The Cree were plains Indians. Today their village was full of activity.
A hunting party had just returned after a very successful hunt. The
braves were already around the great council fire, telling of their
exploits. Among these warriors was Slow Tongue, whose bravery and
courage among the Cree was never questioned.
When all the celebrating was over, Slow Tongue returned to his tepee and
his family. His young son, Swift Hawk, had waited up for him and, with
pride in his eyes, he looked up into his father’s face and said, “I am
very proud to have you for my father.”
“My young son, it is long past your bedtime and you should have closed
your ears to the night noises of the prairie many hours ago. But I must
also say that I am proud to have you as a son and tomorrow we shall talk
and I shall tell you all about the hunt.” Slow Tongue turned to leave
his son’s side when he heard a noise at the entrance of his tepee.
“Slow Tongue,” a voice called quietly, “it is I, Seeing Bear. Come, I
must speak with you.”
Slow Tongue left the tepee. “Why do you call me from my tepee so late in
the night, Sleeping Bear,” he asked. “I am tired and my buffalo robe
beckons to me to come and wrap myself in its warm folds, for my body
aches.”
“Look, Slow Tongue! Look to the north! At first I thought the heat of
the day had made me see things that do not exist. But now I am sure it
has not. Look and tell me what you see.”
Slow Tongue turned his head to the north and gazed out into the darkness
of the night. Far in the distance he saw a red glow which disappeared,
appeared again, and disappeared many times.
“What can it mean, Slow Tongue?”
“It is a message, Seeing Bear. The fire signal tells that the tribes of
the plains are gathering for the Sun Dance. Truly this is great news.
Tomorrow we must break camp and leave for the northern meadow of the
Blue Star, for it is there that the great celebrations will be held. You
go to the southern part of the village and I will go to the northern
part, and we will spread the word. It is late and many are asleep, but
surely this is news for which they will be glad to be awakened.”
The next morning there was great excitement in the Cree village. The
gathering for the Sun Dance not only meant gathering to celebrate the
greatest religious ceremony of the plains Indians, but it also meant
that it would be a time for great feasts, mock battles, ceremonial
hunts, and the recounting of the past year’s experience with many old
friends. And, of course, the men looked forward to smoking the
ceremonial pipes which was also a part of this great occasion.
The tribe had soon broken down its village and packed and the great
procession headed north toward the meadow of the Blue Star.
For two days and two nights the Cree village moved northward. Their
progress was slow but steady, and there was much gaiety. There was much
to look forward to, and many of the younger braves could hardly be kept
from rushing on ahead of the tribe.
Soon other tribes began to join the Cree in their trek north. In all
directions smoke signals could be seen, sent up by eager messengers
reporting the movements of the tribes as they converged on the sacred
grounds.
It was very clear to Swift Hawk now that friend and enemy were walking
side by side. This was one time during the year when the burning desire
to strike out at your enemy was replaced by a stronger desire to do
worship together in the hope of a good year to come.
Soon the meadow of the Blue Star was reached, and the tribe of Swift
Hawk chose a place to set its village in the great circle with the
tribe’s sacred tepee as its center. Campfires began to burn merrily, and
the smell of cooking food filled the air. Old and young warriors walked
about to renew old acquaintances and talk about what had happened during
the past year. Dancers could be seen here and there practicing seriously
for the time of the great ceremony.
Soon word spread through the encampment that there were to be riding
contests at the far west side of the meadow on the following day. These
contests would be open to young braves who had made their first buffalo
kill during the last year. This made Swift Hawk leap and shout for joy.
Just last month he had brought down his first buffalo. This meant he
could enter the riding contest. For many years now Swift Hawk had
watched the contests from afar. Each year he promised himself that next
year he would enter and win. Each year his father told him to be patient
and that his time would come.
It was a very difficult contest to test the skills of the young
warriors. Each boy was to start his ride from the top of a hill that
sloped sharply down into the meadow. At every one-hundred-yard point
along a twisting path down the steep slope, for a distance of five
hundred yards, were four sets of poles, two poles to each set. Each set
was driven in the ground a buffalo’s length apart until they stood
between four and five feet above ground. Between these two poles a
buffalo hide was stretched to look like a buffalo running directly
toward the sloping path, his flank toward the young warriors as they
rode down.
Each young brave was allowed a bow of his choice, four arrows, and a
quiver. The brave, when given the signal to go, would race down the
slope at full speed. Drawing an arrow from the quiver and bending his
body down under the neck of his pony and holding on with his feet, he
would aim his arrow under the neck of the pony and shoot the arrow into
the buffalo hide. He would do this with each of the four arrows.
Such a contest would surely test the strength and courage of any young
brave. But young Indians were brought up to fear little and to welcome a
test like this. For this reason it was no surprise to the great
chieftains when a rather large group of young braves gathered at the
starting point the next morning. Each boy sat astride a fine looking
pony, usually the gift of his father or some other leading member of the
tribe. Each boy had his bow, his quiver, and four very special arrows
which had been worked over and cared for like a pet or one of the
family.
Final instructions were given to the young braves, and the riding
contest was on! There was a great cheer from all who were watching as
each rider left the starting point. This was a friendly match among boys
from many tribes that often fought each other the rest of the year. Down
the steep slope a lone warrior could be seen stationed at each buffalo
hide. Here he could not only retrieve arrows but help to judge the young
braves as they rode by and fired at the target.
Soon it was Swift Hawk’s turn. Remembering all that his father had
taught him, he dug his heels into his pony’s sides and started his fast
and dangerous ride. Carefully he drew an arrow from the quiver; then
bending under the pony’s neck, he placed the arrow to the bow, and as
the target came into view, Swift Hawk let his arrow fly! He heard the
plunk as the arrow struck the hide. With his head still under the pony’s
neck and riding so hard, he could hardly have seen where it had landed.
But a loud cheer told him that he had made a good shot. Down the steep,
winding course, Swift Hawk swiftly shot his arrows at the three other
targets, and went back toward the starting point.
As he reached the hilltop he heard a great shout go up. Looking down the
course he saw a young Crow brave just turning his pony to return to the
starting point. The loud cheer meant that he had ridden well and made
many good hits.
One by one each of the other young braves made his attempt but none
could equal the riding and skill of the young Crow Indian. And so it was
when the last contestant had made his ride and fired no better than the
rest that the Crow brave was announced as the winner. Swift Hawk was one
of the first to reach his side and congratulate him on his victory. Deep
in his heart, Swift Hawk was sad. But he was also very happy for this
young brave. Surely the young man had deserved to win; and, above all,
Swift Hawk realized how happy the young brave and his family must be
that he had won.
The contest over, Swift Hawk returned to his home and his father,
disappointed but not unhappy now. There would be other contests, and
this was a time of celebration and joy. His father found him sitting
beside a tree stump.
“You did very well, my son,” Slow Tongue said, placing his hands upon
Swift Hawk’s shoulders. “The Crow boy who won did just a little bit
better, but all the Cree are proud of you. There will be other contests
and many games. Soon your turn will come. But even if it should not,
remember what I have told you. As long as you play fair with your fellow
braves and obey the rules, there is nothing to be ashamed of when you
lose to someone who plays fair and has great skill.”
“Thank you, father, I shall always remember that.”
Games and new contests were beginning. Just as Swift Hawk’s father had
told him, his time would come and sooner than he expected. In the foot
race he ran much faster than any of his fellow braves, winning easily.
Swift Hawk was as good a winner as he had been a good loser, boasting to
no one about his victory.