Produced by Eric Eldred
[Illustration: 01 Pretty Mother of the Night--White Otter is no longer]
THE WAY OF AN INDIAN
By Frederic Remington
Illustrated by Frederic Remington
First published, February, 1906
Contents
I White Otter’s Own Shadow
II The Brown Bat Proves Itself
III The Bat Devises Mischief Among the Yellow-Eyes
IV The New Lodge
V The Kites and the Crows
VI The Fire-Eater’s Bad Medicine
VII Among the Pony-Soldiers
VIII The Medicine Fight of the Chis-Chis-Chash
I. White Otter’s Own Shadow
White Otter’s heart was bad. He sat alone on the rim-rocks of the bluffs
overlooking the sunlit valley. To an unaccustomed eye from below he
might have been a part of nature’s freaks among the sand rocks. The
yellow grass sloped away from his feet mile after mile to the timber,
and beyond that to the prismatic mountains. The variegated lodges of the
Chis-chis-chash village dotted the plain near the sparse woods of the
creek-bottom; pony herds stood quietly waving their tails against the
flies or were driven hither and yon by the herdboys--giving variety to
the tremendous sweep of the Western landscape.
This was a day of peace--such as comes only to the Indians in contrast
to the fierce troubles which nature stores up for the other intervals.
The enemy, the pinch of the shivering famine, and the Bad Gods were
absent, for none of these things care to show themselves in the white
light of a midsummer’s day. There was peace with all the world except
with him. He was in a fierce dejection over the things which had come
to him, or those which had passed him by. He was a boy--a fine-looking,
skillfully modeled youth--as beautiful a thing, doubtless, as God ever
created in His sense of form; better than his sisters, better than the
four-foots, or the fishes, or the birds, and he meant so much more than
the inanimate things, in so far as we can see. He had the body given to
him and he wanted to keep it, but there were the mysterious demons of
the darkness, the wind and the flames; there were the monsters from the
shadows, and from under the waters; there were the machinations of his
enemies, which he was not proof against alone, and there was yet the
strong hand of the Good God, which had not been offered as yet to help
him on with the simple things of life; the women, the beasts of the
fields, the ponies and the war-bands. He could not even protect his own
shadow, which was his other and higher self.
His eyes dropped on the grass in front of his moccasins--tiny dried
blades of yellow grass, and underneath them he saw the dark traceries of
their shadows. Each had its own little shadow--its soul--its changeable
thing--its other life--just as he himself was cut blue-black beside
himself on the sandstone. There were millions of these grass-blades, and
each one shivered in the wind, maundering to itself in the chorus, which
made the prairie sigh, and all for fear of a big brown buffalo wandering
by, which would bite them from the earth and destroy them.
White Otter’s people had been strong warriors in the Chis-chis-chash;
his father’s shirt and leggins were black at the seams with the hair of
other tribes. He, too, had stolen ponies, but had done no better than
that thus far, while he burned to keep the wolf-totem red with honor.
Only last night, a few of his boy companions, some even younger than
himself, had gone away to the Absaroke for glory and scalps, and ponies
and women--a war-party--the one thing to which an Indian pulsed with
his last drop. He had thought to go also, but his father had discouraged
him, and yesterday presented him with charcoal ashes in his right hand,
and two juicy buffalo ribs with his left. He had taken the charcoal. His
father said it was good--that it was not well for a young man to go to
the enemy with his shadow uncovered before the Bad Gods.
Now his spirits raged within his tightened belly, and the fierce Indian
brooding had driven him to the rim-rock, where his soul rocked and
pounced within him. He looked at the land of his people, and he hated
all vehemently, with a rage that nothing stayed but his physical
strength.
Old Big Hair, his father, sitting in the shade of his tepee, looked out
across at his son on the far-off skyline, and he hid his head in his
blanket as he gazed into his medicine-pouch. “Keep the enemy and the Bad
Gods from my boy; he has no one to protect him but you, my medicine.”
[Illustration: 03 He looked on the land of his people
and he hated all vehemently]
Thus hour after hour there sat the motionless tyro, alone with his
own shadow on the hill. The shades of all living nature grew great and
greater with the declining sun. The young man saw it with satisfaction.
His heart swelled with brave thoughts, as his own extended itself down
the hillside--now twenty feet long--now sixty--until the western sun
was cut by the bluffs, when it went out altogether. The shadow of White
Otter had been eaten up by the shadow of the hill. He knew now that he
must go to the westward--to the western mountains, to the Inyan-kara,
where in the deep recesses lay the shadows which had eaten his. They
were calling him, and as the sun sank to rest, White Otter rose slowly,
drew his robe around him, and walked away from the Chis-chis-chash camp.
The split sticks in Big Hair’s lodge snapped and spit gleams of light on
the old warrior as he lay back on his resting-mat. He was talking to his
sacred symbols. “Though he sleeps very far off, though he sleeps even on
the other side, a spirit is what I use to keep him. Make the bellies of
animals full which would seek my son; make the wolf and the bear and the
panther go out of their way. Make the buffalo herds to split around
my son, Good God! Be strong to keep the Bad God back, and all his
demons--lull them to sleep while he passes; lull them with soft sounds.”
And the Indian began a dolorous chanting, which he continued throughout
the night. The lodge-fires died down in the camp, but the muffled intone
came in a hollow sound from the interior of the tepee until the spirit
of silence was made more sure, and sleep came over the bad and good
together.
Across the gray-greens of the moonlit plains bobbed and flitted the dim
form of the seeker of God’s help.
Now among the dark shadows of the pines, now in the gray sagebrush,
lost in the coulees, but ceaselessly on and on, wound this figure of the
night. The wolves sniffed along on the trail, but came no nearer.
All night long he pursued his way, his muscles playing tirelessly to the
demands of a mind as taut as bowstring.
Before the morning he had reached the Inyan-kara, a sacred place, and
begun to ascend its pine-clad slopes. It had repulsion for White Otter,
it was sacred--full of strange beings not to be approached except in the
spiritual way, which was his on this occasion, and thus he approached
it. To this place the shadows had retired, and he was pursuing them. He
was in mortal terror--every tree spoke out loud to him; the dark places
gave back groans, the night-winds swooped upon him, whispering their
terrible fears. The great underground wildcat meowed from the slopes,
the red-winged moon-birds shrilled across the sky, and the stone giants
from the cliffs rocked and sounded back to White Otter, until he cried
aloud:
“O Good God, come help me. I am White Otter. All the bad are thick
around me; they have stolen my shadow; now they will take me, and I
shall never go across to live in the shadow-land. Come to White Otter, O
Good God!”
[Illustration: 04 The wolves sniffed along on the trail,
but came no nearer]
A little brown bat whirled round and round the head of the
terror-stricken Indian, saying: “I am from God, White Otter. I am come
to you direct from God. I will take care of you. I have your shadow
under my wings. I can fly so fast and crooked that no one can catch
up with me. No arrow can catch me, no bullet can find me, in my tricky
flight. I have your shadow and I will fly about so fast that the
spirit-wildcats and the spirit-birds and the stone giants cannot come up
with me or your shadow, which I carry under my wings. Sit down here in
the dark place under the cliffs and rest. Have no fear.” White Otter sat
him down as directed, muffled in his robe. “Keep me safe, do not go away
from me, ye little brown bat. I vow to keep you all my life, and to take
you into the shadow-land hereafter, if ye will keep me from the demons
now, O little brown bat!” And so praying, he saw the sky pale in the
east as he lay down to sleep. Then he looked all around for his little
brown bat, which was no more to be seen.
The daylight brought quiescence to the fasting man, and he sank back,
blinking his hollow eyes at his shadow beside him. Its possession lulled
him, and he paid the debt of nature, lying quietly for a long time.
Consciousness returned slowly. The hot sun beat on the fevered man,
and he moved uneasily. To his ears came the far-away beat of a tom-tom,
growing nearer and nearer until it mixed with the sound of bells and the
hail-like rattle of gourds. Soon he heard the breaking of sticks under
the feet of approaching men, and from under the pines a long procession
of men appeared--but they were shadows, like water, and he could see the
landscape beyond them. They were spirit-men. He did not stir. The
moving retinue came up, breaking now into the slow side-step of the
ghost-dance, and around the form of White Otter gathered these people
of the other world. They danced “the Crazy Dance” and sang, but the dull
orbs of the faster gave no signs of interest.
“He-eye, he-eye! we have come for you--come to take you to the
shadow-land. You will live on a rocky island, where there are no ponies,
no women, no food, White Otter. You have no medicine, and the Good God
will not protect you. We have come for you--hi-ya, hi-ya, hi-yah!”
“I have a medicine,” replied White Otter. “I have the little brown bat
which came from God.”
“He-eye, he-eye! Where is your little brown bat? You do not speak
the truth--you have no little brown bat from God. Come with us, White
Otter.” With this, one of the spirit-men strode forward and seized White
Otter, who sprang to his feet to grapple with him. They clinched and
strained for the mastery, White Otter and the camp-soldier of the
spirit-people.
“Come to me, little brown bat,” shouted the resisting savage, but the
ghostly crowd yelled, “Your little brown bat will not come to you, White
Otter.”
Still he fought successfully with the spirit-soldier. He strained and
twisted, now felling the ghost, now being felled in turn, but they
staggered again to their feet. Neither was able to conquer. Hour
after hour he resisted the taking of his body from off the earth to be
deposited on the inglorious desert island in the shadow-land. At times
he grew exhausted and seemed to lie still under the spirit’s clutches,
but reviving, continued the struggle with what energy he could summon.
The westering sun began lengthening the shadows on the Inyan-kara, and
with the cool of evening his strength began to revive. Now he fought
the ghost with renewed spirit, calling from time to time on his
medicine-bat, till at last when all the shadows had merged and gone
together, with a whir came the little brown bat, crying “Na-hoin” [I
come].
Suddenly all the ghost-people flew away, scattering over the Inyan-kara,
screaming, “Hoho, hoho, hoho!” and White Otter sat up on his robe.
The stone giants echoed in clattering chorus, the spirit-birds swished
through the air with a whis-s-s-tling noise, and the whole of the bad
demons came back to prowl, since the light had left the world, and they
were no longer afraid. They all sought to circumvent the poor Indian,
but the little brown bat circled around and around his head, and he kept
saying: “Come to me, little brown bat. Let White Otter put his hand on
you; come to my hand.”
But the bat said nothing, though it continued to fly around his head. He
waved his arms widely at it, trying to reach it. With a fortunate sweep
it struck his hand, his fingers clutched around it, and as he drew back
his arm he found his little brown bat dead in the vise-like grip. White
Otter’s medicine had come to him.
Folding himself in his robe, and still grasping the symbol of the Good
God’s protection, he lay down to sleep. The stone giants ceased their
clamors, and all the world grew still.
White Otter was sleeping.
In his dreams came the voice of God, saying: “I have given it, given you
the little brown bat. Wear it always on your scalp-lock, and never
let it away from you for a moment. Talk to it, ask of it all manner of
questions, tell it the secrets of your shadow-self, and it will take
you through battle so fast that no arrow or bullet can hit you. It will
steal you away from the spirits which haunt the night. It will whisper
to you concerning the intentions of the women, and your enemies, and it
will make you wise in the council when you are older. If you adhere to
it and follow its dictation, it will give you the white hair of old age
on this earth, and bring you to the shadow-land when your turn comes.”
The next day, when the sun had come again, White Otter walked down the
mountain, and at the foot met his father with ponies and buffalo meat.
The old man had followed on his trail, but had gone no farther.
“I am strong now, father. I can protect my body and my shadow--the Good
God has come to Wo-pe-ni-in.”
II. The Brown Bat Proves Itself
Big Hair and his son, White Otter, rode home slowly, back through
the coulees and the pines and the sage-brush to the camp of the
Chis-chis-chash. The squaws took their ponies when they came to their
lodge.
Days of listless longing followed the journey to the Inyan-kara in
search of the offices of the Good God, and the worn body and fevered
mind of White Otter recovered their normal placidity. The red warrior
on his resting-mat sinks in a torpor which a sunning mud-turtle on a
log only hopes to attain, but he stores up energy, which must sooner or
later find expression in the most extended physical effort.
Thus during the days did White Otter eat and sleep, or lie under
the cottonwoods by the creek with his chum, the boy Red Arrow--lying
together on the same robe and dreaming as boys will, and talking also,
as is the wont of youth, about the things which make a man. They both
had their medicine--they were good hunters, whom the camp soldiers
allowed to accompany the parties in the buffalo-surround. They both
had a few ponies, which they had stolen from the Absaroke hunters the
preceding autumn, and which had given them a certain boyish distinction
in the camp. But their eager minds yearned for the time to come when
they should do the deed which would allow them to pass from the boy to
the warrior stage, before which the Indian is in embryo.
Betaking themselves oft to deserted places, they each consulted his own
medicine. White Otter had skinned and dried and tanned the skin of the
little brown bat, and covered it with gaudy porcupine decorations. This
he had tied to his carefully cultivated scalp-lock, where it switched in
the passing breeze. People in the camp were beginning to say “the little
brown bat boy” as he passed them by.
But their medicine conformed to their wishes, as an Indian’s medicine
mostly has to do, so that they were promised success in their
undertaking.
Old Big Hair, who sat blinking, knew that the inevitable was going to
happen, but he said no word. He did not advise or admonish. He doted
on his son, and did not want him killed, but that was better than no
eagle-plume.
Still the boys did not consult their relatives in the matter, but on the
appointed evening neither turned up at the ancestral tepee, and Big Hair
knew that his son had gone out into the world to win his feather. Again
he consulted the medicine-pouch and sang dolorously to lull the spirits
of the night as his boy passed him on his war-trail.
Having traveled over the tableland and through the pines for a few
miles, White Otter stopped, saying: “Let us rest here. My medicine says
not to go farther, as there is danger ahead. The demons of the night are
waiting for us beyond, but my medicine says that if we build a fire the
demons will not come near, and in the morning they will be gone.”
They made a small fire of dead pine sticks and sat around it wrapped
in the skins of the gray wolf, with the head and ears of that fearful
animal capping theirs--unearthly enough to frighten even the monsters of
the night.
Old Big Hair had often told his son that he would send him out with
some war-party under a chief who well knew how to make war, and with a
medicine-man whose war-medicine was strong; but no war-party was going
then and youth has no time to waste in waiting. Still, he did not fear
pursuit.
Thus the two human wolves sat around the snapping sticks, eating their
dried buffalo meat.
“To-morrow, Red Arrow, we will make the war-medicine. I must find a gray
spider, which I am to kill, and then if my medicine says go on, I am not
afraid, for it came direct from the Good God, who told me I should live
to wear white hair.”
“Yes,” replied Red Arrow, “we will make the medicine. We do not know
the mysteries of the great war-medicine, but I feel sure that my own is
strong to protect me. I shall talk to a wolf. We shall find a big gray
wolf, and if as we stand still on the plain he circles us completely
around, we can go on, and the Gray Horned Thunder-Being and the Great
Pipe-Bearing Wolf will march on our either side. But if the wolf does
not circle us, I do not know what to do. Old Bear-Walks-at-Right, who is
the strongest war-medicine-maker in the Chis-chis-chash, says that when
the Gray Horned Thunder-Being goes with a war-party, they are sure of
counting their enemies’ scalps, but when the Pipe-Bearing Wolf also
goes, the enemy cannot strike back, and the Wolf goes only with the
people of our clan.”
Thus the young men talked to each other, and the demons of the night
joined in their conversation from among the tree-tops, but got no nearer
because the fire shot words of warning up to them, and the hearts of the
boys were strong to watch the contest and bear it bravely.
With the first coming of light they started on--seeking the gray spider
and the gray wolf. After much searching through the rotting branches
of the fallen trees, White Otter was heard calling to Red Arrow: “Come!
Here is the gray spider, and as I kill him, if he contains blood I shall
go on, but if he does not contain blood my medicine says there is great
danger, and we must not go on.”
Over the spider stooped the two seekers of truth, while White Otter got
the spider on the body of the log, where he crushed it with his bow. The
globular insect burst into a splash of blood, and the young savage
threw back his shoulders with a haughty grunt, saying, “My medicine
is strong--we shall go to the middle of the Absaroke village,” and Red
Arrow gave his muttered assent.
“Now we must find a wolf,” continued Red Arrow, and they betook
themselves through the pines to the open plains, White Otter following
him but a step in rear.
In that day wolves were not hard to find in the buffalo country, as they
swarmed around the herds and they had no enemies. Red Arrow arrogated
to himself the privilege of selecting the wolf. Scanning the expanse,
it was not long before their sharp eyes detected ravens hovering over
a depression in the plain, but the birds did not swoop down. They knew
that there was a carcass there and wolves, otherwise the birds would not
hover, but drop down. Quickly they made their way to the place, and as
they came in range they saw the body of a half-eaten buffalo surrounded
by a dozen wolves. The wolves betook themselves slowly off, with many
wistful looks behind, but one in particular, more lately arrived at the
feast, lingered in the rear.
[Illustration: 05 O gray wolf of my clan--shall we have fortune?]
Selecting this one, Red Arrow called: “O gray wolf of my clan, answer
me this question. White Otter and I are going to the Absa-roke for
scalps--shall we have fortune, or is the Absaroke medicine too strong?”
The wolf began to circle as Red Arrow approached it and the buffalo
carcass. Slowly it trotted off to his left hand, whereat the anxious
warrior followed slowly.
“Tell me, pretty wolf, shall White Otter’s and my scalps be danced
by the Absaroke? Do the enemy see us coming now--do they feel our
presence?” And the wolf trotted around still to the left.
“Come, brother. Red Arrow is of your clan. Warn me, if I must go back.”
And as the Indian turned, yet striding after the beast, it continued to
go away from him, but kept an anxious eye on the dead buffalo meanwhile.
“Do not be afraid, gray wolf; I would not raise my arm to strike. See,
I have laid my bow on the ground. Tell me not to fear the Absaroke,
gray wolf, and I promise to kill a fat buffalo-cow for you when we meet
again.”
The wolf had nearly completed his circle by this time, and once again
his follower spoke.
“Do you fear me because of the skin of the dead wolf you see by my bow
on the ground? No, Red Arrow did not kill thy brother. He was murdered
by a man of the dog clan, and I did not do it. Speak to me--help me
against my fears.” And the wolf barked as he trotted around until he had
made a complete circle of the buffalo, whereat Red Arrow took up his bow
and bundle, saying to White Otter, “Now we will go.”
The two then commenced their long quest in search of the victims which
were to satisfy their ambitions. They followed up the depression in the
plains where they had found the buffalo, gained the timber, and walked
all day under its protecting folds. They were a long way from their
enemies’ country, but instinctively began the cautious advance which is
the wild-animal nature of an Indian.
The old buffalo-bulls, elk and deer fled from before them as they
marched. A magpie mocked at them. They stopped while White Otter spoke
harshly to it: “You laugh at us, fool-bird, because we are boys, but you
shall see when we come back that we are warriors. We will have a scalp
to taunt you with. Begone now, before I pierce you with an arrow,
you chattering woman-bird.” And the magpie fluttered away before the
unwonted address.
In the late afternoon they saw a band of wolves pull down and kill a
fawn, and ran to it, saying, “See, the Pipe-Bearing Wolf is with us;
he makes the wolves to hunt for us of his clan,” and they despoiled the
prey.
Coming to a shallow creek, they took off their moccasins and waded
down it for a mile, when they turned into a dry watercourse, which they
followed up for a long distance, and then stopped in some thick brush
which lined its sides. They sat long together on the edge of the bushes,
scanning with their piercing eyes the sweep of the plains, but nothing
was there to rouse their anxiety. The wild animals were feeding
peacefully, the sun sank to rest, and no sound came to them but the cry
of the night-birds.
When it was quite dark, they made a small fire in the depths of the cut,
threw a small quantity of tobacco into it as a sacrifice, cooked the
venison and went to sleep.
It was more than mere extension of interest with them; it was more
than ambition’s haughtiest fight; it was the sun-dried, wind-shriveled,
tried-out atavistic blood-thirst made holy by the approval of the Good
God they knew.
The miniature war-party got at last into the Absaroke country. Before
them lay a big camp--the tepees scattering down the creek-bottom for
miles, until lost at a turn of the timber. Eagerly they studied the cut
and sweep of the land, the way the tepees dotted it, the moving of the
pony herds and the coming and going of the hunters, but most of all the
mischievous wanderings of the restless Indian boys. Their telescopic
eyes penetrated everything. They understood the movements of their foes,
for they were of kindred nature with their own.
Their buffalo-meat was almost gone, and it was dangerous to kill game
now for fear of attracting the ravens, which would circle overhead and
be seen from the camp. These might attract an investigation from idle
and adventurous boys and betray them.
“Go now; your time has come,” said the little brown bat on White Otter’s
scalp-lock.
“Go now,” echoed Red Arrow’s charm.
When nothing was to be seen of the land but the twinkle of the fires
in the camp, they were lying in a deep washout under a bluff, which
overlooked the hostile camp. Long and silently they sat watching the
fires and the people moving about, hearing their hum and chanting as it
came to them on the still air, together with the barking of dogs, the
nickering of ponies, and the hollow pounding on a log made by old squaws
hacking with their hatchets.
Slowly before the drowse of darkness, the noises quieted and the fires
died down. Red Arrow felt his potent symbols whispering to him.
“My medicine is telling me what to do, White Otter.”
“What does it say?”
“It says that there is a dangerous mystery in the blue-and-yellow tepee
at the head of the village. It tells me to have great care,” replied Red
Arrow.
“Hough, my medicine says go on; I am to be a great warrior,” replied
White Otter.
After a moment Red Arrow exclaimed: “My medicine says go with White
Otter, and do what he says. It is good.”
“Come, then; we will take the war-ponies from beside the blue-and-yellow
tepee. They belong to a chief and are good. We will strike an Absaroke
if we can. Come with me.” White Otter then glided forward in the
darkness toward the camp. When quite near, they waited for a time to
allow the dogs to be still, and when they ceased to tongue, they again
approached with greater caution.
Slowly, so as not to disturb the animals of the Indians, they neared the
blue-and-yellow tepee, squatting low to measure its gloom against the
sky-line. They were among the picketed ponies, and felt them all over
carefully with their hands. They found the clip-maned war-ponies and cut
the ropes. The Indian dogs made no trouble, as they walked their booty
very slowly and very quietly away, as though they wandered in search of
food. When well out of hearing, they sprang on their backs and circled
back to the creek-bottom.
Nearing this, they heard the occasional inharmonious notes of an Indian
flute among the trees. Instantly they recognized it as an Indian lover
calling for his sweetheart to come out from the lodges to him.
“Hold the ponies, Red Arrow. My medicine tells me to strike,” and White
Otter slid from his horse. He passed among the tepees at the end of
the village, then quickly approached the direction of the noise of the
flute.
The lover heard his approaching footsteps, for White Otter walked
upright until the notes stopped, when he halted to await their renewal.
Again the impatient gallant called from the darkness to his hesitating
one, and our warrior advanced with bared knife in one hand, and bow in
the other with an arrow notched.
When quite near, the Absaroke spoke in his own language, but White
Otter, not understanding, made no reply, though advancing rapidly. Alas
for the surging blood which burns a lover’s head, for his quick advance
to White Otter discovered for him nothing until, with a series of
lightning-like stabs, the knife tore its way into his vitals--once,
twice, three times, when, with a wild yell, he sank under his deluded
infatuation.
He doubtless never knew, but his yell had found its response from the
camp. Feeling quickly, White Otter wound his hand among the thick black
hair of his victim’s head, and though it was his first, he made no bad
work of the severance of the prize, whereat he ran fast to his chum.
Attracted by the noise, Red Arrow rode up, and they were mounted. Cries
and yells and barking came from the tepees, but silently they loped away
from the confusion--turning into the creek, blinding the trail in the
water for a few yards and regaining the hills from a much-tracked-up
pony and buffalo crossing. Over the bluffs and across the hills they
made their way, until they no longer heard the sounds of the camp behind
them.
Filled with a great exultation, they trotted and loped along until the
moon came up, when White Otter spoke for the first time, addressing it:
“Pretty Mother of the Night--time of the little brown bat’s flight--see
what I have done. White Otter is no longer a boy.” Then to his pony: “Go
on quickly now, pretty little war-pony. You are strong to carry me.
Do not lame yourself in the dog-holes. Carry me back to the
Chis-chis-chash, and I promise the Mother of the Night, now and here,
where you can hear me speak, that you shall never carry any man but
White Otter, and that only in war.”
For three days and nights they rode as rapidly as the ponies could
travel, resting an hour here and there to refresh themselves. Gradually
relaxing after this, they assumed the fox-trot of the plains pony; but
they looked many times behind and doubled often in their trail.
Seeing a band of wolves around a buffalo-bull which was fighting them
off, they rode up and shot arrows into it--the sacrifice to the brother
of the clan who had augured for them. Red Arrow affected to recognize
his old acquaintance in the group.
As they rode on, White Otter spoke: “I shall wear the eagle-feather
standing up in my scalp-lock, for I struck him with a hand-weapon
standing up. It shall wave above the bat and make him strong. The little
brown bat will be very brave in the time to come. We took the clipped
and painted war-ponies from under the chiefs nose, Red Arrow.”
“Yes, I did that--but my medicine grew weak when it looked at the great
camp of the Absaroke. Your medicine was very strong, White Otter; there
is no old warrior in the Chis-chis-chash whose is stronger. I shall
take the charcoal again, and see if the Good God won’t strengthen my
medicine.”
Time brought the victors in sight of their village, which had moved
meanwhile, and it was late in the evening.
“Stay here with the ponies, Red Arrow, and I will go into my father’s
lodge and get red paint for us. We will not enter until to-morrow.”
So White Otter stole into his own tepee by night--told his father of his
triumph--got a quantity of vermilion and returned to the hills. When he
and Red Arrow had bedaubed themselves and their ponies most liberally,
they wrapped the scalp to a lance which he had brought out, then
moved slowly forward in the morning light on their jaded ponies to the
village, yelling the long, high notes of the war-whoop. The people ran
out to see them come, many young men riding to meet them. The yelling
procession came to the masses of the people, who shrilled in answer, the
dogs ki-yied, and old trade-guns boomed. White Otter’s chin was high,
his eyes burned with a devilish light through the red paint, as he
waved the lance slowly, emitting from time to time above the din his
battle-cry.
It was thus that White Otter became a man.
III. The Bat Devises Mischief Among the Yellow-Eyes
White Otter the boy had been superseded by the man with the upright
eagle-feather, whom people now spoke of as Ho-to-kee-mat-sin, the Bat.
The young women of the Chis-chis-chash threw approving glances after
the Bat as he strode proudly about the camp. He was possessed of all
desirable things conceivable to the red mind. Nothing that ever bestrode
a horse was more exquisitely supple than the well-laid form of this
young Indian man; his fame as a hunter was great, but the taking of the
Absaroke scalp was transcendent. Still, it was not possible to realize
any matrimonial hopes which he was led to entertain, for his four ponies
would buy no girl fit for him. The captured war-pony, too, was one of
these, and not to be transferred for any woman.
The Bat had conjured with himself and conceived the plan of a trip to
the far south--to the land of many horses--but the time was not yet.
As the year drew on, the Chis-chis-chash moved to the west--to the
great fall buffalo-hunt--to the mountains where they could gather fresh
tepee-poles, and with the hope of trade with the wandering trapper
bands. To be sure, the Bat had no skins of ponies to barter with them,
but good fortune is believed to stand in the path of every young man,
somewhere, some time, as he wanders on to meet it. Delayed ambition did
not sour the days for the Indian. He knew that the ponies and the women
and the chieftainship would come in the natural way; besides which, was
he not already a warrior worth pointing at?
He accompanied the hunters when they made the buffalo-surround, where
the bellowing herds shook the dusty air and made the land to thunder
while the Bat flew in swift spirals like his prototype. Many a carcass
lay with his arrows driven deep, while the squaws of Big Hair’s lodge
sought the private mark of the Bat on them.
The big moving camp of the Chis-chis-chash was strung over the
plains--squaws, dogs, fat little boys toddling after possible prairie
dogs, tepee ponies, pack-animals with gaudy squaw trappings, old chiefs
stalking along in their dignified buffalo-robes--and a swarm of young
warriors riding far on either side.
The Bat and Red Arrow’s lusty fire had carried them far in the front,
and as they slowly raised the brow of a hill they saw in the shimmer
of the distance a cavalcade with many two-wheeled carts--all dragging
wearily over the country.
“The Yellow-Eyes!” said the Bat.
“Yes,” replied Red Arrow. “They always march in the way the wild ducks
fly--going hither and yon to see what is happening in the land. But
their medicine is very strong; I have heard the old men say it.”
“Hough! it may be, but is not the medicine of the Chis-chis-chash
also strong? Why do we not strike them, Red Arrow? That I could never
understand. They have many guns, blankets, paints, many strong
ponies and the strong water, which we might take,” added the Bat, in
perplexity.
“Yes, true, we might take all, but the old men say that the Yellow-Eyes
would not come again next green grass--we would make them afraid. They
would no more bring us the powder and guns or the knives. What could
we do without iron arrow-heads? Do you remember how hard it was to make
bone arrowheads, when we were boys and could not get the iron? Then, the
Yellow-Eyes are not so many as the Chis-chis-chash, and they are afraid
of us. No, we must not make them more timid,” replied the wise Red
Arrow.
“But we may steal a gun or a strong pony, when they do not look,”
continued the indomitable Bat.
“Yes--we will try.”
“I will go down the hill, and make my pony go around in a circle so that
the camp may send the warriors out to us,” saying which, the Bat rode
the danger-signal, and the Chis-chis-chash riders came scurrying over
the dry grass, leaving lines of white dust in long marks behind them.
Having assembled to the number of a hundred or so, the chiefs held
a long consultation, each talking loudly from his horse, with many
gestures. After some minutes, the head war-chief declared in a high,
rough voice that the man must go to the Yellow-Eyes with the peace-sign,
and that they must not do anything to make the Yellow-Eyes afraid. The
white men had many guns, and if they feared the Indians they would fire
on them, and it would be impossible to get near the powder and paints
and knives which were in the carts.
The warriors took each from a little bag his paints and plumes.
Sitting in the grass, they decorated themselves until they assumed all
hues--some red, and others half white or red across the face, while the
ponies came in for streaks and daubs, grotesque as tropic birds.
So over the hill rode the line of naked men, their ponies dancing with
excitement, while ahead of them a half-breed man skimmed along bearing a
small bush over his head. The cavalcade of the Yellow-Eyes had halted in
a compact mass, awaiting the oncoming Indians. They had dismounted and
gone out on the sides away from the carts, where they squatted quietly
in the grass. This was what the Yellow-Eyes always did in war, unlike
Indians, who diffused themselves on their speeding ponies, sailing like
hawks.
A warrior of the Yellow-Eyes came to meet them, waving a white cloth
from his gun-barrel after the manner of his people, and the two
peace-bearers shook hands. Breaking into a run, the red line swept on,
their ponies’ legs beating the ground in a vibratory whirl, their plumes
swishing back in a rush of air, and with yelps which made the white men
draw their guns into a menacing position.
At a motion of the chief’s arm, the line stopped. The Yellow-Eyed men
rose slowly from the grass and rested on their long rifles, while their
chief came forward.
For a long time the two head men sat on their ponies in front of the
horsemen, speaking together with their hands. Not a sound was to be
heard but the occasional stamp of a pony’s hoof on the hard ground.
The beady eyes of the Chis-chis-chash beamed malevolently on the white
chief--the blood-thirst, the warrior’s itch, was upon them.
After an understanding had been arrived at, the Indian war-chief
turned to his people and spoke. “We will go back to our village. The
Yellow-Eyes do not want us among their carts--they are afraid. We will
camp near by them to-night, and tomorrow we will exchange gifts. Go
back, Chis-chis-chash, or the white chief says it is war. We do not
want war.” This and much more said the chief and his older men to the
impulsive braves, whose uncontrollable appetites had been whetted by the
sight of the carts. The white man was firm and the Indians drew off to
await the coming of the village.
The two camps were pitched that night two miles apart; the Yellow-Eyes
intrenched behind their packs and carts, while the Indians, being in
overwhelming strength, did much as usual, except that the camp-soldiers
drove the irrepressible boys back, not minding to beat their ponies
with their whips when they were slow to go. There was nothing that a boy
could do except obey when the camp-soldier spoke to him. He was the one
restraint they had, the only one.
But as a mark of honor, the Bat and Red Arrow were given the
distinguished honor of observing the Yellow-Eyed camp all night, to note
its movements if any occurred, and with high hearts they sat under
a hill-top all through the cold darkness, and their souls were much
chastened by resisting the impulses to run off the white man’s ponies,
which they conceived to be a very possible undertaking. The Bat even
declared that if he ever became a chief this policy of inaction would be
followed by one more suited to pony-loving young men.
Nothing having occurred, they returned before daylight to their own camp
so to inform the war-chief.
That day the Chis-chis-chash crowded around the barricade of the
Yellow-Eyes, but were admitted only a few at a time. They received many
small presents of coffee and sugar, and traded what ponies and robes
they could. At last it became the time for the Bat to go into the
trappers’ circle. He noted the piles of bales and boxes as he passed
in, a veritable mountain of wealth; he saw the tall white men in their
buckskin and white blanket suits, befringed and beribboned_,_ their
long, light hair, their bushy beards, and each carrying a well-oiled
rifle. Ah, a rifle! That was what the Bat wanted; it displaced for the
time all other thoughts of the young warrior. He had no robes and came
naked among the traders--they noted him--only an Indian boy, and when
all his group had bartered what they had, the half-breed who had rode
with the peace branch spoke to him, interpreting:
“The white chief wants to know if you want to buy anything.”
“Yes. Tell the white chief that I must have a gun, and some powder and
ball.”
“What has the boy to give for a gun?” asked a long-bearded leader.
“A pony--a fast buffalo-pony,” replied our hero through the half-breed.
“One pony is not enough for a gun; he must give three ponies. He is too
young to have three ponies,” replied the trader.
“Say to the Yellow-Eye that I will give him two ponies,” risked the Bat.
“No, no; he says three ponies, and you will not get them for less. The
white chief means what he says. He says you must leave here now with
those people so that older men can come and trade.”
“Let me see the gun,” demanded the boy. A gun was necessary for the
Bat’s future progression.
A subordinate was directed to show a gun to him, which he did by taking
him one side and pulling one from a cart. It was a long, yellow-stocked
smoothbore, with a flintlock. It had many brass tacks driven into the
stock, and was bright in its cheap newness. As the Bat took it in his
hand he felt a nervous thrill, such as he had not experienced since the
night he had pulled the dripping hair from the Absaroke. He felt it
all over, smoothing it with his hand; he cocked and snapped it; and the
little brown bat on his scalp-lock fairly yelled: “Get your ponies, get
your ponies--you must have the gun.”
Returning the gun, the Bat ran out, and after a time came back with
his three ponies, which he drove up to the white man’s pen, saying in
Chis-chis-chash: “Here are my ponies. Give me the gun.”
The white chief glanced at the boy as he sat there on a sturdy little
clip-maned war-pony--the one he had stolen from the Absaroke. He spoke,
and the interpreter continued: “The trader says he will take the pony you
are riding as one of the three.”
“Tell him that I say I would not give this pony for all the goods I see.
Here are my three ponies; now let him give me the gun before he makes
himself a liar,” and the boy warrior wore himself into a frenzy of
excitement as he yelled: “Tell him if he does not give me the gun he
will feel this war-pony in the dark, when he travels; tell him he will
not see this war-pony, but he will feel him when he counts his ponies at
daylight. He is a liar.”
“The white chief says he will take the war-pony in place of three
ponies, and give you a gun, with much powder and many balls.”
“Tell the Yellow-Eye he is a liar, with the lie hot on his lips,” and
the Bat grew quiet to all outward appearance.
After speaking to the trader, the interpreter waved at the naked youth,
sitting there on his war-pony: “Go away--you are a boy, and you keep the
warriors from trading.”
With a few motions of the arms, so quickly done that the interpreter had
not yet turned away his eye, the Bat had an arrow drawn to its head on
his leveled bow, and covering the white chief.
Indians sprang between; white men cocked their rifles; two camp-soldiers
rushed to the enraged Bat and led his pony quietly away, driving the
three ponies after him.
The trading progressed throughout the day, and at night the Indians all
came home, but no one saw the Bat in his father’s lodge, and also Red
Arrow was missing. All the Indians had heard of how the white trader had
lied to the boy, and they knew the retribution must come. The trading
was over; the white men had packed up their goods, and had shaken hands
with the chiefs and head men, promising to come again when the grass was
green.
[Illustration: 06 The interpreter waved at the naked youth]
The Chis-chis-chash were busy during the ensuing days following the
buffalo, and their dogs grew fat on the leavings of the carcasses. The
white traders drew their weary line over the rolling hills, traveling
as rapidly as possible to get westward of the mountains before the snows
encompassed them. But by night and by day, on their little flank in rear
or far in front, rode two vermilion warrior-boys, on painted ponies,
and one with an eagle-plume upright in his scalp-lock. By night two gray
wolves stood upward among the trees or lay in the plum-branches near
enough to see and to hear the living talk of the Yellow-Eyes.
Old Delaware hunters in the caravan told the white chief that they had
seen swift pony-tracks as they hunted through the hills; and that,
too, many times. The tracks showed that the ponies were strong and went
quickly--faster than they could follow on their jaded mounts. The white
chief must not trust the solitude.
But the trailing buffalo soon blotted out the pony-marks; the white
men saw only the sailing hawks, and heard only bellowing and howling
at night. Their natures responded to the lull, until two horse-herders,
sitting in the willows, grew eager in a discussion, and did not notice
at once that the ponies and mules were traveling rapidly away to the
bluffs. When the distance to which the ponies had roamed drew their
attention at last, they looked hard and put away their pipes and
gathered up their ropes. Two ponies ran hither and thither behind the
horses. There was method in their movements--were they wild stallions?
The white men moved out toward the herd, still gazing ardently; they
saw one of these ponies turn quickly, and as he did so a naked figure
shifted from one side to the other of his back.
“Indians! Indians!”
A pistol was fired--the herders galloped after.
The horse-thieves sat up on their ponies, and the long, tremulous notes
of the war-whoop were faintly borne on the wind to the camp of the
Yellow-Eyes. Looking out across the plains, they saw the herd break into
a wild stampede, while behind them sped the Bat and Red Arrow, waving
long-lashed whips, to the ends of which were suspended blown-up
buffalo-bladders, which struck the hard ground with sharp, explosive
thumps, rebounding and striking again. The horses were terrorized,
but, being worn down, could not draw away from the swift and supple
war-steeds. There were more than two hundred beasts, and the white men
were practically afoot.
Many riders joined the pursuit; a few lame horses fell out of the herd
and out of the race--but it could have only one ending with the long
start. Mile by mile the darkness was coming on, so that when they could
no longer see, the white pursuers could hear the beat of hoofs, until
that, too, passed--and their horses were gone.
That night there was gloom and dejection around the camp-fires inside
the ring of carts. Some recalled the boy on the war-pony with the
leveled bow; some even whispered that Mr. McIntish had lied to the boy,
but no one dared say that out loud. The factor stormed and damned, but
finally gathered what men he could mount and prepared to follow next
day.
Follow he did, but the buffalo had stamped out the trail, and at last,
baffled and made to go slow by the blinded sign, he gave up the trail,
to hunt for the Chis-chis-chash village, where he would try for justice
at the hands of the head men.
After seven days’ journey he struck the carcasses left in the line of
the Indians’ march, and soon came up with their camp, which he
entered with appropriate ceremony, followed by his retinue--half-breed
interpreter, Delaware trailers, French horse-herders, and two real
Yellow-Eyed men--white Rocky Mountain trappers.
He sought the head chief, and they all gathered in the council tepee.
There they smoked and passed the pipe. The squaws brought kettles
of buffalo-meat, and the eager youngsters crowded the door until a
camp-soldier stood in the way to bar them back. The subchiefs sat in
bronze calm, with their robes drawn in all dignity about them.
When all was ready, Mr. McIntish stood in the middle of the lodge and
spoke with great warmth and feeling, telling them that Chis-chis-chash
warriors had stolen his horse-herd--that he had traced it to their camp
and demanded its return. He accused them of perfidy, and warned them
that from thence on no more traders would ever come into their country,
but would give their guns to the Absaroke, who would thus be able
to overwhelm them in war. No more would the chiefs drink of the
spring-water they loved so well--no more would a white man pass the pipe
with the Chis-chis-chash if justice was not done; and much more which
elicited only meaningless grunts from the stoic ring of listeners.
When he had finished and sat down, the head chief arose slowly, and
stepping from the folds of his robe, he began slowly to talk, making
many gestures. “If the white chief had tracked the stolen ponies to his
camp, let him come out to the Indian pony-herds and point them out. He
could take his horses.”
The face of the trader grew hard as he faced the snare into which the
chief had led him, and the lodge was filled with silence.
The camp-soldier at the entrance was brushed aside, and with a rapid
stride a young Indian gained the center of the lodge and stood up very
straight in his nakedness. He began slowly, with senatorial force made
fierce by resolve.
“The white chief is a liar. He lied to me about the gun; he has come
into the council tepee of the Chis-chis-chash and lied to all the
chiefs. He did not trail the stolen horses to this camp. He will not
find them in our pony-herds.”
He stopped awaiting the interpreter. A murmur of grunts went round.