I was awakened by the voice of the camp-crier, and although it was yet
dark I listened to his message.
The camp was to move. All were to go to the mouth of the Maria's--"The
River That Scolds at the Other"--the Indians call this stream, that
disturbs the waters of the Missouri with its swifter flood.
On through the camp the crier rode, and behind him the lodge-fires
glowed in answer to his call. The village was awake, and soon the
thunder of hundreds of hoofs told me that the pony-bands were being
driven into camp, where the faithful were being roped for the journey.
Fires flickered in the now fading darkness, and down came the lodges as
though wizard hands had touched them. Before the sun had come to light
the world, we were on our way to "The River That Scolds at the Other."
Not a cloud was in the sky, and the wind was still. The sun came and
touched the plains and hilltops with the light that makes all wild
things glad. Here and there a jack-rabbit scurried away, often
followed by a pack of dogs, and sometimes, though not often, they were
overtaken and devoured on the spot. Bands of graceful antelope bounded
out of our way, stopping on a knoll to watch the strange procession
with wondering eyes, and once we saw a dust-cloud raised by a moving
herd of buffalo, in the distance.
So the day wore on, the scene constantly changing as we travelled.
Wolves and coyotes looked at us from almost every knoll and hilltop;
and sage-hens sneaked to cover among the patches of sage-brush,
scarcely ten feet away from our ponies. Toward sundown we reached a
grove of cottonwoods near the mouth of the Maria's, and in an
incredibly short space of time the lodges took form. Soon, from out
the tops of a hundred camps, smoke was curling just as though the
lodges had been there always, and would forever remain.
As soon as supper was over I found the children, and together we sought
War Eagle's lodge. He was in a happy mood and insisted upon smoking
two pipes before commencing his story-telling. At last he said:
"To-night I shall tell you why the Nighthawk wears fine clothes. My
grandfather told me about it when I was young. I am sure you have seen
the Night-hawk sailing over you, dipping and making that strange noise.
Of course there is a reason for it.
"OLD-man was travelling one day in the springtime; but the weather was
fine for that time of year. He stopped often and spoke to the
bird-people and to the animal-people, for he was in good humor that
day. He talked pleasantly with the trees, and his heart grew tender.
That is, he had good thoughts; and of course they made him happy.
Finally he felt tired and sat down to rest on a big, round stone--the
kind of stone our white friend there calls a bowlder. Here he rested
for a while, but the stone was cold, and he felt it through his robe;
so he said:
"'Stone, you seem cold to-day. You may have my robe. I have hundreds
of robes in my camp, and I don't need this one at all.' That was a lie
he told about having so many robes. All he had was the one he wore.
"He spread his robe over the stone, and then started down the hill,
naked, for it was really a fine day. But storms hide in the mountains,
and are never far away when it is springtime. Soon it began to
snow--then the wind blew from the north with a good strength behind it.
OLD-man said:
"'Well, I guess I do need that robe myself, after all. That stone
never did anything for me anyhow. Nobody is ever good to a stone.
I'll just go back and get my robe.'
"Back he went and found the stone. Then he pulled the robe away, and
wrapped it about himself. Ho! but that made the stone angry--Ho!
OLD-man started to run down the hill, and the stone ran after him. Ho!
it was a funny race they made, over the grass, over smaller stones, and
over logs that lay in the way, but OLD-man managed to keep ahead until
he stubbed his toe on a big sage-brush, and fell--swow!
"'Now I have you!' cried the stone--'now I'll kill you, too! Now I
will teach you to give presents and then take them away,' and the stone
rolled right on top of OLD-man, and sat on his back.
"It was a big stone, you see, and OLD-man couldn't move it at all. He
tried to throw off the stone but failed. He squirmed and twisted--no
use--the stone held him fast. He called the stone some names that are
not good; but that never helps any. At last he began to call:
"'Help!--Help!--Help!' but nobody heard him except the Night-hawk, and
he told the OLD-man that he would help him all he could; so he flew
away up in the air--so far that he looked like a black speck. Then he
came down straight and struck that rock an awful blow--'swow!'--and
broke it in two pieces. Indeed he did. The blow was so great that it
spoiled the Night-hawk's bill, forever--made it queer in shape, and
jammed his head, so that it is queer, too. But he broke the rock, and
OLD-man stood upon his feet.
"'Thank you, Brother Night-hawk,' said OLD-man, 'now I will do
something for you. I am going to make you different from other
birds--make you so people will always notice you.'
"You know that when you break a rock the powdered stone is white, like
snow; and there is always some of the white powder whenever you break a
rock, by pounding it. Well, Old-man took some of the fine powdered
stone and shook it on the Night-hawk's wings in spots and stripes--made
the great white stripes you have seen on his wings, and told him that
no other bird could have such marks on his clothes.
"All the Night-hawk's children dress the same way now; and they always
will as long as there are Night-hawks. Of course their clothes make
them proud; and that is why they keep at flying over people's
heads--soaring and dipping and turning all the time, to show off their
pretty wings.
"That is all for to-night. Muskrat, tell your father I would run
Buffalo with him tomorrow--Ho!"