following. The little store of dried meat that they had brought with
them was entirely exhausted. On the fifth day they all sat looking
silently into the fire. Their faces were worn and haggard. The children
cried for food, but there was no food. Wazeyah, the god of winter, still
waged war, and the snow was piled high around their teepees.
Night came, the darkness fell heavily, and terrified them with the
thought of death around their feeble fires. Famine was sitting among
them with a stern face. At last all but two rolled themselves in their
warm buffalo-robes and lay down. Even should the storm cease, they
feared that none now was strong enough to hunt.
Zechah sat beside his young wife, gazing into the fire. "It will be sad
news for my father that I died of starvation upon the Little Rosebud,"
he mused. "It will be told for generations to come, whenever they camp
at this place."
When at last he lay noiselessly down, he could not sleep. Looking up
through the smoke-hole, he sang a hunting song to himself in an
undertone:
"The wind brings the secret news--good news of the hunting!
It is a scent--it may be a trail--it may be a sound of the game!
Whatever it be, it is a clew to the hunter,
A sign from above to appease hunger, to save life!"
Singing thus, Zechah had forgotten that he was hungry, when all at once
he saw a bright star through the smoke-hole. He had not noticed that the
wind had ceased to blow.
The hunter arose softly, put on fur-lined moccasins, and girded himself
with a strong strap over his lightest robe. He took his knife, a bow,
and quiver full of arrows, and set out through the gray, frosty air.
It was now almost daylight. The rocks and pines were robed in white,
like spirits. The snow was deep and heavy under Zechah's feet, but he
was determined to succeed. He followed the ridges where the snow was
well blown off. He had forgotten his own hunger and weakness, and
thought only of the famishing people for him to serve.
Above the eastern hills the day was coming fast. The hunter hurried
toward the gulches where he knew the game was wont to be. Just as he
reached the higher ridges the sun appeared over the hills, and Zechah
came upon the track of another early hunter. It was Shunkmanitoo, the
gray wolf. He followed the trail until he came out upon a hill
overlooking a deep gulch. He could only see the tips of the pines along
its course. At a little distance, Shunkmanitoo sat upon his haunches,
apparently awaiting Zechah. Again he took the lead and the wild hunter
followed. The wolf looked back now and then as if to see whether the man
were coming.
At last he paused upon a projecting bank commanding the bottom of the
gulch. The Sioux approached him. When he had come very near, the wolf
went on down the slope.
"Hi, hi!" Zechah spoke his thanks with arms outstretched toward the
rising sun. Through a rift in the bank he saw a lone bison, ploughing up
the deep snow in search of grass. He was well covered with snow and had
not seen the two hunters appear above. Zechah at once dodged backward in
order to approach his game behind cover and stealthily.
He was now almost over the gulch, partly concealed by a bunch of dead
thistles. There was no suspicion in the mind of Tatanka. Zechah examined
his arrows and bow. He placed the sharpest one to his bow-string, and
with all the strength that he could muster he let the arrow fly. In
another instant he saw Tatanka snort and plough up the snow like mad,
with the arrow buried deep in his side. The bison did not know who or
what had dealt him such a deadly thrust. He ran in a circle and fell
upon the snow, while blood coursed from his nostrils, staining its
whiteness.
Zechah was almost overcome by his good-fortune. Again he held his right
hand outstretched toward the sun, and stood motionless.
"Hi, hi, hi, hi! tunkashela!" Thus he blessed the Father of all.
* * * * *
When the March thaw set in, the snow was melted off the south side of
the hills. Hootay had doubtless had this danger in mind, for he could
not have selected a more excellent place to avoid the catastrophe. But,
alas! the best calculations will sometimes miscarry. It was nothing more
than a stray root of the cedar-tree at his door which deviated the
course of the water, running harmlessly down the hill, into Hootay's
home. In a short time the old medicine-man was compelled to come out,
drenching wet.
He sat down on a dry corner of the mound to meditate upon his future
course. In his younger days he would have thought nothing of this
misfortune, but now he was old and rheumatic. No inhabitant of that
country knew better than he that it is not safe to sleep in the woods on
the bottom-lands in the spring of the year. Hootay is a boastful hunter,
often over-confident, yet wise in wood-craft, and what he has once
learned he never forgets. He knew that when a thaw comes all the hills
contribute their snow and water to the Little Rosebud, and for a few
days it runs a mighty river. Even Chapa, the beaver, is wont at such
times to use his utmost precautions to guard against disaster.
Hootay carefully considered the direction of the wind, sniffed the air
to discover if any other wild hunter were near, and finally set out in a
southwesterly direction toward the head of the Little Rosebud.
He had not gone far when he felt that he was scarcely equal to tramping
through the slush and mud. More than this, he was leaving too broad a
trail behind him. These considerations led him along the pine ridges,
and for this course there was still another reason. He was hungry now,
but there was little hope of meeting with any big game. Along the ridges
there is early exposure of the ground where edible roots may be
obtained, and where he hoped also to find dry bedding.
He had fair success in this, and had made himself somewhat comfortable
when the blizzard set in. He had found tolerable shelter but very little
food, and since his winter rest was so unexpectedly broken up, food he
must have. As soon as the storm ceased, he had to venture out in search
of it. He could no longer depend upon roots--the snow was far too deep
for that. He must catch what he could. The old fellow was now almost
hopelessly slow and weak, but he still had a good deal of confidence in
himself.
He waded clumsily through the deep snow, following a dry creek-bed; and,
now and then, from force of habit, he would stealthily climb the bank
and scan the field above and below before exposing himself. This was
partly for self-protection and partly in the hope of surprising his
game.
Presently Hootay came upon the footprint of another hunter. He snarled
and put his muzzle closer to the trail when he detected the hateful odor
of man. At the same instant he smelled fresh meat.
The very smell seemed to give him a new lease of life, for he sat up on
his haunches and began sniffing the air eloquently. His hair was as
shaggy as that of an old buffalo-robe, and his age and sitting posture
made his hump appear very prominent.
"Waugh, waugh!" the old man grunted, with an air of disgust, for there
came to his nose a strong human scent mingled with the savory odor of
the life-giving meat.
Zechah distinctly heard the snort of a bear. He seized his bow and
quiver full of arrows.
"Can it be that Hootay is near?" he muttered to himself. "He may perhaps
add my scalp to the many that he has taken of my people, but I will
first send an arrow of mine into his body!"
He rested his bow upon the shaggy head of the dead bull, and went on
skinning it with a large knife, working rapidly. Presently the gray wolf
approached from another direction.
"Ho, kola, you have guided me to game! It is yours and mine. You, too,
shall have meat," he said.
As soon as he had skinned one side, Zechah cut off a generous piece and
walked toward Shunkmanitoo, who was sitting upon his haunches, watching
him work in that wonderful way with a single sharp thing in his hand.
But he did not think it best to trust the wild man too far, for he still
carried that sharp thing in his hand as he approached him with the meat.
He arose and moved backward a few paces.
"Do not fear, kola! Warriors and hunters like ourselves must have faith
in each other when they work together for a good cause," the Red man
said, again. He placed the meat upon the snow where Shunkmanitoo had
been sitting, and returned to his work.
After a time, and with apparent reluctance, the big, burly wolf came
back to his meat and examined it. At last he ate of it. It was good. He
no longer feared the wild man. From time to time Zechah would throw him
a piece of meat until he was satisfied.
The hunter had cleared away the snow around the buffalo, which was now
cut up in convenient pieces for carrying. He was exceedingly hungry. He
had, indeed, eaten a piece of the liver, which the Sioux always eats
raw, but this only served to sharpen his appetite. He had heavy work
before him, for he must take some of the meat home to his starving wife,
and then bring as many of the people as were able to walk to carry the
rest to camp. There were plenty of dry boughs of the pine. He made a
fire by rubbing together the pieces of dry cedar-wood which every Indian
hunter of that day carried with him, and, broiling strips of the savory
meat upon live coals, he ate of it heartily.
Suddenly a fearful growl was heard. Zechah had dismissed the idea of a
bear from his mind as soon as his friend Shunkmanitoo appeared. He was
taken by surprise. When he looked up, Hootay was almost upon him. He
came forward with his immense jaws wide open, his shaggy hair making him
look as big as a buffalo bull against the clear whiteness of the
landscape.
Shunkmanitoo's chance was small. He occupied the only road to Zechah's
position, and there were perpendicular walls of snow on either side of
him. His only hope lay in his quickness and agility. As Hootay rushed
madly upon him with uplifted paw, the wolf sprang nimbly to one side and
well up on the snow-bank. His assailant had to content himself with
raking down the snow, and in the effort he plunged into a heavy drift
from which he was unable to drag himself.
Hootay was in sad trouble, for he had tumbled right into a deep gully
filled to the brim with soft snow, and the more he struggled the deeper
he was sinking. Zechah perceived the situation, and made ready to send
the fatal arrow.
Hootay waved his right paw pitifully. There was something human-like
about him. The Indian's heart beat fast with excitement. Weakened by his
long fast, he scarcely saw or heard clearly, but, according to the
traditions of his people, the old bear addressed him in these words:
"No, Zechah, spare an old warrior's life! My spirit shall live again in
you. You shall be henceforth the war prophet and medicine-man of your
tribe. I will remain here, so that your people may know that you have
conquered Hootay, the chief of the Little Rosebud country."
It is not certain that he really said this, but such was the belief of
the hunter. He put his arrow back in the quiver, and immediately,
according to custom, he took his pipe from his belt and smoked the pipe
of peace.
A huge piece of meat was suspended from his shoulders above the quiver,
and, with his bow firmly grasped in the right hand, Zechah addressed his
friend Shunkmanitoo:
"Ho, kola, you have eaten what is yours; leave mine for my starving
people!"
The wolf got up and trotted away as if he understood, while Zechah
hurried back on his own trail with tidings of life and happiness.
He ran as often as he came to open ground, and in a short time stood
upon the top of the hill with the little group of teepees just below
him. The smoke from each arose sadly in a straight column, tapering
upward until lost in the blue. Not a soul stirred and all was quiet as
the dead.
"Ho, he ya hay!" the hunter chanted aloud, and ended with a war-whoop.
Out of the sleepy-looking teepees there came a rush of men and women.
Old High Head appeared with outstretched hands, singing and pouring
forth praises. "Hi, hi, hi, hi!" he uttered his thanks, in a powerful
voice, still stretching his arms to heaven.
Hintola was the quietest and most composed of them all. She went first
to meet her husband, for it was the custom that, when the son-in-law
returns with game, his wife must meet him outside the camp and bring
back food to her parents.
Having distributed the meat in small pieces, High Head announced his
son-in-law's success as a hunter, and solicited all who were able to
join him in going after the remainder. He ended with a guttural song of
cheer and gladness.
It was then Zechah told of his meeting with the other wild hunters, and
how Hootay was conquered and imprisoned in the snow.
"Ugh, ugh!" grunted High Head, with much satisfaction. "This means a
war-bonnet for my son-in-law--a story for coming generations!"
But the hunter did not repeat the bear's words to himself until he had
become a famous war prophet. When the people went after the meat, they
found the old warrior lying dead without a wound, and with one accord
they made a proper offering in his honor.
The River People
Away up the Pipestone Creek, within sight of the Great Pipestone Quarry,
lived old Chapawee and her old man Hezee, of the beaver tribe. Unlike
some of their neighbors, they had emigrated from a great distance. They
had, therefore, much valuable experience; and this experience was not
theirs alone--it was shared with their immediate family. Hence their
children and their children's children were uncommonly wise.
They had come to this country many years before, and had established
their home in this ancient and much-prized resort of the two-legged
tribe. Around the Pipestone Quarry the wild Red men would camp in large
numbers every summer, and it seemed that the oldest beaver could not
remember a time when they were not there. Their noisy ways were
terrible indeed to the river people, who are a quiet folk.
It was the custom with this simple and hard-working pair to build a very
warm house for themselves. In fact, they had both summer and winter
homes, besides many supply and store houses. Their dam was always in
perfect order, and their part of the creek was the deepest and clearest,
therefore their robe of furs was of the finest. If any of the Hezee band
was ever killed by the two-legs, their fur was highly valued.
Chapawee always insisted upon two rooms in her house: one for herself
and the old man, and one for her yearling children who chose to remain
with them for the first winter. She always built one very large house,
running deep into the bank, so that in case of overflow or freshet they
would still be safe. Besides the usual supply-houses, she and her old
man excavated several dining-rooms. These are simply pockets underground
at the edge of the stream. In case of any danger on the surface, they
could take some food from a store-house and carry it to one of these
dining-rooms, where it was eaten in peace.
It was the rule with the old folks to eat apart from their year-old
children. The yearlings, on the other hand, eat all together, and have
as much fun and freedom as they please. Their merriest frolics, however,
are in the night, in and upon their swimming and diving pond. Here they
coast rapidly head-first down a steep bank slippery with mud, lying upon
their chests or sitting upon their haunches, and at times they even turn
somersaults and perform other acrobatic feats. This coasting has a
threefold object. It is for play and also for practice; to learn the art
of sliding into deep water without unnecessary noise; and, more than
all, according to the Red people, it is done for the purpose of
polishing and beautifying their long, silky fur.
The beaver tribe are considered wisest of the smaller four-legged
tribes, and they are a people of great common-sense. Even man gains
wisdom and philosophy from a study of their customs and manners. It is
in the long winter nights, as is believed and insisted upon by the wild
Indians, that the beaver old folks recite their legends to their
children and grandchildren. In this case it was usually Chapawee who
related the traditions of her people and her own experiences, gathering
about her all the yearlings and the newly married couples, who might
take a notion to go off in search of a new claim, just as she and Hezee
did. So it was well that they should thoroughly understand the ways and
wisdom of their people.
To be sure, she had breathed it into them and fed them with it since
before they could swim; yet she knew that some things do not remain in
the blood. There are certain traits and instincts that are very strong
in family and tribe, because they refer to conditions that never change;
but other matters outside of these are likewise very useful in an
emergency.
Old Chapawee could never sleep after the sun reaches the middle of the
western sky in summer. In winter they all sleep pretty much all of the
day. Having finished her supper with Hezee one night under the large
elm-tree on the east side of the dam, she dove down with a somersault,
glided along close to the bottom of the pond, inspecting every pebble
and stray chip from their work-room, until she reached the
assembly-room, which might almost be called a school-house in the
manner of the paleface.
She came scrambling up the slippery bank to the middle entrance. No
sooner had she shaken off the extra water from her long hair than
Hezee's gray mustache emerged from the water, without exposing his head.
He was teasing the old lady, trying to make her believe there was a crab
in the landing. Quick as a flash she flopped over in the air and slapped
the side of her broad tail upon the water where her spouse was lurking
to deceive her. Down he dove to the bottom and lay there motionless as
if he expected her to hunt him up; but after a while he went off and
notified all the young people that it was time for their gathering at
the old meeting-house.
Here Chapawee occupied the place of honor, while Hezee filled the
undignified position of errand-boy. All the young beavers came in, some
still carrying a bit of sapling in their mouths, but, on realizing their
mistake, each dove back to place it where it belonged. They arranged
themselves in a circle, sitting upright on their flat tails for
cushions, their hands folded under their chins.
"A long time ago," began Chapawee, the old beaver grandmother, "we lived
on the other side of the Muddy Water (the Missouri), upon a stream
called Wakpala Shecha (Bad River). Father and mother, with my older
brothers and sisters, built a fine dam and had a great pond there. But
we led a hard life. There are not many ponds on Bad River and the stream
dries up every summer, therefore thousands of buffalo came to our place
to drink. They were very bad people. It seems that they do not respect
the laws and customs of any other nation. They used to come by the
hundred into our pond and trample down our houses and wear holes in the
banking of our dam. They are so large and clumsy that they would put
their feet right through the walls, and we had to hide in our deepest
holes until we were very hungry, waiting for them to go away.
"Then there were the shunktokechas and shungelas (wolves and foxes), who
follow the buffalo. They, too, are a bad and dangerous sort, so that
mother and father had to be continually on the watch. We little beaver
children played upon the dam only when mother thought it safe. In the
night we used to enjoy our swimming, diving, and coasting school. We
practised gnawing sticks, and the art of making mud cement that will
hold water, how to go to the bottom silently, without effort, and to
spank the water for a signal or danger-call with our tails.
"There were many other bad people in that country. There was the ugly
old grizzly. He would sometimes come to our place to swim and cool off.
We would not mind, only he is so treacherous. He was ready to kill one
of us at any moment if we gave him the chance.
"Mother played a trick on him once, because he was such a nuisance. He
was wont to crawl out upon one of the logs which projected from the dam
and over the deep water. This log was braced by posts in the water.
Mother lay on the bottom and loosened the soil and then quickly pulled
one of the posts away, and the old grizzly fell in headlong. She dove to
one side, and, as the old man struggled to get out, crawled up behind
him and gashed one of his hind paws with her sharp wood-choppers. Oh,
how the old fellow howled and how he scrambled for the dam! He groaned
long as he sat on the bank and doctored his wounded foot. After that he
was never again seen to sit upon one of our logs, but when he came to
the river to drink and cool off his hot paws he always took the farthest
point from our houses, and then he only put one foot in the water at a
time.
"Mother was dreadfully afraid of one wicked animal. That was Igmu, the
mountain lion. He does not live in this part of the country, and it is
such a relief," said the old beaver woman. "Whenever one of the Igmus
comes to our place, we all hurry to deep water and lie there, for they
have been known to dig through the walls of our houses.
"There was still another danger that our people had to contend with.
Wakpala Shecha has a swift current and a narrow bed, and we had terrible
freshets two or three times in a season.
"At last there came a great flood. It was after I was two years old and
had learned everything--how to chop wood, which way to fell the trees,
and what to store up for the winter; how to mix mud cement and drive
posts in the creek bottom, and all of the other lessons. Early in the
spring, while there was still snow on the ground, a heavy rain came.
Every dry gulch was a torrent. We had never known such a flood. It
carried away all our dams and made our strongest houses cave in. We did
not dare to go to shore, for we could hear the wolves calling all along
the banks.
"At last mother and father bound two drift-logs together with willow
withes. We all helped, as none of us ever think of being idle. Upon the
logs we made a rude nest, and here we all slept and ate as we floated
down the stream.
"After several days we came to a heavily timbered bottom where there was
a very large fallen tree. The roots held firmly to the bank and
projected over the water. We all let go of our raft and climbed upon it;
there were bushy branches at the top. We trimmed the trunk of the tree
leading to dry land and built a temporary nest upon the bushy top, until
the water should go down and we could find a good place to build. Mother
and father went down the stream the next night to explore for a new
home, and I was left in the nest with two brothers. We, too, explored
the shores and little inlets near us, but we all came back to the nest
that morning except mother and father. I have never seen them from that
day to this.
"I and my two brothers slept together in the warm nest. All at once I
felt a slight jar. I opened my eyes, and there lay upon the trunk of our
tree a fierce Igmu, ready to fish us out with his strong arm and hooked
claws.
"Kerchunk! I dropped into the deep stream to save my life. I swam a
little way, and then came to the surface and peeped back. Ah, I saw him
seize and violently dash one of my brothers against the tree, but the
other I did not see. Perhaps he did as I did to save himself.
"I went down the Bad River until I came to the Big Muddy. Ice was
floating in huge cakes upon the brown flood. I wanted to go, too, for I
had heard of a country far to the sunrise of the great river. I climbed
upon a floating ice-cake, and I moved on down the Muddy Water.
"I kept a close watch on the shores, hoping to see father and mother,
but I saw no sign of them. I passed several islands, but the shores
were loose sand. It was not the kind of soil in which our people build,
so I did not stop, although there were fine tall cotton woods and all
the kinds of trees that we eat. Besides, I did not care to go to shore
or up the mouths of any of the creeks unless I should discover signs of
our tribe. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been alone.
"So I kept on my ice-boat until I was out of food, and then I stopped at
an island. I swam near the shore to find a good landing, and when I
reached the bank I saw the footprints of a beaver man. My heart beat
hard, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Some one had cut down a fresh
sapling, and as I ate of the delicious bark and twigs I was watching for
him every moment. But he did not come.
"Then I went back to the water's edge to study the trail and see where
he went. I found to my disappointment that he had gone back to the
water. As my mother had taught me every beaver sign, I knew he was a
traveller, come to take food, as I was. Hoping to overtake him, I
hurried back to another floating cake of ice, and again I found myself
going down the big stream.