embroidered with porcupine quills about the open mouth, nose, eyes, and
ears. She would slip this over Wechah's head and tie his fore-paws
together so that he could not pull it off. Then she would take him to
the spring under the shadow of the trees and let him look at himself.
This was enough punishment for him. Sometimes even the mention of the
calf's head was enough to make him submit.
Of course, the little Striped Face could take his leave at any time that
he became dissatisfied with his life among the Red people. Wasula had
made it plain to him that he was free. He could go or stay; but,
apparently, he loved her too well to think of leaving. He would curl
himself up into a ball and lie by the hour upon some convenient branch
while the girl was cutting wood or sitting under a tree doing her
needle-work. He would study her every movement, and very often divine
her intentions.
Wasula was a friend to all the little people of the woods, and
especially sympathized with the birds in their love-making and
home-building. Wechah must learn to respect her wishes. He had once
stolen and devoured some young robins. The parent birds were frantic
about their loss, which attracted the girl's attention. The wicked
animal was in the midst of his feast.
"Glechu! glechu (Come down)!" she called, excitedly. He fully understood
from the tone that all was not right, but he would not jump from the
tree and run for the deep woods, thereby avoiding punishment and gaining
his freedom. The rogue came down with all the outward appearance of one
who pleads guilty to the charge and throws himself upon the judge's
mercy. She at once put him in the calf's head and bound his legs, and
he had nothing to eat for a day and a night.
It was a great trial to both of them. Wadetaka, the dog, for whom he had
no special love, was made to stand guard over the prisoner so that he
could not get away and no other dog could take advantage of his
helplessness. Wasula was very sorry for him, but she felt that he must
learn his lesson. That night she lay awake for a long time. To be sure,
Wechah had been good and quiet all day, but his tricks were many, and
she had discovered that his people have danger-calls and calls for help
quite different from their hunting and love calls.
After everybody was asleep, even Wadetaka apparently snoring, and the
camp-fire was burning low, there was a gentle movement from the
calf's-head bag. Wasula uncovered her head and listened. Wechah called
softly for help.
"Poor Wechah! I don't want him to be angry with me, but he must let the
little birds' homes alone."
Again Wechah gave his doleful call. In a little while she heard a
stealthy footfall, and at the same time Wadetaka awoke and rushed upon
something.
It was a large raccoon! He ran up a near-by tree to save himself, for
Wadetaka had started all the dogs of the camp. Next the hunters came
out. Wasula hurriedly put on her moccasins and ran to keep the men from
shooting the rescuer.
Wechah's friend took up his position upon one of the upper limbs of a
large oak, from which he looked down with blazing eyes upon a motley
crew. Near the root of the tree Wechah lay curled up in a helpless ball.
The new-comer scarcely understood how this unfortunate member of his
tribe came into such a predicament, for when some one brought a torch he
was seen to rise, but immediately fell over again.
"Please do not kill him," pleaded Wasula. "It is a visitor of my pet,
whom I am punishing for his misconduct. As you know, he called for help
according to the custom of his tribe."
They all laughed heartily, and each Indian tied up his dog for the rest
of the night, so that the visitor might get away in safety, while the
girl brought her pet to her own bed.
It was the Moon of Falling Leaves, and the band to which Wasula's father
belonged were hunting in the deep woods in Minnesota, the Land of
Sky-colored Water. The band had divided itself into many small parties
for the fall and winter hunt. When this particular party reached
Minnetonka, the Big Lake, they found the hunting excellent. Deer were
plenty, and the many wooded islands afforded them good feeding-places.
The men hunted daily, and the women were busy preparing the skins and
curing the meat. Wechah wandered much alone, as Wasula was busy helping
her mother.
All went well for many weeks; and even when the snow fell continuously
for many a day and the wind began to blow, so that no hunter dared
emerge from his teepee, there was dried venison still and all were
cheerful. At last the sun appeared.
"Hoye! hoye!" was the cheerful cry of the hunting bonfire-builder, very
early in the morning. As it rang musically on the clear, frosty air,
each hunter set out, carrying his snow-shoes upon his back, in the
pleasant anticipation of a good hunt. After the customary smoke, they
all disappeared in the woods on the north shore of Minnetonka.
Alas! it was a day of evil fortune. There was no warning. In the late
afternoon one came back bleeding, singing a death-dirge. "We were
attacked by the Ojibways! All are dead save myself!"
Thus was the little camp suddenly plunged into deep sorrow and mourning.
Doleful wails came forth from every lodge, and the echoes from the many
coves answered them with a double sadness.
Again the storm-wind raged. This time the dried meat was gone, and all
the women did nothing but bewail their misfortunes. "The evil spirit is
upon us!" they cried. "The enemy has taken away our husbands, and now
Wazeyah, the god of storm and winter, is ready to slay us!" So they
mourned as those having no hope.
When at last the storm ceased, the snow was very deep. The little ones
were famished. There was no meat in the camp and there were no hunters
to hunt. They were far from their permanent village upon the Minnesota
River. They must have food first, and then try to get back. So, for the
children's sake, the brave mothers and elder sisters began to look about
them to decide upon some action.
"Wasula, my child, what are you thinking of?" the mother asked.
"Mother, my father taught me to hunt, and he took so much pride in my
snow-shoeing! See, mother, here is one of his quivers full of arrows,
and here is a good bow." The girl spoke earnestly. "I can take care of
you, mother, until we get back to our relatives. I can shoot as straight
as any brave, and my father taught me how to circle a doe or buck to a
stand-still. Wechah will go with me and guide me, so that I shall not be
lost," continued Wasula, with a show of cheerfulness.
"But you must be careful, my child! The Ojibways are not far away. Some
of their warriors will perhaps have a mind to come again, now that they
have overcome all the men of our little band," sadly warned the mother.
Meanwhile Wechah sat by watching every motion, as if trying to read
their thoughts. He was evidently delighted when Wasula girdled herself
and threw her snow-shoes diagonally across her back. He gave one big,
joyous leap and ran out of sight ahead of her as she set out on the
hunt. Her poor mother watched her through the pin-holes in the teepee.
"Ah, I fear--I fear the dreadful warriors of the Ojibways!" she
muttered.
They went over the snow-clad Minnetonka towards Crane Island, and the
famished girl was scarcely able to run upon snow-shoes, although
ordinarily it was an easy task for her. Her people had been living upon
rose-berries and roots. Wechah, with a light foot, ran ahead of her into
the thick woods.
No sooner was he out of sight of home than all his native cunning
vividly returned to him, and the desire to find whatever was in his way.
Through the frosty air and among the snow-clad multitudinous trees he
swiftly ran. His ancient calling thrilled him through and through. Now
and then he ran up a tree, leaped far into the soft snow, and away he
glided again. Not yet do the wild inhabitants of the woods come out for
their guest, at least not upon Crane Island, for Wechah had not crossed
a single trail.
Deep in the forest at last the little Striped Face gave his signal-call,
according to the custom of his people. Wasula turned in the direction
of the sound and peered sharply through the snow-laden boughs. There he
stood upon a large limb, anxiously awaiting her coming.
He leaped from his high perch toward her, struck the ground like a
pillow, and made the soft snow fly up like loose feathers.
"I see--I see your deer-track," she laughed at him. "We shall try to get
one! You must now follow me, Wechah. It is Wasula's turn to lead."
The maiden's bow was carefully examined, and she picked out one of her
best arrows. Instead of following the trail, like a true hunter she
started with the wind and ran along for some distance, then described a
circle, coming just inside of her starting-point. Again she made another
circle within the first, but no deer had crossed her track. Upon the
third round she spied them hiding behind a large, fallen oak, whose dead
leaves afforded some shelter. As she described another circle to get
within arrow-shot, the doe stretched out at full length upon the snow,
laying her ears back, rabbit-like, to escape detection. Wasula knew the
trick of holding her. She did not pause for an instant, but ran along
until she gained an opening for a shot. Then she turned quickly upon the
quivering doe and let her swift arrow fly.
Instantly the doe and her two full-grown fawns got up and sprang away
through the woods and out of sight. Wasula had seen her arrow enter the
doe's side. She examined the trail--it showed drops of blood--and
immediately the huntress followed the trail.
In a few moments she heard Wechah give his shrill, weird 'coon-call.
Through an alley between rows of trees she saw him standing proudly upon
the dead body of Takcha.
"Oh, I thank thee, Great Mystery! I thank you, Wechah, for your kind
guidance," Wasula spoke, in a trembling voice. She took her
hunting-knife from her belt and skinned the legs of the doe up to the
knee-joints. Having unjointed them, she drew the fore-legs backward and
fastened them securely; then she put her hunting-strap through the
under-jaw and attached her carrying-straps. Thus she proceeded to drag
the body home.
Wechah was as happy as if he had shot the deer himself. Wasula realized
that her people were starving and she ran as fast as she could, but
before she was half-way across the lake her companion was in camp. As
she approached the shore, the stronger of the women came running to meet
and relieve her of her burden. They were overwhelmed with joy. She
slipped off her shoulder-straps and ran to her mother, while two of the
others hitched themselves to her carrying-lines and ran with the deer.
"Wasula, heroine, huntress! The gracious and high-minded!" In such wise
the old people sang her praises.
Several of the women had been out hunting, like Wasula, but none were as
successful as she and Wechah had been. Some brought back a single rabbit
or a grouse to quiet their crying babies. One brought a dead raccoon
which she had found in a trap. Wasula was sorry when Wechah saw this and
became visibly depressed.
When all the venison had been eaten, the rigor of winter still held in
this northern clime. The maiden hunted every day, but without success.
One afternoon the sun was getting low and she was still far from camp,
but she could not bear to go back empty-handed. She felt that upon her
success depended the lives of the others, for they could not yet move on
foot toward the village on the Minnesota River--the children would
suffer cruelly in such an attempt.
She was upon the trail of Shunktokecha, the wolf--not that she had any
hope of overtaking him, but it is well known that he is a good guide.
Wechah, too, was apparently unwilling to leave the trail. Their course
was directed toward one of the outlets of the lake.
When they reached this stream, other trails joined the one they were
following, making a broad path, and here and there the ice of the creek
was scratched by the wolf people as they passed. The huntress quickened
her steps in renewed hope. She knew that upon the trail there lies much
of joy, of fascination, and catastrophe; but every trailer only keeps
the joy in mind--it is enough to realize misfortune when it comes!
Around a sudden bend of the frozen creek another hunter's voice was
heard. It was Kangee, the raven. "Surely, there is game there, dead or
alive, for Kangee never speaks without a cause," she murmured.
Now Wechah disappeared around the point, and when she came into full
view she saw her pet jerk out of the stream something living. As the
object fell it curved itself upon the ice and again sprang glittering in
the air.
Wasula laughed, in spite of herself, the sing-song laugh of the wild
maid of the woods. "Hoya! hoya!" she screamed, and ran forward. Again
and again Wechah snatched out of the live water a large fish. When she
reached the spring in the creek, her pet had already taken out enough to
feed the whole camp.
The girl fell on her knees and peered into the water. It was packed to
the ice with the spring exodus of the finny tribes of Minnetonka for the
spawning! Every year, before the spring opens, they crowd upon one
another in the narrow passes of the streams. There was a spring here
where the ice was open, and hence the broad trail and the scratches of
wolves, bears, raccoons, crows, ravens, and many more.
"Good Wechah! We shall live now--our people cannot starve," said
Wasula, feelingly, to her pet. Her responsibility as the main support of
the camp was greatly lightened. At last she took her hunting-knife from
her belt and stripped the bark from a near-by birch. She shaped it into
a rough canoe and threw into it as many fish as it would hold. The sun
already hovered among the tree-tops as she hitched herself by means of
her carrying-lines to the canoe-shaped tray full of fish and started
homeward across an arm of the frozen lake.
Wechah ran playfully in front of her. The wild pet was full of his
cunning ways. When they reached a wooded shore he suddenly disappeared,
and the girl did not know which way he went. Presently she thought she
heard a baby cry away off in the woods; in a little while there seemed
to be a skunk calling, nearer, and still nearer; again she heard the
call of an owl. Finally the mimic rushed upon her from behind the shadow
of a huge pine, swiftly pursued by a bob-tailed 'coon.
"Ugh, Wechah! are you afraid of Sintay? 'Tis he is wicked and full of
cunning! He has broken away from several steel traps, and he always
takes the bait of a deadfall without harm to himself. If he ever chases
you again I will punish him," declared the huntress.
On seeing Wasula, the animal had disappeared among the shadows almost as
mysteriously as he emerged from them. It was now the close of Wechah
tawee, the 'coon's month, when the male raccoon leaves his winter
quarters and begins to look for company. This particular individual was
well known to the Indian hunters upon Lake Minnetonka. As Wasula had
said, he was the cunningest of his tribe, and he was also unusually
large and of a savage disposition. True, he fared luxuriously every day
upon berries, mice, fish, frogs, eggs from the swamps, and young birds
not yet able to fly. Then he sleeps a long and happy sleep through the
coldest moons of the year, undisturbed save when the Red man and his
dogs are about--he who loves to eat the fat of the 'coon and makes a
beautiful robe of his striped skin!
"You must keep away from Sintay, for he is dangerous," said Wasula, who
always talked to her pet as if he understood every word she said.
Nevertheless, while she struggled on with her load he had once more
disappeared. Soon a cry from him attracted her attention, and turning a
little aside from her path, she beheld Sintay sitting upon a
snow-covered log at the root of a large hollow tree, holding a comb of
wild honey in his two paws, listening angrily and growling over his
interrupted meal. In a moment something sprang into the air directly
over his head and alighted in front of him. It was Wechah.
Sintay screamed and clawed the air with his right paw, at the same time
clinging to the comb with the left. The new-comer bravely faced him.
Both were desperately in earnest, growling and snapping their sharp
teeth. The bee-tree was the bone of contention, and it was well worth a
fight.
Striking out with his big right paw, the tame raccoon launched forth to
secure the comb, whereupon Sintay struck at him with his disengaged paw,
but refused to let go with the other. It was a ludicrous sight, and
Wasula could not help laughing, especially when her pet succeeded in
tearing away a part of the comb and the contents were generously daubed
over their fur. But the fight soon became serious, and Wechah was
getting the worst beating he had ever had when his mistress interfered.
She struck at Sintay with her drawn bow and he dodged quickly behind the
tree, still unwilling to leave it to the intruders, but at last he fled.
It was the best thing for him to do!
Wechah stood before Wasula bleeding, his robe of fine fur sadly ruffled
and plastered with honey and snow. He looked sorry for himself, yet
proud of his discovery, and there was no time now to pity or rejoice. On
they ran till, within hailing distance of the camp, the girl gave the
wolf-call. The others were already very anxious. "She is coming!" they
cried to one another, joyously, and two went forth to meet her, for her
call meant a successful hunt.
Thus the maiden and her tame raccoon saved several families from
starvation. The run of fish would last for days, and there was much
honey in the tree, which they secured on the following day.
"It is my wish," said Wasula, "that you do not trap the 'coon again this
season, for the sake of Wechah, who has saved us all. In gratitude to
him, withdraw your deadfalls."
All agreed to this. Yet one spring morning when they were about to set
out on the return journey he was not to be found, and no one had seen
him. The huntress immediately took down her bow and quiver and searched
for his track, which she followed into the woods. Her love for Wechah
had never been fully realized by the people or perhaps even by herself.
"If Sintay has met and taken revenge upon him, I shall not return
without his scalp," she said to herself.
Over the still frozen lake to the nearest island lay Wechah's well-known
track, and he was apparently hunting for company. It was the time of
year when his people do so. He had run far and wide, meeting here and
there a bachelor 'coon. The tracks told the story of how they merely
dared one another and parted.
At last the trail lay over a slope overlooking a little cove, where
there stood a large sugar-maple. The upper quarter of it had been torn
off by lightning, leaving a very high stump. Wechah's tracks led
directly to this tree, and the scratches on its bark plainly told who
lived there. It was the home of Wechawee, the 'coon maid.
Wasula took her small hatchet from her belt and struck several quick
blows. There was a scrambling inside, and in a moment Wechah poked his
quaint striped face from the top. He looked very much abashed. Like a
guilty dog he whined, but showed no desire to come down.
"Wechah, you frightened me! I thought you had been killed. I am glad
now, my heart is good, that you have found your mate."
At this Wechah's new wife pushed her cunning head out beside that of her
husband. Wasula stood looking at them both for a few minutes with
mingled pleasure and sorrow, and ere she left she sang a maiden's
serenade to the bridegroom--the founder of a new clan!
The Mustering of the Herds
"Moo! Moo!" rang out the deep, air-rending call--the gathering call of
the herds! Hinpoha, or Curly Hair, the young bison mother, threw back
her head and listened nervously. She stood over her new-born baby in a
hidden nook upon the Shaeyela River, that flows through the Land of
Mystery.
No one was there to see, except two magpies which were loitering in the
neighborhood, apparently waiting for the mother to go away that they
might tease the helpless infant.
Tenderly she licked the moist hair of her dear one's coat, while the
beautiful black-and-white bird with the long tail talked to his mate of
mischief and plunder. Then the mother gently poked and pushed her little
one, persuading her to get up and try her tiny, soft-soled feet. It was
evident that she was not a common bison calf. Her color was not reddish
brown, but a soft, creamy white, like that of a sheep--the color of
royalty!
She toddled about unsteadily upon the thick mat of buffalo-grass. As she
learned to walk, step by step, the young mother followed her with
anxious eyes. Presently the little creature made a feeble attempt at
running. She lifted up her woolly tail, elevated a pair of transparent,
leaf-like ears, and skipped awkwardly around her mother, who never took
her black, limpid eyes from her wonderful first-born.
"Moo! Moo!" Again Hinpoha heard the impatient gathering call. Hastily
she pushed her baby with caressing nose into an old buffalo-wallow
overhung with tall grass, making a little cosey nest. The drooping
grass, like the robe of the Indian, concealed the little calf
completely.
"You must stay here," she signed. "Do not open your eyes to any
stranger. Do not move at all."
Hinpoha trotted northward, following the ravine in which she had hidden
her calf. No sooner had she disappeared from sight than those old
plunderers, magpie and his mate, swooped down from the lone willow-tree
that overhung the spot. Both perched lightly upon the edge of the
buffalo-wallow. They saw and heard nothing. They looked at each other in
surprise. "Ka, ka, ka," they talked together, wondering what had become
of the baby bison.
Up the long ascent Hinpoha ran, until she reached a point from which she
could command the valley and the place where she had hidden away her
treasure. Her watchful eyes ranged round the horizon and swept the
surrounding country. There was not a wolf there, she thought. She could
see the lone willow-tree that marked the spot. Beyond, the rough ridges
and occasional buttes were studded with pines and cedars, while the
white pillars and towers of the Bad Lands rose grandly in the distance.
As she went on to rejoin her herd upon the plains of the Shaeyela, she
beheld upon the flats the bison women gathered in great, black masses,
while on either side of them the buffalo men roamed in small groups or
singly, like walking pine-trees. Shaeyela had never looked more lovely
than on that morning in early spring--a warm, bluish haze brooding over
it--the big, ungainly cottonwoods, their branches knotted and gnarled
like the naked limbs of the old men, guarding the thin silver line of
the river.
Hinpoha ran swiftly down the last descent, now and then pausing for a
moment to announce her coming. Ordinarily she would have returned to her
people quietly and unnoticed, but she was excited by the unexpected
summons and moved to reply. As she entered the valley she saw other
buffalo women returning from their spring nurseries in the gulches,
giving their responses as they came. There was an undertone murmur
throughout the great concourse. All seemed to be moving toward the edge
of the belt of timber that clothed the river-banks. They pressed through
a scattered growth of gray-green buffalo-berry bushes.
By the signs of the buffalo women and the sound of their lowings,
Hinpoha knew that this was a funeral gathering. She hastened on with
mingled curiosity and anxiety. Within a circle of the thorny
buffalo-berry trees, under a shivering poplar, lay the lifeless form of
Ptesanwee, the white buffalo cow, the old queen of the Shaeyela herd.
Here all the dusky women of the plains had gathered to pay their last
respects to their dead leader. Hinpoha pushed her way into the midst of
the throng for a parting look. She joined in the wailing of the other
bison women, and the noise of their mourning echoed like distant thunder
from the opposite cliffs of the Shaeyela.
No bull buffalo was allowed to come near while the women hovered about
their dead leader. These had to return to their nurseries at last, and
then it was that the buffalo men approached in great numbers. The sound
of their mourning was great! They tore up the sod with their hoofs as
they wailed loudly for the dead.
The sun hovered over the western hills ere the gathering dispersed. The
dead was left to the silent night to cover, and the lonely poplar sang a
soft funeral song over her.