you have much to be proud of this day.”
Little Rock entered the wigwam and hurried to his father’s side. At that moment his father reached out his hand and Little Rock bent down to take it. The eyes of father and son met in silence. No words were needed to tell how much more closely their lives were tied together.
Tall Spear stepped quickly outside. It seemed only a moment to the men inside the wigwam when they heard the voices of their Oneida brothers speaking loudly and happily again.
Black Hawk was a young Shawnee brave who lived in the earliest days of the American Indian. Black Hawk had been raised in his village by his father, Tall Hawk, who was very proud of him.
Tall Hawk had very carefully taught Black Hawk all there was to know about hunting, fishing, stalking, and all the other necessary ways of forest and stream.
Each year, Tall Hawk would look at his son growing and exclaim to his wife, Soft Bird, “See how tall and strong he grows. Surely he is the most handsome brave in our village. Not only is he handsome but brave and strong as well; he will bring much honor and glory to his father.” At this Soft Bird nodded, for she knew how much Tall Hawk thought of his son.
It was late spring, and the Shawnee were preparing to take the trail of the wild fish and game. It was time they began thinking of new skins for clothing and housing and food for their families. Each father who had a son, carefully trained his son for just this day.
Finally all was in readiness and the great hunting party, after bidding good-bye to their friends and loved ones, took the trail to the north where scouts had earlier reported seeing herd of deer. Perhaps this would be easier than they had thought, but as they traveled onward, Tall Hawk began to realize that they were quite a long way from the village.
He signaled for the party to stop and called two of the leader warriors to him. “We have traveled far from our village. Do you think it wise that we go on? Surely along the way we have seen many single deer, but nowhere have we seen signs of a herd or a large number. This territory which we now enter is the home and hunting grounds of the Conestogas. We must leave here, for we are on land that does not belong to us.”
Tall Hawk was turning to speak to the others of the party when one of the warriors interrupted him. “Yes, this is Conestoga country, but we are to stop now because of a few woodland weasels that call this their land?”
“But it is their land and we shall do just that, turn around and go back. Such foolishness this day could bring the angry Conestogas down on our heads in a very short space of time and we would be badly outnumbered. Our party is not too strong, and any attack upon us here in unfamiliar territory would mean that many lives would be lost.”
“Are you afraid, Tall Hawk? Does your stomach swim and your heart flutter like a bird? Surely the Conestogas do not concern you?”
“One Conestoga against one Shawnee, or even two Conestogas against one Shawnee, and I would not in the least be afraid, for the gods know that one good Shawnee brave could hold his own against any two Conestogas. But we are on their home grounds. Any attack by a large force of Conestogas and any one of us would be lucky to live. No, foolish one, we shall turn and go back in the direction we came. We shall search elsewhere for the elusive deer.”
With that, Tall Hawk turned to the hunting party and repeated what had gone on between himself and the other two braves. There were some grunts from braves who disagreed with Tall Hawk, but for the most part they were willing to return.
As the party turned to go back down the trail, one of the scouts who had been sent ahead came running into the circle to report that a large band of Conestogas were heading for just that place and they would be better off to start immediately for the home village. Tall Hawk gave the signal, and the hunting party turned quickly and trotted south toward the village.
It was fully a day’s journey and they had no rest. The long grind began to tell upon their numbers. When they would falter and were about to collapse, Tall Hawk could be heard to shout, “Keep running, fools! Do you wish your hair to grace the home of one of our Conestoga neighbors?”
This threat served its purpose, and the braves who were tiring suddenly found fresh strength and would continue the grueling run.
Soon they reached their own hunting grounds and were safe on the other side when the Conestogas broke from the cover of the forest and into the meadow which separated the hunting grounds of the two tribes.
Suddenly the leader of the Conestogas raised his hand, and the band of braves with him stopped running and listened. The chief explained that they had reached the border and could go no further. And so the score was equal. Black Hawk was proud of his father, for once again he had proved to his fellow braves that he was a wise man.
The hunting party slowed down a bit now and, after traveling about two miles, they camped for the night. They were tired and after a hasty supper they fell off to sleep one by one until all but the guards were sound asleep. Black Hawk was soon sound asleep as well, but Tall Hawk lay awake thinking.
Why did they not sight the deer before they reached the land of the Conestogas? Surely the scouts that had reported the deer herd to the village had not imagined seeing so many deer, or had they? And why had the chase taken them into Conestoga land? Over and over he asked himself these questions until he could not stay awake any longer and finally he was asleep with the rest of the party.
The next morning after breakfast the party continued on its trek, this time turning westward. Soon they came to a large lake and Tall Hawk divided the party, requesting some of them to remain here and fish and the others to continue on around the lake in search of game. Black Hawk was among those chosen to stay and fish and he was very happy about it. He saw that he was the only young brave allowed to stay with the fishing party and he felt it was because he was such a good fisherman.
When the hunting party had finally gone out of sight, Red Hand, the second in command, gathered the group and explained to them their mission. This lake should have plenty of fish, and so they would spend the next day and night here fishing and in the morning of the second day return to their village, as they hoped, with a successful catch of fish from the beautiful lake.
Red Hand led the way down the shore of the lake to where the last fishing party had hidden the canoes. Then, asking the party to team up in pairs, he slipped a pouch from his shoulder and gave out fishing equipment to each brave. When each one had received his equipment, Red Hand said, “We shall fish the lake for one day and we shall rest on shore for one night. On the dawn of the second day the hunting party will return and we shall all leave for our homes together. Let us pray that the gods will smile favorably upon us this day and that our catch will be a large one. Good luck to all of you, and may your lines be heavy with fish when you return.”
With these words ringing in their ears the Indians rushed to the canoes and pushed off into the quiet blue waters of this great lake. Black Hawk had chosen as his partner an older brave of the tribe by the name of Crooked Arrow. Perhaps it seemed strange that Black Hawk should choose his partner because he was so young, but Crooked Arrow very rarely spoke and many of the Indians of the tribe did not like him. Why they did not like him, Black Hawk did not know. He did know that Crooked Arrow was not very good-looking and that he was a little fatter than most of the other men of the tribe. But, aside from that, Black Hawk could see no reason for not liking him and so had asked him if he would be Black Hawk’s partner in the fishing trip.
Crooked Arrow had shaken his head and without saying a word had followed Black Hawk to the canoes and helped him lift one into the lake. The other braves had laughed at Black Hawk when they saw him choose Crooked Arrow as his partner, but Red Hand had motioned them to be quiet and stop making fun of the boy.
When the instructions had been given out and the equipment distributed among the braves, Black Hawk and Crooked Arrow stepped into their canoe and pushed away from the shore. They dipped their paddles softly into the lake and the canoe glided quietly across the waters.
Soon they had pulled away from the other canoe and Crooked Arrow who had taken the stern of the canoe, was steering the canoe for a point of land about a half a mile down the lake shore. Black Hawk turned to him and asked, “Why do you steer for that part of the lake, Crooked Arrow? I should think that that section of lake over to the eastward would be better.”
“Crooked Arrow knows where the fish are, little Black Hawk.”
He said nothing more but pulled strongly with his paddle and the canoe fairly skimmed across the water. Black Hawk thought to himself that they would probably have gone even faster if he, Black Hawk, had removed his paddle from the water, for he could not keep up with Crooked Arrow’s stroke and was causing a backwash with his paddle by dragging it through the water.
Finally Crooked Arrow said, “My little friend, dip your paddle deep and pull strongly back toward the stern of the canoe. When you have completed the stroke, draw your paddle completely from the water and reach it forward high in the air before placing it in the water again.”
Black Hawk followed his instructions, and soon he found that the paddling was a lot easier by using that technique than the way he had been trying to paddle. He had been concentrating so hard on his paddling that he did not realize that they were soon to the place where Crooked Arrow said that they would be sure to catch some fish.
Crooked Arrow motioned for Black Hawk to throw his line overboard, which he did, and with that Crooked Arrow slowed down the canoe to an even, smooth pace which would take them just past the small jutting of land.
Black Hawk could see his own lure shining in the water. As the lure came parallel with the jutting land there was a great swirl of water, and the fight was on.
A very large fish had grasped the lure in his mouth and it was now a fight between the boy and the fish. It was a huge bass that was threshing around in the water and soon it was obvious that Black Hawk would be the victor. With some swift overhand strokes he had pulled the fish up to the side of the canoe. Then with a thrust of his arm, Crooked Arrow speared the fish with his fish spear and brought him safely aboard. He was a beautiful big bass and Black Hawk was so proud he nearly tipped over the canoe in his excitement to see the fish.
“Be not so excited, my young friend. It is a nice-sized fish, but the day is young and we must catch many, many more.” Black Hawk cast his lure in again, and soon the episode was repeated. Back and forth Crooked Arrow paddled near the jutting land and fish after fish fell victim to the line of Black Hawk and the spear of Crooked Arrow.
Soon shadows began to gather and Crooked Arrow turned the bow of the canoe toward the place they had started from. Black Hawk paddled even harder now going home, for he was very proud. There in the bottom of the canoe, all nicely strung on an improvised leather loop, were twelve plump large fish.
When they reached the shore, Black Hawk with his fish in hand dashed ashore to report his success to Red Hand. Red Hand looked with pride upon the catch Black Hawk held up to show him and then he said, “My, but that is a fine catch of fish. Did you catch them all by yourself?”
“Oh no,” said Black Hawk, “Crooked Arrow and I both caught them. They would strike at my line and when I pulled them to the side of the boat, Crooked Arrow would spear them and bring them on board. Oh, what an exciting trip we have had. How did the others make out, or are we the first to return?”
“Yes, you are the first to return, but remember you were not too far from the landing place. The others will be here shortly. Sit down and we will smoke and rest while we wait for the others.”
They sat down and waited. Soon the other canoes, one by one, would slip up to the shore, and the braves would leap out and triumphantly tell Red Hand of their catch. Soon the last of the canoes had been beached and the last of the fish carefully packed away for the journey home the following morning.
The braves had a supper of delicious fresh lake bass and after they had sat around the fire telling of their adventures on the lake they all turned in for the night. Soon the fire had burned to just ashes and all the braves slept peacefully in the quiet of the night.
It had been a long day on the lake in the sun, and now the quiet spring breezes through the trees overhead sang a soft lullaby along the lake shore. When it had been quiet for a long time, Black Hawk sat up and noticed that Crooked Arrow was gone from where he lay down to sleep.
Black Hawk looked around and then suddenly he glanced toward the lake. There he saw Crooked Arrow standing quiet. Black Hawk rose and quietly slipped down toward the lake and to where Crooked Arrow was standing. Approaching the lakeside, Black Hawk respected the brave, Crooked Arrow, and when he had reached a point about five yards from the brave he stopped. He could barely hear Crooked Arrow and then he knew that Crooked Arrow was thanking someone.
“Finally, O Great Spirit, I, Crooked Arrow, humbly thank you for sending to me a friend, this boy, Black Hawk, who asked me to go with him on the fishing trip. For this I am thankful and also I am thankful that you sent the fish of the lake to his hook so that his catch was a large one. You have been very kind to Crooked Arrow this day and I will not forget. I have never known my family, but from this day forth I shall look upon Black Hawk as if he were my son. I know he has a father, a good and wonderful man, but I am sure he will not mind if I remain close to him, for his kindness to me this day has brought great joy to my heart. Thank you once again, O Great Spirit.”
Crooked Arrow turned and walked slowly back to where he had been sleeping and lay down once again. Either he did not look or did not particularly notice that Black Hawk was missing from his place upon the ground.
For a long time Black Hawk sat by the side of the lake thinking about what Crooked Arrow had been saying. Suddenly he realized what had happened here. He had made a friend, a very close friend, and it made his heart warm. Slowly he too returned to where he had slept and, lying down once again, was soon fast asleep.
Dawn broke bright and warm upon the lake and soon all the Indians were astir.
They all ate a hearty breakfast and as they were packing the remainder of the equipment and safely storing the canoes away once again, the first of the hunting party arrived.
They too had a very successful hunt, and Black Hawk counted five very plump bucks being carried by the hunting party.
Some of the braves were quick to point out to him that the largest buck had been brought down with an arrow from the bow of Tall Hawk and this made Black Hawk very proud of his father. The party started on the return trip to the village and it was a happy group which entered the circle of homes to be greeted warmly by friends and family who viewed the fine food supply with a great deal of laughter and joy. The party soon dispersed, each one returning to his own home.
When Black Hawk and his father returned to their home there was a fine meal awaiting them; and the rest of the family, his mother and two sisters, greeted the two hunters with praise for their success which had preceded them to their home by the little braves’ spreading the word through the village of the success of the hunters, especially Tall Hawk and his son Black Hawk, the great fisherman.
After supper, Black Hawk stepped out of his home and wandered through the village greeting his many friends and talking with them of the adventures he had just been through.
Finally Black Hawk had been to almost all his friends when he noticed one rather shabby wigwam set off from the rest on the far side of the village. Slowly puzzling a little bit about this, he wandered toward the wigwam. He saw one of his playmates, Walking Bird, and he stopped to ask who lived in the wigwam in the distance.
“Oh,” said Walking Bird, “that is the home of Crooked Arrow. He lives off by himself like that, for he seems to enjoy being by himself. He is a strange sort of man and he very rarely comes out of his wigwam to participate in the activities of the tribe, except when there is a hunting or a fishing party or a tribal celebration. Was not he on the same trip with you?”
“Yes, he was, and I think I shall pay him a visit.”
Quickly Black Hawk approached the wigwam of Crooked Arrow and when he had reached the flap that served as a door he called out and asked if he might enter.
“Come in, come in, my friend, Black Hawk,” called Crooked Arrow.
The boy entered and Crooked Arrow rose to greet him.
“It is very kind of you to come and see me.”
“Is it not the thing to do for friends to visit one another?” asked Black Hawk. “Why do you live here by yourself? Have you no family?”
“No, Black Hawk, Crooked Arrow has no family, and I have liked living here on the edge of the village. It is quiet and I get much time to work on my tools for fishing and hunting. I like it here.”
Black Hawk stayed until it was quite late and he noticed that Crooked Arrow talked on and on about many, many things. Finally it was getting very late and Black Hawk rose to leave.
“Come again, little Black Hawk. My wigwam is always open to my good friend. The next time you come we will have another fine talk.”
“Thank you, friend Crooked Arrow. I shall return often for you have been a good friend.”
With that, Black Hawk turned and walked to his own wigwam. As he approached his home he noticed his father just leaving. When Tall Hawk saw his son, he stopped and called to him. “Black Hawk, my son, where have you been? It is quite late and your mother was getting quite concerned.”
“I was visiting with a friend, my father, a very good friend.” It was then that Black Hawk spoke with his father about the events on the fishing trip and about how Crooked Arrow had knelt at the lakeside and thanked the Great Spirit for his friend, Black Hawk.
His father listened attentively and then when Black Hawk had finished he said, “My son, I am very proud of you. You have done a great and generous thing. Crooked Arrow has been a lonely person. You have brought much joy to his life. To have a friend is a wonderful thing.”
“But, my father, if this is such a wonderful thing, why has no one befriended him before? Why does he still live alone on the edge of the tribe? Why is he alone on the hunt though he is with many braves?”
“He is not an easy person to talk to, my son. You, a boy, have spoken to him as an equal; this has meant much to him. The rest of us should be ashamed. We have been so busy that we have not taken time out to look at what is around us. It has taken a young Indian boy to bring to our attention this lack of concern for a fellow member of the tribe. If he had been a worthless brave who had sought pity and help from others, the treatment he had been given would have been what he deserved.”
But in thinking back, Tall Hawk realized that Crooked Arrow had always carried his share of the responsibility in the tribe.
When a hunting party was forming, he always volunteered; when a battle was in progress, Crooked Arrow was always found to be in the middle. When there was distasteful jobs to be done around the village or a new lodge to be built or some repairs needed or someone to stand night watch, Crooked Arrow would always be among the first to volunteer.
Yes, thought Tall Hawk, here is a man who has been treated with scorn who should have been treated with honor by his fellow braves.
The following day after giving much thought to the question, Tall Hawk went to consult with the leaders of the village.
After many hours, a delegation was formed and they proceeded to the wigwam of Crooked Arrow. The fat ugly warrior stepped from his wigwam and suddenly his eyes grew a little wild until he saw in the delegation Black Hawk, his friend.
“Why have you come to the humble wigwam of Crooked Arrow?” he asked of the leaders. “What have I done to cause you to come? If I have done wrong tell me and I shall do all in my power to make it right.”
“No,” said Tall Hawk, “It is we who have done wrong. We come to invite you to rebuild your wigwam within the village circle. There is a fine place right next to mine, and I would consider it an honor if you would build there and become my neighbor. My son has told me quite a bit about you and I can see now where we have been very unfair in the way we have neglected making you a part of our tribe. Come, become a part of our family. Share our fires and our food and we shall talk together of the great hunts. This we ask you to do as a sign that you will forgive us for this wrong which has existed so long.”
“Yes, I will come, but listen. You have done me no wrong. I have been happy living here on the edge of the village, watching the children play and taking part in the hunt. I have had a good life. I have never known what real friendship was from the time I was a little boy going from one to the other begging for food to keep me going. But Black Hawk has brought the meaning of friendship to my heart, and for that reason I have desired these last few days to live closer to my people. Yes, I will come. With gladness in my heart, I will come.”
The group turned and started for the center of the village to proclaim what had just happened; and, as they walked, a small boy, Black Hawk, and a not so ugly, fat, young man could be seen walking hand in hand—a certain lightness in their step that had not been there before.
Flying Owl was a very happy little Seneca brave. He had all he could wish for. His father was a very brave and honored member of the tribe. His mother was kind and made the best-tasting dishes of food for him when he was hungry. His sister and he would quarrel now and then, but most of the time they played and lived together very happily.
Their home was strong and warm in the winter and cool in the summer. There were always many nice clothes to wear and plenty to eat. Flying Owl was learning from his father every day about the ways of the forest and the stream. When anyone watched Flying Owl at play, he would think, “Now there is a lucky and happy little boy. I wonder if he knows how fortunate he is.” But Flying Owl was a rare little Indian brave, for he did realize how lucky he was. When he was still young, Flying Owl gladly shared his toys and other things with his friends. For this reason he was very much liked by both the braves and women and by the other boys and girls of the tribe.
One bright summer day, Flying Owl rose early from his bed and looked out at the bright warm sun shining down on the green forest and the blue-green lake at the edge of their village. He thought to himself, “What a wonderful day this is to go fishing. Only a short way from our home is the beautiful little hidden lake which my father has shown me. Surely there must be big fish in that lake. If I could catch some of them all by myself, my father would be proud of me and we would have a delicious supper this evening.”
So without any delay, Flying Owl gathered together his fishing tackle which he and his father had made with such care during the cold winter nights. Flying Owl was often allowed to go off by himself on short trips like this, so long as he did not go too far or stay away from his home after dark. He packed his fishing gear and some food and started out, waving good-bye to his mother and sister who stood at the entrance to their wigwam. His mother called to remind him to be back in time for supper. Flying Owl shouted that he not only would be back before supper but would bring their supper home with him. Then his mother and sister watched him trotting from the village until he was out of sight.
Flying Owl ran gaily along the forest paths, thinking that the many wild creatures had been awake since dawn. Now they were scurrying through the brush and the tree tops, enjoying the warm sunshine and cool breezes which blew gently through the forest. Flying Owl’s heart felt very happy. It was good to be alive, discovering new wonders of nature here in the forest instead of playing in the village that he knew too well. And he thought, “Perhaps some great adventure is waiting for me here in the green forest!”
He hurried on, impatient to reach the secret lake and catch the many large fish that he was sure were there. At the pace he was keeping, it was not long before he saw, through an opening in the trees, the blue-green, shimmering waters of the lake. Running faster, he reached the lake shore quickly and stopped a moment to look out across the waters and wonder where he would find the best place to fish.
He saw a tree that had fallen out into the lake, and decided to stand on the end of the log in the lake. He cast his line into the water and settled down to await the first nibble. He did not have to wait long. There was a sharp tug upon his line and he felt the line go taut in his hands. In fact, it had come so suddenly that Flying Owl was almost thrown off balance. Bracing the heels of his moccasins against the curve of the log, he started pulling at the line and brought in a fine fat fish. The catch now lay on the bank next to him and he was ready to cast again. In only a few moments, he felt another sharp tug and soon had landed another plump fish. “This is really fun!” Flying Owl said aloud.
Just then he heard a movement behind him. Turning quickly, he saw a tall handsome Indian brave dressed in the costume of the Woodland Indians, wearing the headdress of a chieftain. Flying Owl was startled, but the tall brave reached out his hand in friendship.
“Do not be afraid, Flying Owl,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”
“Who are you?” Flying Owl asked as he looked up at the brave. “I do not recognize you as a member of our tribe. How do you know my name?”
The brave smiled, stepped closer, and said, “Oh, I know your name because I am of your tribe. I remember you as a baby who looked so much like his father whom I knew well.”
“But I do not ever remember seeing you and I thought I knew everyone. If you are one of our tribe, I should know you, and above all because you are wearing the headdress of our Chief. Surely all, even the children, know our great Chieftains.”
The brave drew closer until he was no more than a pace from Flying Owl. Then he took a small deerskin jacket from his shoulders, laid it on the ground, and sat cross-legged upon it, facing the boy. “My name is Bear Claw and I am truly your Chief. If you do not believe me, you may ask any question you wish about our tribe, and I will give you the answer.”
Flying Owl accepted the challenge and began to question the tall brave carefully until he was sure that the man was telling the truth. Still he had never seen or heard of him.
“Surely,” the chieftain said, “you must know now that I am one of your tribe. But let me ask you a few questions. You have been asking me many, and now it is my turn.” He waited with a laughing sparkle in his eyes while Flying Owl watched his face closely. “What reason would you have for questioning me, Bear Claw?” Flying Owl asked.
“I would merely like to ask why you came to the still lake on such a beautiful summer day,” replied the brave, not taking his eyes from the boy for one moment.
“Well,” said Flying Owl, “I thought it would be fun if I came here today and caught enough fish for my mother to cook for our supper.”
“Oh,” said Bear Claw smiling, “that is a very good reason. Please do not let me stop your fishing.” Then Bear Claw stretched out on the bank of the lake and lay gazing up through the trees at the bright blue sky.
Flying Owl hesitated, thinking about this strong brave’s strange behavior. Then he remembered the fish he must catch and how he must return home before dark. So he cast his line into the water again and almost immediately caught another large fish. This he placed with the other two and went on fishing until he soon had a good catch. Seeing the sun sinking lower in the afternoon sky, he knew that he must hurry to reach the village in time for his mother to cook the fish for supper.
Taking a stout birch branch, he ran one end of the branch through the gills of the fish to carry his catch over his shoulder. As he turned to say good-bye to the brave who had kept him company at the lakeside, he was surprised to find him gone. Beneath the tree, he saw only the flattened fir needles where the brave had lain watching him. He looked all around and could find no further trace of him. Flying Owl moved even faster toward home, because now he certainly had a great deal to tell his friends. He reached home in plenty of time before supper and handed the fish to his mother, telling her that, like his father, he had brought their meal for the evening. His mother was very proud and told him so. Then she asked, “Did you have any strange and wonderful adventures today, my little Flying Owl?”
The boy was just about to blurt out that he had, when he decided that he should wait to tell his father first about everything that had happened. So all he said was, “We will talk later, mother. I have much to tell you.”
Impatient now to break the news to his father, he went outside to look for him. Flying Owl found him talking with another brave and waited respectfully until his father had finished and was starting home. Planting himself in front of his father, Flying Owl began to tell his story, but he was speaking so fast that his father could hardly understand him.
“Wait, my son! You must speak more slowly. I want to hear about everything that happened to you today, but your words tumble out so swiftly that my brain can’t make any sense of them. Now start from the beginning again.”
Flying Owl took a deep breath and began slowly this time to tell his father all about his adventure at the great still lake in the deep forest. As he talked, his father’s face looked more and more puzzled. When Flying Owl had finished, his father put one hand on his son’s shoulder, and they started for the wigwam. Nothing more was said about the adventure until they reached home. While Flying Owl was washing, his father turned to his mother and asked her what she thought of their son’s story.
“He has not told me about it yet. He wanted to wait until he found you and tell you first.”
When the family had begun eating the supper of fish Flying Owl had caught, the young brave told his story once again for his mother’s benefit. When he had ended it, his parents looked at each other and smiled and said no more about it.
When the children had gone to bed, Flying Owl’s mother said to her husband, “Surely you do not believe this story that Flying Owl has told us. It must be something he imagined. He probably had a dull day and believed that he had to think up some adventure to tell his father.”
“No,” said her husband, “that is not the reason, for the catching of many sweet fish would be enough of a story. There is something more behind this and I must find out what it is. How would he know Bear Claw’s name? He was only a baby when the great chief vanished. Tomorrow I will go with the boy and see for myself this place where he says he met Bear Claw.”
The next morning, Flying Owl’s father remarked to his son that it was such a nice day that they ought to go fishing once again at the still lake. Surely if there were more fish like those they had eaten the night before, they should try to make another large catch and share them with other families in the village. Flying Owl was thrilled with the thought of going fishing with his father and gathered his gear together quickly. Father and son started off together into the forest, traveling at a slower pace than Flying Owl had gone the day before. It was almost mid-day when they reached the side of the lake. Flying Owl’s father suggested that they eat lunch before they began fishing. When they were through eating, Flying Owl’s father looked at the boy curiously.
“My son, show me where you saw this Seneca Chief yesterday.”
“Certainly, father,” Flying Owl said confidently.
He took his father’s hand and walked back to the fir tree under which the warrior had rested. They both looked carefully at the ground.
“I see no signs of where a person lay under this tree, my son,” Flying Owl’s father finally said. “Are you sure that you saw a Seneca Chief when you were here yesterday?”
“Oh yes, father, I know I did. We can’t find any trace of the spot he lay on because the fir needles have risen again like the grass on which a deer has lain. Surely you don’t believe that I would lie to you, father?”
“No, my son. I do not believe you would, but I know of no one by the name of Bear Claw who lives in our village. Perhaps one of our unfriendly neighbors was playing a trick on you, or maybe your imagination wanted a little adventure of its own.”
Flying Owl paused for a moment, thinking seriously.
“No, father, you have taught me to be truthful at all times, and to tell you exactly what I have seen and heard. I did see a tall Seneca standing right there, wearing a Chief’s headdress that was one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. It was not something in my imagination, and it was not one of our neighbors, for he wore no mask and no paint to hide behind. His costume was Seneca, and when I questioned him about our village, he knew every answer.”
“All right, my son, we will speak no more about it. But come, we must cast our lines. It is growing late and we must hurry if we are to bring home another meal this evening.”
So they started to fish and waited a long time without getting even a nibble. They changed their bait and moved to a new position farther along the lake shore, but nothing did any good. When the sun had sunk very low, Flying Owl’s father announced that it was time to start for home. As they trotted back through the forest, neither spoke to the other, because both were thinking busily about Flying Owl’s story, his good catch of yesterday, and their poor luck today.
When Flying Owl’s mother saw them returning empty-handed, she said nothing of the fact that there were no fish. When the children had finished their supper and gone to bed, their parents spoke of the boy’s adventure. Now they were more puzzled than ever. Just at that moment there was a loud muttering of voices, followed by such shouting and laughter and cheers as had not been heard in the village for many moons. Flying Owl’s father dashed from his home, grasping his bow as he went. Certainly something wonderful must be happening. As he reached the center of the village, the first thing he saw was a tall Seneca Chieftain standing amidst many warriors who were shouting and dancing. It was Bear Claw, a Seneca Chief who had disappeared after a great battle. His people had returned to their village defeated and heartsick, believing him dead, and there had been much sadness. It had happened so many moons ago that Chief Bear Claw had almost been forgotten. Now he had appeared in the village as if from nowhere. Finally Bear Claw raised his arms in the air, asking for silence.
“Your Chief has returned. I have much to tell you, but I must wait because I am tired and need rest. Tomorrow we shall have feasting and dancing and a Great Council. Then I will speak.”
The great warrior turned and walked to his wigwam where his wife and young son, who had been leading the tribe, waited for him. Flying Owl’s father walked slowly back to his home where the boy lay sleeping, unaware of the great event that had been taking place.
The next day the sun rose and covered the small village with a warm glow, as though greeting Bear Claw’s return. Flying Owl walked out into the sunshine and found everyone preparing for a great celebration. He ran to ask his father about the reason for all the excitement.
“My son, sit beside your father who doubted you. Today a miracle has come to pass, and together we will hear how that miracle happened.”
Although he was bubbling over with curiosity to learn what had happened, Flying Owl sat patiently and silently beside his father. Soon it was time for the special meeting. The whole village began to gather in front of the home of the great Chief who had returned to his people. Flying Owl and his father joined the others and sat watching the entrance of the wigwam. Soon a great warrior with a magnificent headdress stepped out. Flying Owl grasped his father’s arm and whispered, “That’s the Seneca Chief I told you about, father!”
“Yes, my son. That is Bear Claw, warrior Chief of our tribe, who has returned to us after we had believed him dead.”
Bear Claw signaled for silence. Then he began speaking with great dignity.
“Many moons ago, when we were at war with our enemies to the north, I fell, wounded by an enemy arrow. Before I could escape, the enemy fell upon me and took me prisoner. I was taken to their village where I was kept under close guard. They did not kill me but made me a slave—a far greater punishment for any Seneca. For many moons I worked in the enemy camp, often being whipped and beaten and spit upon by their warriors and their squaws, and even their children. Two moons ago I escaped and began my long trek homeward. But I moved slowly because the path was long and I was weary. They sent a war party after me to bring me back. So for many suns I hid in the deep forest. I led their war party in a chase, first toward our village, and then away from it. I did not want to come too close to our homes until I was sure they had lost my trail. I knew they would not dare to attack our village because they were a small band, but still big enough to take prisoner any of our people who might have wandered too far away.
“Yesterday I arrived at the secret lake with the only things that I had been able to find and bring with me from the enemy camp—my knife, my bow, and my headdress which they had taken from me when they captured me. Suddenly I saw a Seneca boy fishing. I approached and spoke with him. Last night I slept in the forest until it was late and dark enough to enter our village. The rest of the story you know. But first, before the celebration, I would like to see that young lad I spoke to at the lakeside, the young brave who is called Flying Owl.”
Flying Owl rose and stepped forward to face the Chief.
“You were the first of my people to see me, young brave, and it was the sight of you, fishing in the lake, which first made me feel that I was really home. You are a good fisherman and a bright lad, and I am sure you will become a great warrior. Because you were the first and because you appeared so brave in the face of what might have been great danger, I wish to reward you. Here is the bow which I carried all through my homeward trip. Keep it and remember the Seneca Chief you spoke to the day the fish were biting so well and the sun was warm—the day that happiness once again filled that Chief’s heart.”
“Thank you, Bear Claw,” the boy replied proudly. “May I hope that some day my father and I may go fishing with you at the secret lake?”
Everyone laughed and, most of all, Bear Claw. There was joy in the village for their leader had returned, and a boy had made him welcome.