HOW CRACK BONE WAS DOUBLY OUTWITTED
This little brown owl that had been a spectator of the whole of
Wise-as-a-she-wolf’s interview with Crack Bone, and that now sat and
watched the giant prancing victoriously, was none other than Bright
Robe. He, too, believed that his enemy had been disabled by the giant’s
club and trodden to helplessness by the giant’s feet. Otherwise, the
magician would surely have replied to the giant’s attack. One who could
throw magic fire onto the roof of a lodge could as easily throw it
against a man’s body. But he knew that his enemy was not dead, however
his body might be crushed and broken. He was aware that no mortal hand,
either of giant or magician, could kill Wise-as-a-she-wolf.
The owl had crossed the Narrow Sea some time before Crack Bone’s
capture of the red feathers. He had visited the camps of the
mountaineers, and the lodges of several magicians, and the caves of
a fierce people still farther to the westward, and the lodges of the
fat, blubber-eating people far to the northward; but, remembering his
experiences in his own country, he had not made himself known to any
one. He had practised the same discretion with the giants.
After the house was burned to the ground, Crack Bone strode up the
hill and took possession of a lodge belonging to one of his people.
The rightful owner was very angry, but he made no objections. He knew
that he was no match for the chief, especially now that the chief was
so light on his feet. The little owl followed Crack Bone, at a safe
distance, watched him remove the feathers from his moccasins and tuck
them under his belt, and then flew away to where some of the giants had
thrown a number of fresh bones that were not entirely devoid of flesh.
He ate his fill, keeping a sharp look-out all the while for foxes, and
then returned to spy on the giant and the magic feathers.
* * * * *
Day after day the little brown owl kept watch over the actions of
the chief of the giants. He followed the great savage on his hunting
expeditions, watching him strike down moose and caribou and bear. In
that desolate country summer was already past, and the owl was cold,
for he had not yet made himself a winter retreat. The rivers and ponds
froze and snow fell thick out of the gray skies; and still the owl
followed Crack Bone or perched near his lodge, cold but determined. At
last his alertness and watchfulness were rewarded. Crack Bone had been
hunting and had used the red feathers, and the bird had followed him
close, drifting from tree to tree. On reaching his lodge, Crack Bone
immediately drew his moccasins from his feet and removed the feathers
from them. It was now evening, and falling snow added to the gloom.
The giant had killed three caribou; and just when in the act of hiding
the feathers under his belt, he heard a sound of furtive movements
near the spot where he had thrown the dead animals. He listened for
a moment, then placed the feathers on a stone in the doorway of his
lodge and sprang in the direction of the sound that had disturbed him.
The owl fluttered to the ground, picked up the feathers in his beak,
and flew away. He flew at his best speed, straight ahead through the
gloom and the whirling snow. At last he alit in a great pine-tree and
hid the feathers in a crevice in the bark. They would be safe there
until morning. Then he snapped his beak and fluttered his wings. The
red feathers were his, all ready to be placed in his moccasins when the
enchantment was removed from him.
“I have done what Wise-as-a-she-wolf failed to do,” he chuckled.
Crack Bone did not reach the place where he had left the carcasses of
the caribou a moment too soon. Stone Hand, the giant whose house he had
so unceremoniously taken, was turning away with all three of the bodies
in his arms. Crack Bone struck at him with his fist; but Stone Hand
avoided the blow by leaping to one side; and letting two of the frozen
carcasses fall to the ground, he swung the other by the hind legs and
smote the chief across the head with it. The blow staggered Crack Bone
for a moment; but only for a moment. His skull was far too thick to be
injured by any weapon so light and yielding as the body of a stag. He
reeled a little, bellowed with anger, and clutched at Stone Hand. But
he missed his mark in the swirling gloom, and the thief dashed away.
Crack Bone stooped, lifted a great stone from the ground, and hurled
it blindly after the mutinous one. Then, yanking a small tree from
the frozen ground, to serve him as a club, he dashed into the storm
and darkness in mad pursuit. Stone Hand turned sharply, and headed for
the unpeopled wilds; but Crack Bone ran straight on, until he stumbled
among the lodges of his people. They were upon him in a moment,
striking blindly with all manner of weapons. Logs flew from the tops of
the houses, and everybody hit at whatever was within reach. Crack Bone
received some painful blows while he scrambled on all-fours. He got
to his feet, and swung his improvised club recklessly but with great
execution. Lodges and giants were overturned, in a horrible uproar that
frightened the wild animals for miles around. Everyone fought; but none
knew what the fight was about or whom he fought with. All were fighting
mad.
Stone Hand sat down and listened to the roars of combat from afar.
“Since that old Crack Bone killed the magician and got hold of the
jumping feathers,” he said, “he thinks he is the master of the world.
He took my fine, warm house away from me; and now I believe he has
attacked the whole tribe.”
He grunted and fell to devouring the one caribou that remained in his
possession. He was hungry, for most of the game had moved southward
since the coming of winter; and of late only Crack Bone, with the red
feathers on his feet, had been able to overtake the herds. After eating
the last bit of raw meat, Stone Hand lay down between two small hills
and fell asleep. The snow span about him, and covered him from head to
foot, as if he were a mountain. But he was full of food--that is, he
had just enjoyed a moderate meal--so he slumbered soundly. For a long
time the tumult of the distant battle continued to sift vaguely into
his dreams.
The sun was above the horizon when Stone Hand opened his eyes. For
a little while he wondered why he was not under cover, and stared
stupidly at the hills on either side. He felt stiff and cold; but
soon got to his feet and shook the snow from his limbs and body, and
brushed it from his hair and face with his hands. Now he remembered
how he had stolen the three caribou from the chief. He chuckled at the
recollections of his escape and of the sounds of furious combat behind
him. Now all was quiet, as if there had never been a shout, or the
thump of a descending club, since the beginning of the world. He armed
himself with a great piece of green timber and set out cautiously for
the village, crawling on hands and knees. Now, in broad daylight, the
familiar fear of the chief had returned to him. So he advanced slowly,
and kept as close to the ground as he could. At last, peering over
the top of a wooded hill, he obtained a clear view of the place which
he had left so hurriedly the previous night. He gazed at the scene in
amazement, for scarcely one of the lodges stood entire. Many were flat
on the ground and the massive timbers and rocks of which they had been
constructed lay scattered on all sides. Many others were unroofed. The
surrounding trees were uprooted and broken, and the snow was trampled
and stained with blood for hundreds of yards in every direction. And as
for the inhabitants of this demolished village,--why, they seemed to be
even in a worse way than their lodges. Some lay motionless on the snow,
and others sat or reclined about their fallen homes, awkwardly dressing
their wounds and groaning with pain. Not a giant of all that terrible
company was able to stand on his feet.
As soon as an understanding of the true state of affairs got into Stone
Hand’s thick head, he stood upright and advanced fearlessly. He walked
among his fallen tribesmen and grinned at them heartlessly. His glances
rested on old Crack Bone, who sat with his head in his hands, and he
looked both savage and jovial.
“I am your chief now,” he said. “Does any one dispute my right?”
Groans were his only answer. Crack Bone did not so much as remove his
hands from his head, which, I believe, he was doing his best to hold
together.
“I am your chief,” continued Stone Hand, “so I will go and hunt. If I
kill more than I can eat myself I will give you some. But I must have
the magic feathers on my feet, for the herds are far to the southward.
Where are the feathers?” he asked, turning to Crack Bone.
The ex-chief groaned, and mumbled something to the effect that he
neither knew nor cared.
“Give them to me,” roared Stone Hand, angrily. “I am the chief now.”
Then Crack Bone tried to explain, with many grunts and moans, that the
feathers were not to be found; that he had laid them down on a stone in
front of his lodge and that some one had stolen them during the fight.
But, of course, the new and self-elected chief did not believe a word
of it.
“Give them to me,” he bellowed, swinging his club around the other’s
head. But Crack Bone sullenly persisted in his story of the loss of
the magic feathers. So Stone Hand searched him, despite his cries and
bellowings at the pain of it; and he did not find them.
The little owl, in the meantime, had discovered a deep hole, high up
in a great birch tree. It was the deserted nest of a woodpecker. He
dropped the feathers into the hole; and down they fell, quite out of
his reach.
“They will be safe there,” he said. “When I am ready to use them I will
break the tree to splinters and take them out.”