of the Red men standing under a newly built scaffold and wailing loudly.
He was naked and painted black. Many of the young people of the town
barked at him as he stood there in their midst, and some of the young
heralds, disturbed by the noise of his wailing, flew about and alighted
upon the scaffolds. When he ceased mourning, he turned about and talked
long at the little people and then went away.
The angry mourner reported at the great camp that the prairie-dogs and
their owls were desecrating the graves, and it was time that they should
be driven away. A council was held, and the next day the Red men came
with their dogs and killed many. Their arrows pinned many of them to the
ground before they could dodge into their holes. Then they scattered
all over the town and remained there, so that none dared to come out.
The owls were shot or driven away, and the Red men killed every
rattlesnake that they found. It was an awful time! During the night many
of the little people went away, deserting their homes.
The next day the same thing happened again, and the Red men even stopped
up the entrances to many of the houses with round stones. Again in the
night many of the little mound-builders left the town.
On the third day they came and set fire to the plain. After that, in the
night, all the remaining population abandoned the town, except only
Pezpeza. All this time the founder of the ten towns had remained
in-doors. He was old and reluctant to move. At last he emerged with his
mate. An awful sight met their eyes. On the blackened plain not one of
the great population could be seen. Not one of their many children and
grandchildren was there to greet them or to play at "catch-the-laugh"!
As soon as they dared the two old people sought food under the
scaffolds, where the grass was not burned. Two Red men arose from
behind a grave and let their arrows fly. Alas! the aged leader of the
mound-builders was pinned to the ground. His mate barely escaped a
similar fate, for the other missed.
The herald saw everything that had happened. He took up his watch from
the centre of the ruined town. The sun went down, moonlight flooded the
prairie, and he heard the evening call of the coyotes upon Fox Ridge. At
last he saw something moving--it was the widowed mate of his friend,
running along the trail from the desolate town. He gave one last look
about him, then he silently rose and followed her.
The Gray Chieftain
On the westernmost verge of Cedar Butte stood Haykinshkah and his mate.
They looked steadily toward the setting sun, over a landscape which up
to that time had scarcely been viewed by man--the inner circle of the
Bad Lands.
Cedar Butte guards the southernmost entrance to that wonderland,
standing fully a thousand feet above the surrounding country, and nearly
half a mile long by a quarter of a mile wide. The summit is a level,
grassy plain, its edges heavily fringed with venerable cedars. To
attempt the ascent of this butte is like trying to scale the walls of
Babylon, for its sides are high and all but inaccessible. Near the top
there are hanging lands or terraces and innumerable precipitous points,
with here and there deep chimneys or abysses in the solid rock. There
are many hidden recesses and more than one secret entrance to this
ancient castle of the gray chieftain and his ancestors, but to assail it
successfully requires more than common skill and spirit.
Many a coyote had gone up as high as the second leaping-bridge and there
abandoned the attempt. Old grizzly had once or twice begun the ascent
with doubt and misgiving, but soon discovered his mistake, and made
clumsy haste to descend before he should tumble into an abyss from which
no one ever returns. Only Igmutanka, the mountain-lion, had achieved the
summit, and at every ascent he had been well repaid; yet even he seldom
chose to risk such a climb, when there were many fine hunting-grounds in
safer neighborhoods.
So it was that Cedar Butte had been the peaceful home of the big
spoonhorns for untold ages. To be sure, some of the younger and more
adventurous members of the clan would depart from time to time to found
a new family, but the wiser and more conservative were content to remain
in their stronghold. There stood the two patriarchs, looking down
complacently upon the herds of buffalo, antelope, and elk that peopled
the lower plains. While the sun hovered over the western hills, a coyote
upon a near-by eminence gave his accustomed call to his mate. This
served as a signal to all the wild hunters of the plains to set up their
inharmonious evening serenade, to which the herbivorous kindred paid but
little attention. The phlegmatic spoonhorn pair listened to it all with
a fine air of indifference, like that of one who sits upon his own
balcony, superior to the passing noises of the street.
It was a charming moonlight night upon the cedar-fringed plain, and
there the old chief presently joined the others in feast and play. His
mate sought out a secret resting-place. She followed the next gulch,
which was a perfect labyrinth of caves and pockets, and after leaping
two chasms she reached her favorite spot. Here the gulch made a square
turn, affording a fine view of the country through a window-like
opening. Above and below this were perpendicular walls, and at the
bottom a small cavity, left by the root of a pine which had long since
fallen and crumbled into dust. To this led a narrow terrace--so narrow
that man or beast would stop and hesitate long before venturing upon it.
The place was her own by right of daring and discovery, and the mother's
instinct had brought her here to-night, for the pangs of deadly sickness
were upon her.
In a little while relief came, and the ewe stood over a new-born lamb,
licking tenderly the damp, silky hair, and trimming the little hoofs of
their cartilaginous points. The world was quiet now, and those whose
business it is to hunt or feed at night must do so in silence, for such
is the law of the plains. The wearied mother slept in peace.
The sun was well above the butte when she awoke, although it was cool
and shadowy still in her concealed abode. She gave suck to the lamb and
caressed it for some time before she reluctantly prepared its cradle,
according to the custom of her people. She made a little pocket in the
side of the cave and gently put her baby in. Then she covered him all
up, save the nose and eyes, with dry soil. She put her nose to his
little sensitive ear and breathed into it warm love and caution, and he
felt and understood that he must keep his eyes closed and breathe
gently, lest bear or wolf or man should spy him out when they had found
her trail. Again she put her warm, loving nose to his eyes, then patted
a little more earth on his body and smoothed it off. The tachinchana
closed his eyes in obedience, and she left him for the plain above in
search of food and sunlight.
* * * * *
At a little before dawn, two wild hunters left their camp and set out
for Cedar Butte. Their movements were marked by unusual care and
secrecy. Presently they hid their ponies in a deep ravine and groped
their way up through the difficult Bad Lands, now and then pausing to
listen. The two were close friends and rival hunters of their tribe.
"I think, friend, you have mistaken the haunts of the spoonhorn,"
remarked Wacootay, as the pair came out upon one of the lower terraces.
He said this rather to test his friend, for it was their habit thus to
criticise and question each other's judgment, in order to extract from
each other fresh observations. What the one did not know about the
habits of the animals they hunted in common the other could usually
supply.
"This is his home--I know it," replied Grayfoot. "And in this thing the
animals are much like ourselves. They will not leave an old haunt unless
forced to do so either by lack of food or overwhelming danger."
They had already passed on to the next terrace and leaped a deep chasm
to gain the opposite side of the butte, when Grayfoot suddenly
whispered, "In ahjin!" (Stop!). Both men listened attentively. "Tap,
tap, tap," an almost metallic sound came to them from around the
perpendicular wall of rock.
"He is chipping his horns!" exclaimed the hunter, overjoyed to surprise
the chieftain at this his secret occupation. "Poor beast, they are now
too long for him, so that he cannot reach the short grass to feed. Some
of them die starving, when they have not the strength to do the hard
bucking against the rock to shorten their horns. He chooses this time,
when he thinks no one will hear him, and he even leaves his own clan
when it is necessary for him to do this. Come, let us crawl up on him
unawares."
They proceeded cautiously and with cat-like steps around the next
projection, and stood upon a narrow strip of slanting terrace. At short
intervals the pounding noise continued, but strain their eyes as they
might they could see nothing. Yet they knew that a few paces from them,
in the darkness, the old ram was painfully driving his horns against the
solid rock. Finally they lay flat upon the ground under a dead cedar,
the color of whose trunk and that of the scanty soil somewhat resembled
their clothing, and on their heads they had stuck some bunches of
sage-bush, to conceal them from the eyes of the spoonhorn.
With the first gray of the approaching dawn the two hunters looked
eagerly about them. There stood, in all his majesty, heightened by the
wild grandeur of his surroundings, the gray chieftain of the Cedar
Butte! He had no thought of being observed at that hour. Entirely
unsuspicious of danger, he stood alone upon a pedestal-like terrace,
from which vantage-point it was his wont to survey the surrounding
country every morning. If the secret must be told, he had done so for
years, ever since he became the head chief of the Cedar Butte clan.
It is the custom of their tribe that when a ram attains the age of five
years he is entitled to a clan of his own, and thereafter must defend
his right and supremacy against all comers. His experience and knowledge
are the guide of his clan. In view of all this, the gray chieftain had
been very thorough in his observations. There was not an object anywhere
near the shape of bear, wolf, or man for miles around his kingdom that
was not noted, as well as the relative positions of rocks and
conspicuous trees.
The best time for Haykinshkah to make his daily observations is at
sunrise and sunset, when the air is usually clear and objects appear
distinct. Between these times the clan feed and settle down to chew
their cud and sleep, yet some are always on the alert to catch a passing
stranger within their field of observation. But the old chief spoonhorn
pays very little attention. His duty is done. He may be nestled in a
gulch just big enough to hold him, either sound asleep or leisurely
chewing his cud. The younger members of the clan take their position
upon the upper terraces and under the shade of projecting rocks, after a
whole night's feasting and play upon the plain.
As spoonhorn stood motionless, looking away off toward the distant
hills, the plain below appeared from this elevated point very smooth and
sheetlike, and every moving object a mere speck. His form and color were
not very different from the dirty gray rocks and clay of the butte.
Wacootay broke the silence. "I know of no animal that stands so long
without movement, unless it is the turtle. I think he is the largest ram
I have ever seen."
"I am sure he did not chip where he stands now," remarked Grayfoot.
"This chipping-place is a monastery to the priests of the spoonhorn
tribe. It is their medicine-lodge. I have more than once approached the
spot, but could never find the secret entrance."
"Shall I shoot him now?" whispered his partner in the chase.
"No, do not do it. He is a real chief. He looks mysterious and noble.
Let us know him better. Besides, if we kill him now we shall never see
him again. Look! he will fall to that deep gulch ten trees' length
below, where no one can get at him."
As Grayfoot spoke the animal shifted his position, facing them squarely.
The two men closed their eyes and wrinkled their motionless faces into
the semblance of two lifeless mummies. The old sage of the mountains was
apparently deceived, but after a few moments he got down from his lofty
position and disappeared around a point of rock.
"I never care to shoot an animal while he is giving me a chance to know
his ways," explained Grayfoot. "We have plenty of buffalo meat. We are
not hungry. All we want is spoons. We can get one or two sheep
by-and-by, if we have more wit than they."
To this speech Wacootay agreed, for his curiosity was now fully aroused
by Grayfoot's view, although he had never thought of it in just that way
before. It had always been the desire for meat which had chiefly moved
him in the matter of the hunt.
Having readjusted their sage wigs, the hunters made the circuit of the
abyss that divided them from the ram, and as they looked for his trail
they noticed the tracks of a large ewe leading down toward the
inaccessible gulches.
"Ah, she has some secret down there! She never leaves her clan like this
unless it is to steal away on a personal affair of her own."
So saying, Grayfoot with his fellow tracked the ewe's footprint along
the verge of a deep gulf with much trouble and patience. The hunter's
curiosity and a strong desire to know her secret impelled the former to
lead the way.
"What will be our profit, if one slips and goes down into the gulch,
never to be seen again?" remarked Wacootay, as they approached a
leaping-place. The chasm below was of a great depth and dark. "It is not
wise for us to follow farther; this ewe has no horns that can be made
into spoons."
"Come, friend; it is when one is doubting that mishaps are apt to
occur," urged his companion.
"Koda, heyu yo!" exclaimed Wacootay, the next moment, in distress.
"Hehehe, koda! Hold fast!" cried the other.
Wacootay's moccasined foot had slipped on the narrow trail, and in the
twinkling of an eye he had almost gone down a precipice of a hundred
feet; but with a desperate launch forward he caught the bough of an
overhanging cedar and swung by his hands over the abyss.
Quickly Grayfoot pulled both their bows from the quivers. He first tied
himself to the trunk of the cedar with his packing-strap, which always
hung from his belt. Then he held both the bows toward his friend, who,
not without difficulty, changed his hold from the cedar bough to the
bows. After a short but determined effort, the two men stood side by
side once more upon the narrow foothold of the terrace. Without a word
they followed the ewe's track to the cave.
Here she had lain last night. Both men began to search for other marks,
but they found not so much as a sign of scratching anywhere. They
examined the ground closely without any success. All at once a faint
"Ba-a-a!" came from almost under their feet. They saw a puff of
smokelike dust as the little creature called for its mother. It had felt
the footsteps of the hunters and mistaken them for those of its own
folk.
Wacootay hastily dug into the place with his hands and found the soil
loose. Soon he uncovered a little lamb. "Ba-a-a!" it cried again, and
quick as a flash the ewe appeared, stamping the ground in wrath.
Wacootay seized an arrow and fitted it to the string, but his companion
checked him.
"No, no, my friend! It is not the skin or meat that we are looking for.
We want horn for ladles and spoons. The mother is right. We must let her
babe alone."
The wild hunters silently retreated, and the ewe ran swiftly to the spot
and took her lamb away.
"So it is," said Grayfoot, after a long silence, "all the tribes of
earth have some common feeling. I believe they are people as much as we
are. The Great Mystery has made them what they are. Although they do not
speak our tongue, we often seem to understand their thought. It is not
right to take the life of any of them unless necessity compels us to do
so.
"You know," he continued, "the ewe conceals her lamb in this way until
she has trained it to escape from its enemies by leaping up or down from
terrace to terrace. I have seen her teaching the yearlings and
two-year-olds to dive down the face of a cliff which was fully twice the
height of a man. They strike on the head and the two fore-feet. The ram
falls largely upon his horns, which are curved in such a way as to
protect them from injury. The body rebounds slightly, and they get upon
their feet as easily as if they had struck a pillow. At first the
yearlings hesitate and almost lose their balance, but the mother makes
them repeat the performance until they have accomplished it to her
satisfaction.
"They are trained to leap chasms on all-fours, and finally the upward
jump, which is a more difficult feat. If the height is not great they
can clear it neatly, but if it is too high for that they will catch the
rocky ledge with their fore-feet and pull themselves up like a man.
"In assisting their young to gain upper terraces they show much
ingenuity. I once saw them make a ladder of their bodies. The biggest
ram stood braced against the steep wall as high as his body could reach,
head placed between his fore-feet, while the next biggest one rode his
hind parts, and so on until the little ones could walk upon their broad
backs to the top. We know that all animals make their young practise
such feats as are necessary to their safety and advantage, and thus it
is that these people are so well fitted to their peculiar mode of life.
"How often we are outwitted by the animals we hunt! The Great Mystery
gives them this chance to save their lives by eluding the hunter, when
they have no weapons of defence. The ewe has seen us, and she has
doubtless warned all the clan of danger."
But there was one that she did not see. When the old chief left his clan
to go to the secret place for chipping his horns, the place where many a
past monarch of the Bad Lands has performed that painful operation, he
did not intend to rejoin them immediately. It was customary with him at
this time to seek solitude and sleep.
The two hunters found and carefully examined the tracks of the fleeing
clan. The old ram was not among them. As they followed the trail along
the terrace, they came to a leaping-place which did not appear to be
generally used. Grayfoot stopped and kneeled down to examine the ground
below.
"Ho!" he exclaimed; "the old chief has gone down this trail but has not
returned. He is lying down near his chipping-place, if there is no other
outlet."
Both men leaped to the next terrace below, and followed the secret pass
into a rocky amphitheatre, opening out from the terrace upon which they
had first seen the old ram. Here he lay asleep.
Wacootay pulled an arrow from his quiver.
"Yes," said his friend. "Shoot now! A warrior is always a warrior--and
we are looking for horn for spoons."
The old chief awoke to behold the most dreaded hunter--man--upon the
very threshold of his sanctuary. Wildly he sprang upward to gain the top
of the cliff; but Wacootay was expert and quick in the use of his
weapon. He had sent into his side a shaft that was deadly. The monarch's
fore-hoofs caught the edge--he struggled bravely for a moment, then fell
limp to the rocky floor.
"He is dead. My friend, the noblest of chiefs is dead!" exclaimed
Grayfoot, as he stood over him, in great admiration and respect for the
gray chieftain.
Hootay of the Little Rosebud
On the south side of Scout Butte there is a crescent-shaped opening,
walled in by the curving sides of the hill. This little plain cannot be
seen from the top of the butte. There is a terrace upon its brow on
which a few scrub pines grow, so regularly that one would think them set
there by human hands. Half-way up the incline there stood at one time a
lone cedar-tree, and at its foot there might have been discerned a flat,
soft mound. It consisted of earth thrown up from the diggings of a
cavern. The wild people approaching from the south could see this mound,
but would scarcely note the entrance to the immense den hidden behind
it. One coming down from the butte would not notice it, as there were no
signs other than the earth pile. The Little Rosebud River takes its rise
at the threshold of this natural barricade.
This was the home of Hootay, the aged medicine-man of the Little Rosebud
country. He was a fighter of many battles, this great and wise grizzly,
who was familiarly called Hootay, or Stubby Claws, by the Sioux hunters.
They had all known of him for many years. It was believed of him that he
had scalped not less than eight braves, and killed even more ponies and
dogs. No less than three and ten times the Sioux had made expeditions
against him, but each time they had failed. For this reason they
declared that he had good war-medicine. Among the warriors it had long
been understood that he who takes Hootay's scalp may wear a war-bonnet.
This acknowledgment of his prowess, of course, was not made known to the
aged yet still formidable bear.
Up and down the Little Rosebud he had left his well-known imprint, for
he had lost two toes on one foot. Aside from the loss of his big claws,
he had received several arrow and knife wounds during his warlike
career.
Early in the fall, Hootay had felt a severe aching of his old hurts. He
had eaten of every root-medicine that he knew, but there was no relief.
Instinct led him to early retirement and hibernation.
His new home was a commodious one, well filled with dry grass and
pine-needles. It is the custom of his people to remain quiet until the
spring, unless serious danger threatens. A series of heavy storms in
early winter had covered and concealed all his rakings of dry grass and
other signs of his presence, therefore he thought himself secured from
molestation. There he lay most of the time in a deep sleep.
* * * * *
The Sechangu Sioux never altogether leave this region. It is true that
many wander away to the Missouri, the Muddy Water, or follow the buffalo
down to the Platte River, but some would always rather trust to the
winter hunt upon this familiar stream. This winter, High Head, with his
little band of eleven men, was wintering at the old place. Among them
was Zechah, a renowned hunter, who had followed this band because of his
love for Hintola, the chief's daughter. It had been a long courtship,
but they were married at last. Zechah's skill had been proved by his
father-in-law, and the arrow test was only sport to him. His unerring
aim was now the pride of the old chief.
The party encamped on the Little Rosebud had eaten all of their fresh
meat. They must seek for game. Accordingly, three teepees went farther
up the river. The winter was wellnigh over when there came a heavy thaw,
and snow-shoes were made for the use of the hunters.
They pitched the teepees, looking like a trio of white conical bowlders,
in a well-protected bottom. Winding gulches diverged from the main
stream like the ribs of a huge snake, until they lost themselves in the
hills. These dry creek-beds were sentinelled by cedar-trees, erect and
soldier-like, which at a distance looked very black, but near by they
appeared green.
The party was cheerful. High Head was in the best of spirits, telling
the history, traditions and legends of the region.
"This," said he, "is the country of the wild tribes who walk with four
feet. It is the home of those people of unknown language. It has never
been said that one could starve upon the Little Rosebud. In the summer
it is the land of battles, both among the wild tribes and among men. In
the winter-time there is peace."
At this moment a solitary singer, standing on the brink of a high cliff
behind and above the teepees, broke into a weird and doleful chant.
"Listen to the warriors, the song of the warriors of Wazeyah, the god of
cold and storm!" Thus he sang in a high, minor key, with sudden drops to
lower notes and inflections.
When he ceased silence reigned, except for the occasional snapping of a
burning ember.
Presently the watcher descended and made his report. "There is a great
wind and snow coming. Our ponies are some distance away. We shall not be
able to find them all for the darkness and the storm-wind approaching."
"Ho, ho," spoke High Head, confidently. "It is not bad. We shall eat
meat to-morrow. The snow will be deep, and my son-in-law will have the
easier hunting. It may be that I myself will lasso a great bear,"
chuckled the old man.