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Wongo and the Wise Old Crow
[Illustration: _Wongo, the little brown bear, Cho-gay, the Indian
boy-ruler, and Kaw, the wise old crow._]
WONGO AND THE WISE OLD CROW
[Illustration: Wongo, the little brown bear, Cho-gay, the Indian
boy-ruler, and Kaw, the wise old crow.]
WONGO AND THE WISE OLD CROW
by
GRACE AND CARL MOON
Illustrations by Carl Moon
The
Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago
Printed in the United States of America
Copyright, 1923
by
The Reilly & Lee Co.
All Rights Reserved
Wongo and the Wise Old Crow
CONTENTS
A Daring Plot
CHAPTER PAGE
1--In Timbertangle 13
2--Wongo and Kaw Make a Plan 32
3--Wongo Has a Wild Night 46
4--The Sad Tale of Old Grouch 60
Cho-gay of Timbertangle
CHAPTER
1--An Indian Boy Ruler 69
2--The Fox and the Wolf 87
3--Sandy Tells a Tale 108
4--Kil-fang Startles Timbertangle 121
5--The Rout of the Wolf Pack 129
The Thunder Drum
CHAPTER
1--The Year of the Great Thirst 133
2--Grayhead, the Grizzly 144
3--At the Cave of Cho-gay 153
4--In the Up-Above Country 166
5--Rain Comes to Timbertangle 176
_To our most flattering listeners
Francis and Mary Caryl
this book is lovingly dedicated_
_Grace and Carl Moon_
A Daring Plot
CHAPTER 1
IN TIMBERTANGLE
_There’s many a tale of adventure told,
Of heroes that do and dare,
But here is a tale of adventure bold,
Of a goat, a crow, and a bear._
_There’s a quarrel and fight,
And a desperate plot,
And a villain as bad as can be.
Oh, it is a tale worth talking about!
Just read it yourself, and see!_
A sudden gust of cold wind swept along the mountain side and rattled
the dry leaves and dead branches of some jack-oak bushes that stood at
the entrance of a snug little cave. Its sole occupant, awakened by the
noise, opened his eyes and looked blinkingly up at the pale dawn-light
that shone on the familiar rocks of the roof above him. Once awake, he
realized that he was thirsty and hungry, but he hated to get up, it
would be so nice to have just a little more sleep.
While the cave-dweller was deciding between the call of his stomach and
his desire to sleep, a big bluejay, with feathers rumpled by the wind,
lit on a rock at the cave entrance and, after peering within, called
out:
“Sleepy-head! Sleepy-head!” Then, as there was no response from the
cave, he called again: “Get up, Wongo. ‘The early bird catches the
worm,’ and the early bear may catch the fat sheep.”
“That’s all right about the early bird and the worm,” growled the
little bear angrily, “but a bird doesn’t know much and it served the
silly worm right for getting up too early. He ought to get caught.”
Then Wongo got to his feet and, as the noisy bluejay flew away, he
crawled sleepily out of the cave and ambled down a secret trail that
led to the canyon below.
Although the sun was not quite up on this eventful day, a pale
dawn-light flooded the mountain side, causing the trees and bushes to
look dim and ghostly.
Wongo was in an ill temper. Hunger, thirst, and the desire to sleep,
to say nothing of the wind that was bent on blowing his fur the wrong
way, made him growl under his breath. And now he must go to the little
stream that ran through the dark canyon far below and get a drink, and
if he met any kind of an animal on the way that was good to eat--well,
that animal had better look out for himself!
Suddenly he stopped and sniffed the cool breeze that was now sweeping
up from the gorge below.
“Meat!” he ejaculated. “Fresh meat of the young calf.” Then quickening
his pace he soon stood on the rim of the canyon, with his nose in the
air, sniffing to the right and to the left. It took but a moment to
decide that the good smell came from up the canyon, but _up_ the canyon
was forbidden ground. That tantalizing odor meant just one thing, and
that was that old Grouch, the meanest and most feared old bear in all
Timbertangle, had killed a calf, and had, no doubt, enjoyed a hearty
breakfast.
Wongo had never seen old Grouch, but he had always been very curious to
know what he looked like. The fearsome tales told of the old bear by
the many animals who _had_ seen him had caused the little bear to leave
the upper end of the canyon strictly alone. But on this particular
morning hunger and curiosity weighed heavily against his fear. What if
the old rascal had eaten all he wanted of the meat, and had gone away
for a drink, or an early morning stroll, leaving a part of it in his
den? Couldn’t Wongo creep up close enough to the den to see without any
danger to himself? Suppose old Grouch _was_ as bad as everyone said he
was, couldn’t Wongo run as fast as any old bear?
As he argued thus to himself he stood gazing below him where, in the
dim light of the dawn, he could see familiar patches of haw and berry
bushes that still had plenty of fruit on them, but he was tired of haws
and berries. The keen October air sharpened his appetite, and he wanted
something more solid and satisfying than berries or the grubs that
would be found under the flat rocks when the sun came up.
Again Wongo took long sniffs of the air, and while caution told him to
give old Grouch a wide berth, appetite and curiosity got the upper hand
and he moved softly up the canyon toward the forbidden ground. More and
more tempting grew the smell of the fresh meat, as he neared what his
nose now told him must be old Grouch’s den. He stopped beside a thicket
of jack-oaks and, as the smell seemed to come from just beyond it, he
slowly and carefully put his head through them that he might see.
Suddenly there was a rush from behind, followed by a stinging blow
on the head that sent him tumbling over and over down the hillside.
Scrambling to his feet he made off at top speed, catching a glimpse of
the great black bear from over his shoulder as he ran.
“I’ll teach you to go snooping around my cave, you little fat thief,”
shouted old Grouch, as he glared after the fleeing Wongo.
In mingled fear and rage the young bear ran on as fast as he could,
not stopping until he arrived at the little brook at the bottom of
the canyon. Here he took a long drink, and while it cooled his temper
somewhat, the cold water fairly splashed in his empty stomach.
As the thought of the fresh meat still lingered in his mind, Wongo
wondered if there might not be a stray sheep or two down on the plains
near the canyon’s mouth. Slowly returning to the rim of the gorge, he
started disgustedly along a little trail that led toward the haw and
berry bushes. But his thoughts were not of haws and berries. In the
fall there was often the possibility of stealing a sheep, as the Navaho
Indian women drove their flocks well up into the canyon for water at
this season of the year. The thick underbrush caused the sheep to
scatter in their passage up the canyon bed, thus giving any brave and
cunning young bear a fine chance to make off with a nice meal of fresh
mutton, provided his bravery and cunning were sufficient to outwit the
Navaho dogs.
Twice, of late, he had stolen a nice fat sheep from the scattered
flocks, but on both occasions he had been assisted by his friend Kaw,
the crow. Kaw had signaled to him from the top of a tall pine tree,
where the sharp-eyed old bird could watch the movements of the dogs and
could tell him where they were at any moment. As for the Indian women
and boys who drove the sheep, he could watch them himself as they were
tall enough to be seen above the underbrush, and he had no difficulty
in keeping out of their sight.
A queer kind of an old bird was Kaw, but a good friend, as many an
occasion had proven. The old crow loved to tease the little bear,
and Wongo always pretended to be indifferent to the teasing, yet he
secretly liked Kaw best when he was in a teasing mood, as on such
occasions he frequently talked in rhyme, or recited some verses that
amused Wongo very much.
His first meeting with Kaw had been a strange one, and he remembered
quite clearly all that had taken place on that occasion. That was more
than a year ago now, when Wongo, who at that time was scarcely more
than a fat cub, was on his way home one evening. He had been ambling
along through the quiet forest, and had chanced to pass the tall
stump of a hollow tree that had a great black hole near the bottom of
it. Having been born with a great desire to inquire into all things,
he suddenly wished to know just what it was like inside of that hole.
He therefore walked up to the stump, and had just put his little nose
inside when he heard the most fearful squawking and croaking noise that
seemed to come from high up in the stump itself.
“Woof!” ejaculated Wongo, as he jumped backward, his little eyes
bulging with fright and the short hair on his back standing up like
porcupine quills. Stumbling backward for a dozen paces he sat down upon
his haunches and gazed wide-eyed up at the top of the stump. There
sat a crow who was laughing so hard his black wings were fluttering
against his sides. It was quite evident that it was he who had made the
unearthly noise, and that he had simply shouted it down through the
hollow stump.
“Haw, haw,” laughed the crow, “Well, I do declare,
Did ever one see such a curious bear?
He’s so filled with desire
Both to peep and enquire,
He’d poke his young nose anywhere.”
With growing anger and amazement Wongo cried out, “You black old
croaker, I suppose you think you’re smart.”
At that the crow half fell, half flopped down to the top of a near-by
bush, and having straightened his face into a more serious expression
said:
[Illustration]
“Don’t add a hasty temper to your weakness of indulging in idle
curiosity. I could not resist so rare a bit of fun, and besides,” he
added, “I taught you a valuable lesson if you will only heed it, my
young friend.”
“Young, indeed!” snapped Wongo, who was at that time very sensitive
about his age. “Anyone can see that I am many times bigger than you, so
must be much older.”
“Your size has nothing to do with your age,” replied the crow. “Listen
while I tell you about the Pebble and the Sage:
“An old man walking o’er the strand,
Picked a pebble from the sand.
‘I wish that I were small,’ sighed he,
‘For I would gay and youthful be.’
“‘Size has naught to do with age,’
Said the Pebble to the Sage.
‘You’re very old, one might remark,
But _I_ watched Noah build the ark.’”
Seeing from the rather blank expression on Wongo’s face that he had
failed to understand the reference to Noah and the Ark, the crow
continued more bluntly:
“And thus, my friend, although you’re big,
So’s a jackass or a pig.
That I am small is very true,
Yet I am older, far, than you.
“I knew old Silvertip, your father, long before you were born, and,”
he added thoughtfully, “I suppose you come by your desire to peep and
pry honestly enough, as it was your father’s weakness before you. Had
he been less inquisitive, and had he taken my advice, he would not have
been caught in the clumsy trap that proved his undoing.”
The fact that this old crow had known his father caused Wongo’s
attitude toward him to change from one of anger to one of respect. He
began to listen to the crow’s remarks with a more kindly feeling.
“But to go back to the lesson I tried to teach you,” continued Kaw,
“you should never poke your head inside a hollow tree. If a bobcat or
a swarm of bees had been in that hole they could have given you a lot
of painful punishment before you could have said scat, and yet, when I
come to think of it,” he added with a droll expression on his face, “I
suppose _you_ could make bees stand for you.”
“How could I?” asked Wongo. “I don’t think I understand how I could
make bees do anything except get after me.”
“Well,” said the crow, as he spread his wings for flight, “if I
remember my alphabet lessons rightly, a B always stands for bear.”
“That’s so,” thought Wongo as he watched Kaw wing his slow flight into
the darkening forest, and he turned homeward resolved that as soon as
he arrived he would ask his mother to tell him about Noah and the Ark.
But all this had happened the year before, and since that time the
crow had proven to be a delightful friend and companion. And now, on
this cool October morning, the little bear wished that his friend Kaw
would happen along to tell him if he had seen any stray sheep wandering
unguarded in the canyon below.
At the thought of the recent encounter with old Grouch, his hair
bristled with anger, and as he walked down the little trail hungry and
disgruntled, he mumbled half aloud, “When I am grown I’ll whip old
Grouch, and I’ll certainly give him such a good beating he will be glad
to leave the country.”
Suddenly a familiar voice, that seemed to come from above him,
remarked, “He who wins a fight does not always depend upon size, friend
Wongo.”
“Hullo, Kaw,” said the bear, whose ill temper began to leave him the
instant he heard the voice of his friend. “I was just thinking of you
a moment ago, and when you spoke I was wishing I were big enough to
whip old Grouch, and I’ll surely do it when I am grown. I had a fight
with the old black rascal a few minutes ago, but it wasn’t a fair
fight, for he hit me from behind, and I fell down a hill, and when I
got up he was too far away for me to fight him. But I’ll get even with
him some day.”
“So you would grow more before attempting to punish the old enemy of
the canyon, would you?” asked the crow. Then, without waiting for Wongo
to reply, he asked, “Did you ever hear the story about the Terrible
Turk?”
“No, I haven’t,” said the bear. “What about him?”
Clearing his throat, which at best was a bit husky, the crow began:
“With a flock of wild turkeys that lived in a pine
Near the top of old Tonka-pah Peak,
Was a whopping big gobbler that measured three feet
From his tail to the tip of his beak.
“This conceited old turkey was greatly puffed up,
Even thought he was too good to work.
As he’d bullied and whipped all the gobblers around,
He was known as the Terrible Turk.
“One night a strange gobbler flew up to the tree;
He looked small in the yellow moonlight.
There was something about him--just what I can’t say,
That would cause you to think he could fight.
“Well the two gobblers fought, just as one might expect,
And the Terrible Turk thought it fun
When the fighting began. He remarked to the hens,
‘Watch me start this young bird on the run.’
“Well they fought all the night; ’twas no everyday fight,
But by the faint light of the dawn
Could be seen the young turkey high up in the tree,
And the Terrible Turk--_he_ was gone.
“So remember, my friend, when you fight for a prize, That success
does not always depend upon size.”
“Do you advise me to try to whip old Grouch now?” asked Wongo.
“Well, not in an actual fight with tooth and claw,” drawled the crow.
“We sometimes have to fight with our wits, and there is usually more
than one way to defeat an enemy. I, myself, have long wanted to get rid
of that old trouble-maker, and we may hit upon a plan, but hush!” he
ejaculated in a lower tone, “there he goes now.”
“Where?” asked Wongo, excitedly.
“Down the other side of the canyon,” replied Kaw, “but you are not
high enough up to see him. I saw the old thief steal a young calf last
night, and I suppose he has eaten his fill, and is now after a drink.”
“Yes,” said Wongo. “I know about that calf meat, and--” He stopped
suddenly, as he thought it might be best not to tell his friend why it
was that he had gotten into trouble with old Grouch.
“You are not hungry, are you, friend Wongo?” asked Kaw, paying no heed
to the little bear’s sudden stop in his remark about the calf meat.
“My hunger is all there is in me,” said Wongo, promptly. “I am more
than half starved.”
“Well,” chuckled Kaw, “I was thinking that you might take a short cut
to old Grouch’s den right now, while I keep an eye on him. I think you
may find a pretty good feed beneath the big flat rock that is near the
front of his cave. Keep an ear open for my call. I will let you know
when he turns homeward.”
At the thought of his recent encounter with old Grouch, Wongo hesitated
for a moment, but he had great faith in Kaw, and he _must_ have
something to eat, so he trotted away up the canyon as noiselessly as
he could go. A half hour later, just as he had finished the last bit
of Grouch’s hidden meat, he heard Kaw’s faint, far-away “caw, caw” of
warning and beat a hasty retreat around the mountain side.
After putting a safe distance between himself and the den of old
Grouch, Wongo trotted down a slope to a ledge of flat rocks that
projected high above a steep cut in the mountain.
[Illustration: _From this ledge Wongo looked down over the plains
below_]
From this ledge he had often looked down over the sage-covered plains
far below, and one spot in particular had always attracted his
attention and aroused his ever-present curiosity. It was a tiny
place, or so it seemed from the mountain, a place where Navaho Indians
lived, and Kaw had told him that it was made of mud-covered trees that
were stood up together to make a kind of cave, but, of course, it could
not be a real cave, for real caves must be made in rocks or dug into
the earth. Often, as he looked down at this strange little house, a
thin, bluish cloud arose from the center of it, and when the wind was
in the right direction it brought to his nostrils odors of strange
things--things good to eat.
The Indian man-house always filled Wongo with wonder, and he desired
more than anything else to go up to it and see just what it looked like
close at hand. Once, when he had looked down upon it just at nightfall,
he had seen something that shone red like a bit of the sun when it
sinks in a summer haze. That shining red light was another very curious
thing that he must know about, and he must see it up close. He would
ask Kaw about that bit of the sun that he had seen shining from the
Indian man-house.
Now that his stomach was filled, Wongo seemed to be filled with
confidence also. The warm sun shone hot from the desert, its welcome
rays adding to his feeling of comfort and self-assurance. Why should
he have fear of the little place where lived the Navahos? Why fear
anything? To-night he would go down the mountain and visit the Indian
man-house and see for himself just what it looked like. Nothing, aside
from the dogs that he could outwit or run away from, could harm him.
He knew that the Navahos would not so much as touch him. Had not his
mother told him that they believed there was a witch--whatever that
was--in every bear, and that if they harmed the bear the witch thing
would make great trouble come upon them? Neither his mother nor Kaw,
the crow, seemed to know what a witch was, but that didn’t matter so
long as it caused the Indians to have fear, and thus kept them from
shooting their arrows into bears, as he had seen them shoot into deer
and rabbits. Wongo had observed that when Indian arrows stuck into
animals they nearly always killed them.
Turning away from the ledge, he started slowly down the mountain,
deciding that he would, that very night, satisfy his curiosity about
the man-house. In the meantime he would go down into the canyon and get
a cool drink, after which he would visit some berry patches just over
the ridge, and explore among the foothills a bit before his nap-time,
which always came just after the sun had walked past the middle of the
sky. At that period of the day the sun’s warm rays seemed to cast a
sleepy spell over the silent mountain side, so all of the animals, with
one accord, had decided it should be the hour for their mid-day sleep.
So Wongo ambled down the mountain and feasted on the berries in the
patch over the ridge, after a cooling drink at the canyon spring. Then
the little bear went happily to his cave for his nap.
CHAPTER 2
WONGO AND KAW MAKE A PLAN
Nap-time had come and gone, the long, warm afternoon hours had slipped
away and the sun was just wrapping itself up in a bed of pink and
gold clouds that hung on the horizon, when Wongo started, somewhat
cautiously, down the trail that led from the mountain through the
foothills far below, and on to the open plains. As he was shuffling
along, thinking how best to approach the man-house, and wondering if
it would be dark enough by the time he reached the sage-covered plains
to go into the open without being seen, he heard the slow flapping of
wings near by and a voice that sang in Kaw’s most teasing manner:
“Oh, he waddles along with his toes turned in,
His mouth set straight ’twixt his nose and his chin;
His little eyes peep from the front of his head,
And whenever he cries they turn very red.
Very red, so ’tis said,
Very red, very red;
His eyes, when he cries
Turn exceedingly red!
[Illustration: “_He waddles along with his toes turned in_”]
“In the animal book it shows him as ‘bear,’
And yet, I observe, he is covered with hair.
Now one never thinks of a berry as bare,
Yet who ever saw one all covered with hair?
Hairy berry?
Puzzle contrary,
For here is a bear that’s _not_ bare!”
As Wongo walked on in silence, not even deigning to glance in Kaw’s
direction, the latter continued still more teasingly:
“They say he can scratch, and they say he can hug,
And his skin, so ’tis said, makes a beautiful rug.
His growl and his strength and his looks are his pride,
Yet none of these things are worth half of his hide.
Hug a bear rug,
A bug in a jug;
His skin, so ’tis said, makes a beautiful rug.”
“That’s enough of your poor rhyming wit,” said Wongo, sitting down
beside the trail. “That last string of words is too personal, and
besides, your remarks about the rug make me nervous.”
“Oh! Ho! Little bear, you must be on a nervous errand to-night, eh?
By-the-by, I see that you are not headed toward home, and it nears the
hour when all honest folk should be on their roosts.”
“Roosts!” ejaculated Wongo, with a disgusted grunt. “Do you think
everybody roosts simply because _you_ have to? A fox or a wolf or a
bear would look well roosting out on the limb of a tree, now wouldn’t
they?” he asked crossly.
“That has no bearing whatever on what I said,” replied Kaw, “since I
remarked that it was about time that all _honest_ folk were on their
roosts. It is well that some of us can roost, and roost high, too, when
certain night-prowlers are into mischief.”
Ignoring Kaw’s teasing, Wongo suddenly asked, “What is the little red
light that shines from the Indian man-house when it is dark at night?
It’s like a bit of the sun when it sinks red in the summer haze.”
“That is what they call fire,” replied Kaw, “and when they make it a
little blue cloud comes up out of it, and they call the cloud smoke.”
“Well, I want to see it up close,” said Wongo.
“So that’s where Mr. Curiosity is going to-night, is it?”
“How about your own curiosity?” asked Wongo. “It seems to me you have
done a lot of prying yourself to have learned so much about fire and
witch, and the Indian man-house.”
“Well,” said Kaw, with a chuckle, “I have to investigate a lot of
things simply that I may be able to answer the foolish questions
of some of my ignorant friends. I was down there on a visit to the
man-house myself to-day,” he added, without giving Wongo time to say
anything further about his curiosity, “and there is a squaw-man at the
hogan.”
“What is a squaw-man?” asked Wongo, forgetting Kaw’s remarks about
foolish questions.
[Illustration]
“Well, he’s a white-skinned man who has an Indian wife. An Indian woman
is called a squaw, so the man is called a squaw-man. No men that have
white skins believe in bear witches, and they like to kill bears, and
they kill things with a long stick that shines, and it spits smoke with
a loud noise, and it shoots a small heavy thing straight at the animal
or bird that it points at. They call the bright stick a gun, and it is
surely more to be feared than bows and arrows. You may see an arrow
coming but you can’t see the little thing that the gun stick sends out.”
“Whee!” exclaimed Wongo, his little eyes growing wide with mingled
interest and fear.
“Yes,” continued the old crow, “I’ve seen this squaw-man before. Met
him some years ago away over on the other side of the two ranges, and
he certainly can shoot straight with that gun thing, as the loss of one
of my best tail feathers bears witness--and I was flying some at the
time, too. I didn’t get but a few grains of his old corn. But no matter
about that now,” he said, coming back to the subject in hand, “for I
must tell you more about what I saw to-day. This squaw-man came to the
Indian man-house yesterday with horses tied to a big thing that moves
over the ground without walking.”
“Snake?” asked Wongo.
“No!” snapped Kaw. “Don’t interrupt me with silly questions. The thing
has four round things beneath, where its legs ought to be, and they
roll over and over when the horses walk. The man calls it by the name
of ‘wagon.’ On top of it is a thing he calls a cage. It has four sides
and each side is like a row of little trees that have grown very close
together, only you couldn’t get through the little trees on the cage
thing, as they are fastened into a floor place and into a strong top
that is called a roof. I heard him explain it all to the Indians.”
“What is it for?” asked Wongo.
“Well, the squaw-man told the Indian men that something, or somebody
called a ‘show’ wants him to catch a bear, and not kill it, but put it
inside of the cage thing. Then the Indian men laughed and some looked
afraid. When the squaw-man gets a bear into the cage I suppose the
horses will walk with it and roll it off to the place where ‘show’
is. Now the reason I tell you all this, when I ought to be at home
and asleep, is because I have a plan that you and I must carry out
to-night.”
“I guess it’s so late I’ll not visit the man-house,” said Wongo, as he
slowly turned around on the trail and headed toward home.
“Tut-tut!” said the crow. “You will have to be much braver than that if
you expect ever to punish old Grouch.”
“Who said anything about being afraid?” asked Wongo, pulling himself up
short and trying to look very brave.
“I beg your pardon,” said Kaw, gravely. “I was foolish enough to
think, for the moment, that you might possibly be going home because
you feared the squaw-man, but now that I see by your look that you
could never be a coward I know that you will be glad to accompany me
down to the man-house.”
“Do you mean to say that you are going back to the Indian den
to-night?” asked Wongo, trying to conceal his fear.
“That is a _part_ of my plan, and we will go together. Listen. Since
seeing the squaw-man with his cage thing, I have thought of a scheme,
and if we carry it out successfully we will be doing ourselves and
everybody in Timbertangle a great service. If you will follow my
instructions no harm can come to you.”
“Let me hear the plan,” said Wongo, sitting down again somewhat
nervously.
“On the west side of the man-house is a corral,” began Kaw. “There are
sheep and goats in the corral to-night. The door of the man-house is
toward the east. All Navaho Indians make their hogans with the door
toward the rising sun. The horses are hobbled in a bunch on the south
side of the hogan. The wind is from the south. We will go up to the
man-house from the north, so that the dogs and horses will not smell
you coming. There would certainly be trouble if they did,” he added.
“The moon will not be up to take its night walk for some time yet, but
let us be on our way, as we can talk as we go. You are to go to the
top of the little hill that you will find close to the man-house, and
when you are there wait until you hear me call. Be careful to travel as
noiselessly as ever you did in your life. Three of my crow friends will
be with me in the sagebrush on the opposite side of the man-house. When
I see you come to the top of the little hill my friends and I will make
a loud and strange noise that will set all the dogs in our direction,
and will, if all goes well, stampede the horses.”
“Why do you scare the horses?” asked Wongo.
“Well,” replied Kaw, “four of the horses belong to the squaw-man, and I
just want to make him pay up a bit for the loss of my tail feather.”
“Ho, ho!” growled Wongo, “I understand _that_ part of your strange plan
at least. Go on.”
“As soon as you hear us,” continued Kaw, “and know that the dogs have
run in our direction, you make a jump for the corral and grab a sheep.
Don’t make a mistake and get a goat, for there are big ones in that
flock that the Indians keep to protect the sheep from the coyotes, and
if you should get one of them you might come to grief. Don’t kill the
sheep, but make off with it as fast as you can travel, taking the
shortest cut to the canyon. Hold the sheep around the neck so that it
can’t make any noise.
“Make as plain a trail with your feet as you can, by running on soft
ground whenever you find any. Go straight up the canyon toward old
Grouch’s den. You’ll be safe enough even though he hears you and comes
out to fight, as all you will have to do is to kill the sheep, drop it
and run. He will stop quickly enough when he finds the meat, but I hope
he will not hear you, and the chances are that he won’t, as he has had
a big feed to-day and will sleep. However, he is an old glutton and,
thanks to your making way with the remainder of his calf meat this
morning, he will be keen enough for another square meal before daylight
comes.
“When you’ve carried the sheep up to the thicket that is near his den,
kill it and lay it down. Then walk backwards, _backwards_ mind you, to
the big vine-covered rock, and when you come to it jump straight over
it, and run to your home by the long way round the mountain.”
“What’s all this for?” asked Wongo, who was confused by the long and
seemingly foolish instructions. “It sounds like a lot of nonsense to
me,” he continued. “Why in the world should I risk my neck to get a
sheep for old Grouch?”
“I am just coming to the explanation,” said Kaw. “When the squaw-man
and the Indians start out early to-morrow morning to catch a live bear,
what do you suppose they will do?”
“They will find my trail and follow it,” said Wongo promptly, “and it
will be a sorry day for me if they catch me.”
“Well,” replied Kaw, “you are right and you are wrong. They _will_
follow your trail, but it will be old Grouch and not you that they will
catch. The old rascal will probably smell the fresh mutton as soon as
you drop it, and when he comes down for it his tracks will meet yours,
and will be more fresh than yours when the squaw-man’s dogs come to
that part of the trail.”
“Ho, ho! I see your scheme now,” said Wongo, chuckling at the thought
of old Grouch being captured by the terrible squaw-man. “But,” said he,
stopping suddenly as the fearful thought struck him, “what if the dogs
should get off onto my trail when they reach the big rock?”
“I have provided for just that possibility,” said Kaw. “I have engaged
an old friend of mine to pick up your trail as soon as you leave the
rock and,” he continued with a chuckle, “they won’t follow _him_ very
far.”
“Who is he?” inquired Wongo.
“Well,” said Kaw, whose voice seemed just a shade apologetic, “he is
a polecat for whom I have done a good turn, and he is both anxious to
serve me and to get even with old Grouch, who destroyed the polecat’s
nest when in one of his mad fits.”
“I hope he stays some distance behind me,” said Wongo thoughtfully.
“After leaving the sheep,” said Kaw, continuing his instructions, “go
on around the mountain and I will meet you at the flat-topped rock near
your cave. We will then compare notes, and then go out to warn every
bear, and all of our animal friends on the mountain side, to leave the
country before sun-up--all except Grouch,” he added with a grin.
The two had now come to the sage-covered flat that lay near the
Indian hogan, so quickly repeating the most important part of his
instructions, and giving Wongo a final warning to use the utmost care,
Kaw flew away to the south. Although it was dark, Wongo could see the
outline of the man-house some little distance away. He walked toward
it very cautiously, noticing that it appeared much larger than it had
seemed to be when viewed from the mountain side. Reaching the top of
the little hill that the crow had described, he settled down in the
sagebrush where he could look about him without fear of making a noise.
He was now only a few yards from the hogan, and through a little hole
in the side came the mysterious red light, while from the top of the
house drifted a thin little cloud that looked white and ghostly in the
darkness. Strong were the odors it brought, odors of unfamiliar things
mingled with the smell of meat. Lost in wonder about all of these
strange things, Wongo almost jumped out of his skin when a black object
swooped down and alighted at his side.
“Don’t be so nervous!” commanded Kaw. “The dogs are all on the other
side. I came over to tell you that you will have time to go up to that
hole, through which the firelight is showing, and have a look inside
the man-house, if you will go with care. Keep your wits about you and
your ears open. I will start the big noise in a very short time,” he
added as he flew noiselessly away.
CHAPTER 3
WONGO HAS A WILD NIGHT
Left alone, with the Navaho dogs and the Indian man-house so near at
hand, Wongo hesitated for a moment before deciding to go up to the
hole in the mysterious house, but this mighty appeal to his curiosity
overpowered his fears, and he started toward the spot of light.
[Illustration: _Wongo put his eye to the hole_]
His heart beating wildly with excitement, he reached the little hole in
the wall of the hogan and cautiously put his eye to it. What a sight
met his startled gaze! There were several Navaho men in the house, and
two or three little men--Kaw had called them boys. The first thing that
caught Wongo’s wondering attention was the fire. There it was, right in
the center of the man-house. It was alive, and was eating sticks and
bits of bark that popped and cracked as they died! And as it ate it
seemed to leave a white dust that danced up into the light, when the
men prodded the fire with a stick. Heat seemed to come from it, like
the heat from the sun. Wongo had never seen anything like it before. On
the floor around the fire sat the Indians and the voice of one of
the boy-men drew Wongo’s attention away from the fire. One old man was
making something with straight sticks and the boy-man asked, “Why must
the feathers be put on the end of the arrows, father?”
“It is the tail feathers of the bird that makes the bird fly straight,
and it is the feathers of the arrow’s tail that makes it go straight
when it leaves the bow string,” replied the old man.
“Why do you make long little grooves on the sides of the arrow,
father?” asked the boy-man.
“When the arrow goes into the deer the grooves let the blood come out
at the sides. If no grooves are there, the arrow fills the wound, and
the deer may run far and get away before he is dead.”
Wongo drank in this information and put it into the back of his
thoughts for future use. Then his eye wandered around the circle of
men, some holding long sticks in their lips, from which came little
blue clouds like the larger clouds from the fire. This was confusing,
and he could not understand it. Then his gaze fell suddenly on a man
unlike any he had ever seen before. He sat back on the farther side of
the fire against the wall of the man-house. His skin was white, and
the lower part of his face had long hair on it, like the hair on the
throat of the timber wolf in winter, only the man-hair was black.
Just back of the man with the white skin was a long, shining stick,
standing against the wall. Suddenly the thought came to Wongo that the
white-skinned man was the “squaw-man” and the shining stick of strange
shape was the gun thing that could shoot to kill a bear. A little
shiver of fear crept over him, when the silence was broken again by the
boy-man, who asked, “Would the arrow from a strong bow kill a bear,
father?”
“We do not send the arrow at the bear witch,” said the man. “It
would not kill, but would anger the witch to great madness, and
trouble--_big_ trouble of much sickness--would come upon us all.”
Then came the strange voice of the squaw-man, and all of the others in
the hogan listened closely as he spoke.
“Do my red brothers go with me to get the live bear when the sun is up
to-morrow?” he asked. No one spoke for some time, and then an old man
near the fire replied:
“We will go and make much noise with the drum and rattle, and will beat
the ground with the sticks as you wish, but we will not help to catch
the bear witch, nor send arrows at him. We do not go if you are to kill
the bear witch, and we go only near the bear cave; not close.”
“That is all that I ask,” said the squaw-man.
Suddenly there came a great noise from the other side of the man-house,
followed by the loud barking of running dogs, and the snort of
frightened horses. Running quickly toward the sheep corral, Wongo
jumped over the low gate and made a grab in the darkness.
“What luck,” he thought, as he lifted an animal into his arms, and
holding it tight around the neck he made off with it at top speed. But
he had gone only a short distance when he discovered that there was
something wrong with the sheep. It seemed too slick to hold easily
and its legs and neck were longer than any of the sheep he had stolen
before. Suddenly the animal began to squirm, and to kick and twist
about in so vigorous a manner Wongo could scarcely hold it at all. It
seemed to be all legs and feet.
It went through such rapid contortions that the little bear was forced
to change his hold on it so many times he became confused in the
darkness, and could not, for the life of him, tell whether he held the
sheep right side up, or upside down. But that point was decided for him
a moment later by the animal itself, who, with a sudden twist, jabbed
its horns so hard into his lowest ribs that he gave a grunt of anger
and disgust.
“You are a common, cactus-eating goat!” cried Wongo, addressing the
animal, “and it’s too late to take you back, and I can’t kill you here,
or turn you loose,” he added desperately.
“Ba-ah-ah!” bleated the goat feebly, but loud enough to frighten Wongo
into making a sudden grab for its neck, for he had been holding it
tightly about the hind quarters, thinking he gripped it around the
throat. With a great effort he swung the animal up on his shoulder,
with head well forward where it could do no damage, and had started on
with a fresh spurt of speed, when he suddenly tripped over a vine and
down went bear and goat in a tumbling heap.
Wongo had sufficient presence of mind to keep a tight hold upon his
prisoner when he fell. The goat, having turned a complete somersault,
lit squarely on his feet facing Wongo, who, having but three feet to
use, had fallen awkwardly in a sitting position on his haunches, one
fore-leg extended with the paw tightly holding his prisoner back of the
horns. Thus, although the goat could not go backward, nothing prevented
him from going forward and, acting on the instant the thought came to
him, he gave a lunge, head downward.
“Woof!” ejaculated Wongo, as the animal’s head landed against the pit
of his stomach, and to keep himself from going over backward with the
shock of the blow, he was forced to use all four feet, thus giving the
goat the chance it wanted. Off it sped like a white streak through the
sage, and in an instant Wongo was in pursuit.
[Illustration]
Confused with fear, the goat headed straight for the mouth of the
canyon up which lay the trail. Having secured a little start of the
bear, the goat was running for his life and making good time. Realizing
that they were going in the very direction he would have to carry his
prisoner anyway, Wongo kept just close enough to the goat to frighten
it into greater speed, knowing that once in the canyon the goat would
stick to the path where there was fair footing, rather than attempt
to plunge into the rocks or thick bushes on either side. On into the
canyon sped the two animals; the goat, as Wongo had guessed, keeping to
the trail. The goat was becoming less frightened. Had he not butted the
bear over? Had he not run for some time faster than his pursuer could
run? He was suddenly filled with confidence, and felt that he had a
chance--a good chance--to get away from his enemy. As they sped upward,
Wongo began to realize that they were nearing old Grouch’s patch of
forbidden ground, and he had just caught the outline of the big,
vine-covered rock, over which he was to jump after leaving his sheep,
when he heard a savage growl from just ahead, and he suddenly realized
that his old enemy had met them on the trail.
Stopping instantly, Wongo began to walk backward as fast as he could to
the big rock, and as he did so he heard a surprised “Woof!” from out
of the darkness ahead; a sound of tumbling in the brush; then a sharp
clatter of small hoofs that seemed to retreat over the rocks far to the
left of the trail.
Jumping quickly over the big rock, Wongo ran at top speed around the
side of the mountain. He had run but a little way when his sensitive
nose told him that Kaw’s friend, the polecat, had kept his promise.
On ran Wongo, never stopping until he had circled the mountain and
reached the flat-topped rock near his cave. He had scarcely stretched
himself out for a short rest when he heard the flapping wings of Kaw,
who flew up, singing as he came:
“Two plotters, they plotted a plot,
And their plans were all laid to the dot!
Then they said, ‘let us meet,
In a chosen retreat,
And see if our scheme works or not.’”
“Well,” said Kaw, as he ended the last line of his rhyme with a
chuckle, “my crow friends and I surely aroused that peaceful little
Indian camp in great shape. We flew so low and kept up such an uproar,
the dogs followed us for half a mile, and we gave the squaw-man’s
horses such a scare it is going to take all of the men about the place
to round them up if they want to make an early start in the morning.”
Wongo then told Kaw of _his_ adventures since the crow had left him
near the hogan, not omitting a single detail of his experience with the
goat, nor of the final meeting with old Grouch.
At the end of the little bear’s recital the crow seemed so delighted he
could scarcely contain himself for mirth. Dancing around, first on one
foot then on the other and keeping a peculiar kind of time by flapping
one wing against his side, he sang in a high key:
“‘Oh, Mister Quack, you’re out of luck,’
Said the cunning little froggie to the spoon-bill duck,
‘Excuse my haste, for I must away,
Or there’ll be no ceremony on my wedding day.’
“Old Grouch will surely be out of luck to-morrow unless all signs
fail,” he added, as he settled down into a more serious attitude.
“Did you say that after you and the goat met old Grouch you heard the
clatter of the goat’s hoofs as though he were running away?” he asked
incredulously.
“Yes,” said Wongo. “When the goat met old Grouch there was a
dull-sounding bump, and the old rascal gave a surprised grunt and
seemed to thrash around a moment beside the trail. Then I heard the
clatter of the goat’s hoofs on the rocks at the other side, and he
sounded as though he were going like the wind.”
“Well, well,” said Kaw, shaking again with mirth, “I never expected to
hear anything like that, and I thought I was used to unexpected things,
too. There is still work to be done before the night is over. It’s time
you were warning the other bears on the mountain, and I must be off
to find that goat and tell him how to get back to his friends in the
corral below, before some night-prowling timber-wolf runs across him.
He certainly has earned his life, and besides,” he added thoughtfully,
“I may want to use him sometime and it’s just as well to do him a good
turn as part pay for the service he unknowingly rendered us to-night.
Have you many calls to make before your trip of warning is over?” he
asked.
“A good many,” said Wongo. “There is old Mrs. Black, who has her cave
about a mile above mine, the two Brown brothers who live over on the
point, Mrs. Grizzly who lives with her two cubs over on the other side
of the hill, and perhaps ten or twelve of our various friends who live
across the valley, and I must not forget our friend ‘Long-ears,’ the
crippled jack-rabbit, who lives in the brier thicket. The Indians might
try an arrow on him.”
“Needn’t waste your sympathy on him,” said Kaw. “He committed suicide
last week.”
“Why!” exclaimed Wongo in surprise, “I can’t believe it. How did it
happen? He was always such a good-humored rascal.”
[Illustration]
“Well,” said Kaw, “he found a gray timber-wolf asleep in front of his
den and, thinking it would be a good joke, he playfully kicked him in
the ear!”
“Umph!” grunted Wongo sadly. “He was a droll fellow, but too
thoughtless, I suppose.”
“Where will you advise our friends to go to-night?” asked Kaw.
“There is only one good place where there will be food and plenty of
water for all of us, and that is over the two ranges to the north.”
“Good place,” said Kaw. “Better than this, in fact. I know every inch
of the big valley, and the stream there runs into a beautiful lake far
over to the north, beyond the black hills. Let’s see, when the sun is
straight overhead to-morrow, you will have reached the big aspen grove
on the east side of the second mountain. I will meet you there and tell
you all about the squaw-man’s big hunt for the live bear. I expect to
watch the fun from the top of the tall pine that stands by the side
of old Grouch’s cave, and if you were not so touchy about roosting, I
might ask you to join me there,” he added with a grin. “But I will try
and give you a full account of all that happens.”
And so the two friends separated, each to continue his night’s work.
CHAPTER 4
THE SAD TALE OF OLD GROUCH
When the sun looked down from over the mountain the next morning it saw
an unusual sight. A long, though peaceful, procession of bears, foxes,
wolves, and even coyotes, went stringing along a dim trail leading
toward the north.
A large herd of timid deer, sensing the fact that there must be danger
somewhere, or the other animals would not be leaving the country at
this season of the year, trailed cautiously in the rear.
Over the foothills and plains and little ravines traveled the
procession, headed by Wongo. Through groves of big clean pine trees and
over long stretches of sage-covered hills they went, never slackening
the speed of their shuffling trot. It seemed to Wongo that it was the
longest morning he had ever spent, and he was just wondering if the sun
could be standing still, just by way of playing a joke on him, when on
rounding a sharp point he saw the big aspen grove a little way ahead.
Then he noticed that he was stepping squarely on his shadow as he ran,
and he could do that only when the sun was in the middle of the sky.
As they entered the edge of the first group of beautiful white trees,
Wongo looked all around for Kaw, but it was evident he had not arrived,
as he never waited for Wongo to look for him, as his sharp eyes could
see the bear a long way, and he always knew where the bear was long
before Wongo knew his crow friend was in the same neighborhood.
Weary with the work of the night before, and the long journey of the
morning, the little bear stretched himself out luxuriously on the
beautiful yellow carpet of the aspen leaves. He would rest a bit, he
thought. He would not sleep--no, sleep was not to be thought of--for
Kaw might come along at any moment now, and if he were asleep the crow
might not find him. Shielding his eyes from the sun with his paw, he
began to think of the experiences of the night before by way of keeping
himself awake, but his thoughts wandered into a jumble of Indians with
horns, goats on fire, and the squaw-man catching crows with arrows
that had wings--a confusion of thoughts that led him into the land of
slumber.
How long he slept he did not know, but he suddenly became conscious
that someone was speaking to him, or laughing at him, and he sat up
with a jerk. On a stump a few feet away sat Kaw, going over his wing
feathers with his beak by way of straightening himself up a bit after a
long flight. He was mumbling to himself and keeping up, all the while,
a low chuckle that occasionally rose to a laugh.
Seeing that Wongo was awake he said, “It is well that you take kindly
to sleep, friend Wongo, as it is about the only thing that has ever
defeated your curiosity.”
“Oh, I was just resting a bit while I was waiting for you to come,”
said Wongo apologetically.
“Just resting!” remarked Kaw dryly. “So I have observed for the past
twenty minutes.”
“Have you been on that stump for twenty minutes?” asked Wongo
sheepishly.
“Yes,” replied Kaw. “Thought I had better let you sleep for a while.
You and that goat must have had a ripping hard run last night. I didn’t
find the poor animal until about daybreak this morning. He was dragging
himself slowly down the mountain, many miles the other side of the
canyon, and was the most forlorn looking beast I have ever looked upon.
Although he looked quite thin and dejected, he still had some fire in
his eye. When the poor rascal caught sight of me he suddenly changed
his limping shuffle into an upstanding walk, and attempted a swagger
that was surely funny. I had considerable difficulty in persuading him
that I wished to tell him how to get home, for he was going in exactly
the wrong direction. After I told him a bit about your experience with
him, he was so surprised that I should know of it he listened to reason
quite readily. When I finally left him he was still holding to the
swagger for my benefit, and as he disappeared in the brush I thought to
myself, if he hasn’t been the boss of that sheep corral in the past he
will be from now on.”
Wongo did not wish to be impolite enough to interrupt the crow’s
recital about the goat, but he was fairly squirming inside with desire
to know all about the squaw-man’s hunting trip. Seeing that the crow
had finished his account of the goat, he asked:
“Did the squaw-man and the Indians go on their hunt? And did they find
my trail? And--”
“One question at a time,” interrupted Kaw. “Now that you have told all
of the other bears about our experience of last night, they will be as
interested in the outcome as you are. Go call them, and I will tell the
story to all of you.”
Wongo lost no time in rounding up the other bears that had come
with him, and all seemed eager to hear what had happened during the
squaw-man’s hunting trip.
As the bears lined up in a row, Kaw took a commanding position on a
low limb of a tree that stood just in front of them and from the half
dreamy, half droll expression in his eyes, Wongo could see that his
friend had something very interesting and perhaps humorous to relate.
Pausing a moment for absolute quiet, Kaw began:
“It was just about daylight when I flew up to the tree near the den of
old Grouch. I watched from my lookout for quite a long time and was
beginning to get restless when I saw the hunters coming in long, single
file. The squaw-man, with his dogs, was in the lead. He was holding the
dogs back with thongs that were tied around their necks. The Indian
men had rattles and tom-toms, though they made no noise. The boys had
clubs and sticks and some had bows and arrows with which to shoot at
small game. Far back of the squaw-man came the Navahos. They kept to
the trail, and your tracks were very clear, Wongo, for they followed
them easily. When they came to the place where you and the goat met old
Grouch they stopped for a look. Then they ran back and forth, and they
whispered and talked. They looked all around and it was plain they were
not sure about your tracks. I suspect the goat tracks confused them,
for _your_ trail stopped at the rock and bear tracks seemed ended while
goat tracks went on. It got on my nerves when they started to gather
about the high point where you jumped over the vine-covered rock, but
just about that time the dogs got the scent of old Grouch and in no
time the squaw-man caught sight of his den. He told the Indians to go
around the den to the rear. He said, ‘When I signal, you start the big
noise.’ Then he handed the leather rope that led his dogs to one of the
boys.
“Well, soon all the Indians were back of the den, all ready to start
at the squaw-man’s signal. Suddenly there broke loose a most unearthly
noise. I have never heard anything like it. Talk about giving old
Grouch a scare! Well, he was the most frightened animal I ever saw
in my life. At first he let out a half-hearted growl, but that soon
changed to a sound that was half whine and half yelp! In a terrible
panic he started out of the cave and down the trail, lickety-clip,
and I thought, now the hunter will use his gun, but he didn’t. He had
in his hand what he called a rope. Then I thought, ‘Well, old Grouch,
you’ve got a chance to get away.’ One end of the rope was tied fast
to a tree and I soon saw what the squaw-man was to do with the other
end. He swung that rope around his head, and just what happened next
I couldn’t see, for a cloud of dust arose just where the rope and old
Grouch met! But when the dust settled enough to see--well!” and Kaw
chuckled as he thought of what had occurred, and lapsed into rhyme as
the only medium that would do justice to the occasion:
“Well, there was old Grouch, like a cat in a fit;
He thrashed and he tumbled, he scratched and he bit!
But his efforts were vain, the rope held him tight;
Surely never was bear in more comical plight.
Pawing the air, on his hind legs he rose,
But the rope tripped his feet and he lit on his nose.
And then he got up with a look of surprise,
And the fire of his anger blazed up in his eyes.
He growled and he snorted, he kicked up the dirt;
Though he’d had many bumps, ’twas his pride that was hurt.
Well, when he had fought ’till he’d worn himself out,
They tied up his legs with a thong good and stout,
And rolling him onto a thing called a sled,
Down through the bed of the canyon they sped.”
By the time the crow had finished, the bears were laughing until the
tears ran down their cheeks. They danced with glee, and rolled over on
the ground in fits of mirth, all of which was thoroughly enjoyed by
Kaw, who looked down upon them with a comical twist of his head that
showed he felt fully satisfied with his adventure and the outcome.
After the noise of laughter had died down, Wongo, who was still curious
as to the fate of old Grouch, asked:
“Do you suppose they got the old rascal into the cage thing, all right?”
“Well, I wanted to make sure of that myself,” replied Kaw, “so after I
had had my breakfast, and a bath in the pool at the foot of the canyon,
I flew out over the foothills to see what was going on. There were
the squaw-man’s horses trailing along over the plain with the wagon
thing rolling along behind them in a little cloud of dust. As I neared
the wagon thing I saw our old friend Grouch, safely inside the cage,
and pacing back and forth like a bee-stung bobcat. I could not resist
having a bit of fun with the old beggar, so as I came up alongside I
called out to him:
“‘Come outside, my old friend! A bear of your age
Should enjoy a walk through the cool, green sage.’
“I had to shout it out pretty loud to be heard above the rumble of the
wagon, but he heard it, all right, and the way he looked at me was
something to be remembered. He growled and butted his old head against
the sides of the cage thing in such a temper I said, ‘Oh, well, if you
must be going, I won’t try to detain you any longer.’ Then I called out
to him as the wagon rumbled away:
“‘Good-bye, my old friend; a dozen good-byes!
To see you depart brings tears to my eyes!
As onward you go, may your speed never slack,
But let me suggest that you never come back!’”
When the crow had finished the account of his farewell to Grouch,
he flew slowly out over the hills, and Wongo was to see him no more
until they would meet beyond the Black mountains to visit the cave of
Cho-gay, the Indian boy.
[Illustration]
Cho-gay of Timbertangle
CHAPTER 1
AN INDIAN BOY RULER
_This story, dear reader--in you I’ll confide--
Contains a most terrible plot!
Of this I inform you, and you can decide
Just whether to read it or not._
_It’s a tale of a wild and wondrous land;
An account of a man-cub bold,
Whose life is sought by a desperate band--
So here is the tale as it’s told!_
There were several stories, each supposed to be a true account, of how
Cho-gay, the lone Indian boy, came to live among the Black Hills of
Timbertangle, a wild, secluded country, where no other man-animal ever
had lived.
Probably Kaw, the crow, alone knew the truth. That wise old bird, who
seemed to know almost everything, had told the animals how, several
summers before, he had seen a curious brown spot floating down one
of the flood-swollen streams, clinging to a mass of brush. Upon
investigation, the spot had proven to be a small Indian man-child and,
when the brush had caught to a branch overhanging the stream from the
shore, the little creature had finally crawled to land. From that day
to this, Cho-gay had lived in Timbertangle, seeming to be as much at
home among the animals as he could have been among his own people.
Where he had come from no one knew, but he was accepted on friendly
terms by all--except the gray-wolf pack. He was looked upon as having
strange power, that was, somehow, greater even than the power of tooth
and claw, for his hands did many things that clumsy beaks and paws
could not do.
Before the coming of Cho-gay, Kil-fang, the leader of the gray-wolf
pack, had been the feared and despised ruler of the Black Hills, but
Cho-gay had one day put secret fear into his heart. The wolf saw
a strange deep look in the eyes of the Indian boy that he greatly
disliked and could not understand. Twice had Kil-fang tried to make
Cho-gay understand that he alone must rule among all the animal people
of the hills, but each time Cho-gay had looked him in the eyes with
that strange, steady gaze, and had walked slowly toward him until
the wolf had lost power to do anything but slink back, and back, and
finally turn away. Thereupon this man-child had grunted and had made
a quick snapping noise with his fingers, which somehow seemed to mean
that he, and not Kil-fang, was the one with power to lead.
All this pleased the other animals greatly, for they loved Cho-gay,
because they had learned that he was just, and they despised the great
wolf, because he thought of nothing but to kill and eat. And now all
knew that Kil-fang had found one who did not fear him--one who had
greater power--and all knew that this meant that the wolf must leave
the Black Hills with his pack or lose all power over it.
So, with jealous rage in his heart, Kil-fang had taken his followers
into the north, vowing that he would return with a mightier pack, that
would eat up the thin-skinned Cho-gay, and all others who might be so
foolish as to dispute his power, or stand in the way of the wolf-pack.
Two winters had passed and, with these years of added strength and
experience, the Indian boy had established a kind of rule and order
among the animal people of the hills.
One morning, in the short sunny days of the fall, Cho-gay squatted on
a flat-topped rock near the entrance to his cave--a snug little hole
at the base of a mountain--and scraped the fat from a fresh bobcat pelt
with a sharp flint knife. As he labored he mumbled under his breath as
if addressing the skin:
“I wouldn’t have killed you, old Short-tail, but the cold of the white
frost comes soon, and the warm skin must be changed from your back to
mine. Now that you have gone dead, you have no need of it, but as I am
alive I can use it with much good. You were filled with the long years
of much living, for I find very little fat on your skin, and you could
have hunted not much longer--one more season, maybe. But I, I am young.
Kaw says that no more than twelve winters have gone since I came to
life, and I am filled with strength to hunt, and it may be I will have
to fight, if the evil Kil-fang and his miserable pack come from the
north to keep the vow Kil-fang has made. But Kil-fang is all growl, and
is filled with much bragging talk; in his heart is fear, and it is fear
of Cho-gay.”
As a small black shadow flashed across the rock beside him, Cho-gay
looked up in time to see a large black crow alight on the limb of an
old juniper tree that stood near by. From this perch the bird looked
down on the man-child, nodding gravely.
[Illustration: _Cho-gay scraped the pelt of a bobcat with a knife_]
“Welcome, Brother Kaw,” said the boy. “Many days have passed since you
and I have met.”
Kaw made no immediate reply, but looked steadily at the bobcat skin.
Then, in a deep, serious voice, he said:
“So _this_ is the end of old Short-tail--the most noble bobcat that
ever robbed a grouse’s nest or gobbled up young crows. And Cho-gay, the
friend of all animals, the leader of Timbertangle, has slain him.”
Although the Indian boy detected a teasing note in Kaw’s voice, the
reference to his friendship for all animals produced an unhappy feeling
within him, and rising to his full height on the rock he replied:
“The cold of winter comes; Cho-gay must have covering for warmth. There
was no anger in my heart for old Short-tail. He was both old and lame,
and is it not wiser that _I_ have his skin for good use than that it
should be in the greedy stomach of Yap-kii the coyote? Soon he, or one
of his family, would have hunted him down and eaten him.”
“Yes,” said Kaw, solemnly, “what you say may be true, but he was _such_
a good friend of all birds. He would do most _anything_ for them. How
he _loved_ them!” Then in a sad voice he sang:
“Oh, here lies the skin of old Bobtail, the cat;
Our loving old friend is no more.
When I think of his life, it surprises me that
Someone didn’t kill him before!”
At this Cho-gay grinned, for he had half-feared that beneath the mock
sadness of his friend was a rebuke for what he had done.
“To kill only where there is great need is an old law of the hills.
This you taught me yourself when I was yet very little, and I do not
break the law,” said Cho-gay.
As he squatted down again to resume his work, a soft pad, pad of broad
feet was heard coming down the trail that led along the mountain side,
and Kaw remarked, “Here comes our friend Wongo, the bear. I’ll wager
that curiosity or hunger brings him here, for he always is filled with
curiosity, even when empty of food.”
Cho-gay looked over his shoulder as the little bear came up, and called
out, “Welcome, brother Wongo! Had you come sooner you would have heard
a good rhyming talk from the mouth of our friend Kaw. It may be that he
will again say it.”
[Illustration: _“Welcome, Brother Kaw,” said Cho-gay_]
“If the rhyming talk was the kind he makes about _me_, I don’t think
I missed much,” said the little bear crossly. Then, as he seated
himself on the rock, he caught sight of the bobcat skin, and with
eyes wide with wonder he exclaimed:
“Who is it that leaves his hide for another to use? Did you kill him in
a fair fight, or in a trap? Was he--”
But the voice of Kaw broke in before the last question was finished:
“Did you? Was he? Oh what and who?
How very inquisitive are we.
Oh, we must know all about all that you do,
For we’re curious as curious can be.”
“Well, if _that’s_ the kind of silly talk you were making before I
came, I’m glad I did not hear it,” said Wongo.
“It’s too bad you can’t appreciate the work of a real poet,” said Kaw
sadly, “but I suppose when one is hungry his judgment is affected.”
At a sudden noise, half bark and half whine, that came from a point a
little above the cave’s entrance, Cho-gay rose, picked up a handful of
the fat that had been scraped from the skin, and went up to a flat rock
on the hillside. Moving the stone ever so little, he called out:
“Stop the noise, you little sharp-nosed thief! Your whining will bring
all the fox family here to ask questions why I have shut you up. Here
is all you get this day,” he added as he tossed the fat through the
crack. “Many days will go before _you_ are out. Twice you have been
a thief, and this time you will be a long time behind the rock so
that you will learn that it is not good to steal the dried meat from
Cho-gay.”
Kaw and Wongo watched this performance with great interest, and the
little bear wanted to ask many questions, but he feared the teasing
remarks that would surely follow. As it turned out, he heard all that
he wanted to know without asking.
After the fox had been silenced with the scraps of fat, two other
prisoners were visited and fed; one an old mountain sheep, and the
other a young bobcat. At the hole, or small cave, where the sheep was
confined, the Indian boy spoke to his prisoner:
“Old Twisted-horns, three more days and you will again run over the
hills as honest people run, but if you again steal corn from me your
skin will become a covering for the floor in the cave of Cho-gay.” The
old sheep made no reply, but ate what was given him in sullen silence.
At the prison of the bobcat the Indian boy peered in through the crack
beside the slab of rock that served as a door, and then picked up a
rope of stout buckskin that ran into the prison from the outside. As
he pulled it there came an angry snarl from within.
“So!” exclaimed Cho-gay. “You are still filled with anger. I will
not take the rope from your neck until you speak more softly. I know
the hole is too small for you, but here you shall remain until old
Twisted-horns is free. Then you will go into _his_ house, but you
shall not be free until Cho-gay has taught you to keep the laws of
Timbertangle.”
As he returned to his work in front of his cave, the Indian boy
remarked to his callers, “While Cho-gay lives in the Black Hills all
thieves that are caught will be made to obey the law of the hills.
There was great anger in Big-paw, the cat, when he caught himself in
the rope trap, yet he was stealing meat from my cave when the rope went
round his head. When I came he wanted to fight, but a twist and a quick
pull, and Cho-gay had him without breath to snarl. Now he shall not go
free until the hunger in his stomach has eaten up his anger. They that
steal shall be punished. Is it not a just law, my brothers?”
“It is just,” said Kaw.
“Yes, it has the _sound_ of being just,” said Wongo, “but when there
is hunger and poor hunting, the hunter must have food.”
At this remark, Kaw cocked his head on one side and looked keenly at
the little bear. Then he said, “About an hour ago, while I was flying
over the twin hills, I saw an aged mountain sheep who had been driven
from the flock by the young rams.”
“Where was that?” asked Wongo eagerly, as he got to his feet.
“On the cliffs above the aspen trees, on the south side of the first
hill,” said Kaw.
Scarcely were the last words of the crow spoken before the little bear
was speeding away toward the place where Kaw had seen the sheep.
“I have sharp eyes,” said Cho-gay, addressing the crow, “but how is it
that you have eyes that can see hunger in the stomach of a bear?”
“Have you not learned that hunger makes all of us cross? It is only
when our friend Wongo is very hungry that he is cross, and we do not
have to _see_ crossness. We sometimes hear it. Hunger will not take the
anger away from Big-paw, the cat. If you feed him and give him more
room he will soon lose his anger,” continued Kaw, “and it is because
he is a captive, and not because of hunger, that he will learn to be
honest.”
“Your words have the sound of wisdom,” said the Indian boy, rising,
“and I shall see if they are not true.”
[Illustration]
Going up to the flat rock that covered the entrance to the prison
of the old mountain sheep, he rolled it to one side. A moment later
the astonished sheep leaped out and dashed away up the side of the
mountain. Kaw watched this performance with keenest interest. Passing
on to the prison of the bobcat, Cho-gay picked up the buckskin rope
with one hand and drew his knife from his belt with the other. Then
pulling the flat stone from the mouth of the hole he gave the rope a
sudden pull. The bobcat came tumbling out, and before it could regain
its feet it was dragged to the former prison of the mountain sheep, too
dazed to realize what had happened before it was in new quarters and
the stone door lifted into place.
“Very quickly and neatly done,” said Kaw, in admiration. Then he added
in a low tone to himself, “Our friend Wongo should have good hunting
to-day, for if he should miss the old sheep on the cliff, he will
surely get old Twisted-horns, who is making for the same place.”
As the Indian boy returned to his cave to get food for the young
bobcat, there arose the sound of many yapping voices from the sagebrush
below.
“News! News for Brother Cho-gay!” came the voices. A thin, sharp-nosed
coyote emerged from the edge of the sage and stood a little in the
open, as though he feared to come nearer. Then the heads of three or
four of his followers were poked from the brush, as though to lend
support to their timid leader, and to see the great man-child to whom
their remarks had been addressed.
“News is of no use until it is told,” said Cho-gay. “Speak up, Brother
Fearful. What is there to tell?”
“Is it not a law among us that if one makes a lie, and tells it against
a brother, he shall be punished?” asked Fearful.
“It is a law,” replied Cho-gay. “Who is it that breaks the law?”
“It is Sandy, the red fox, who has made a great lie, saying that he has
flown like an eagle from the valley to the top of Skull-top mountain,
and that as he left the top to come down, a rock fell and rolled down
to the valley. And that our old cousin, Rip, the outcast wolf, who is
very brave, ran in great fear, believing that the mountain was tumbling
down. So our cousin Rip is made a coward in the eyes of all, because of
the lie.”
“Where is your cousin Rip that he does not come to accuse the fox?”
asked Cho-gay.
“He and Sandy hunt together, and he is afraid to make Sandy angry. Why,
we know not,” answered Fearful.
At the sound of a chuckle from the juniper tree, Cho-gay looked up to
see Kaw shaking with laughter. Paying no heed to this, he again spoke
to the coyote:
“All know that a fox cannot fly through the air to a mountain top. Go,
bring this maker of lies to me and we shall hear his story from his own
mouth.”
This order was evidently what the coyotes wanted, for they quickly
vanished into the brush.
When they had gone, Kaw could scarce contain himself for mirth.
Anticipating the scene that would follow when Sandy, the fox, faced
Cho-gay, he hopped up and down as he sang:
“’Tis a funny old world, for often I see
The right of a thing turned about,
And when it occurs, then we say ‘it can’t be,’
Till proof makes it true without doubt.”
As the old crow spread his wings to depart, Cho-gay asked, “Does that
rhyming talk mean that a fox might fly?”
“It might!” said Kaw from over his wing as he flew away.