either of the boys, but it struck the thick part of the saddle over the
mule's back.
"Whoo! whoo!" yelled another Crow to his comrades, "the Sioux have
dispatched a runner to get reinforcements! There he goes, down on the
flat! Now he has almost reached the river bottom!"
It was only Nakpa. She laid back her ears and stretched out more and
more to gain the river, for she realized that when she had crossed the
ford the Crows would not pursue her farther.
Now she had reached the bank. With the intense heat from her exertions,
she was extremely nervous, and she imagined a warrior behind every
bush. Yet she had enough sense left to realize that she must not
satisfy her thirst. She tried the bottom with her forefoot, then waded
carefully into the deep stream.
She kept her big ears well to the front as she swam, to catch the
slightest sound. As she stepped on the opposite shore, she shook
herself and the boys vigorously, then pulled a few mouthfuls of grass
and started on.
Soon one of the babies began to cry, and the other was not long in
joining him. Nakpa did not know what to do. She gave a gentle whinny
and both babies apparently stopped to listen; then she took up an easy
gait as if to put them to sleep.
These tactics answered only for a time. As she fairly flew over the
lowlands, the babies' hunger increased and they screamed so loud that a
passing coyote had to sit upon his haunches and wonder what in the
world the fleeing long-eared horse was carrying on his saddle. Even
magpies and crows flew near as if to ascertain the meaning of this
curious sound.
Nakpa now came to the Little Trail creek, a tributary of the Powder,
not far from the old camp. There she swerved aside so suddenly as
almost to jerk her babies out of their cradles. Two gray wolves, one on
each side, approached her, growling low--their white teeth showing.
Never in her humble life had Nakpa been in more desperate straits. The
larger of the wolves came fiercely forward to engage her attention,
while his mate was to attack her behind and cut her hamstrings. But for
once the pair had made a miscalculation. The mule used her front hoofs
vigorously on the foremost wolf, while her hind ones were doing even
more effective work. The larger wolf soon went limping away with a
broken hip, and the one in the rear received a deep cut on the jaw
which proved an effectual discouragement.
A little further on, an Indian hunter drew near on horseback, but Nakpa
did not pause or slacken her pace. On she fled through the long dry
grass of the river bottoms, while her babies slept again from sheer
exhaustion. Toward sunset, she entered the Sioux camp amid great
excitement, for some one had spied her afar off, and the boys and the
dogs announced her coming.
"Whoo, whoo! Weeko's Nakpa has come back with the twins! Whoo, whoo!"
exclaimed the men. "Tokee! tokee!" cried the women.
Zeezeewin, a sister to Weeko, who was in the village, came forward and
released the children, as Nakpa gave a low whinny and stopped.
"Sing a Brave-Heart song for the Long-Eared One! She has escaped alone
with her charge. She is entitled to wear an eagle's feather! Look at
the arrow in her saddle! and more, she has a knife-wound in her jaw and
an arrow-cut on her hind leg.--No, those are the marks of a wolf's
teeth! She has passed through many dangers and saved two chief's sons,
who will some day make the Crows sorry for this day's work!"
The speaker was an old man, who thus addressed the fast gathering
throng.
Zeezeewin now came forward again with an eagle feather and some white
paint in her hands. The young men rubbed Nakpa down, and the feather,
marked with red to indicate her wounds, was fastened to her mane.
Shoulders and hips were touched with red paint to show her endurance in
running. Then the crier, praising her brave deed in heroic verse, led
her around the camp, inside of the circle of teepees. All the people
stood outside their lodges and listened respectfully, for the Dakota
loves well to honor the faithful and the brave.
During the next day, riders came in from the ill-fated party, bringing
the sad news of the fight and heavy loss. Late in the afternoon came
Weeko, her face swollen with crying, her beautiful hair cut short in
mourning, her garments torn and covered with dust and blood. Her
husband had fallen in the fight, and her twin boys she supposed to have
been taken captive by the Crows. Singing in a hoarse voice the praises
of her departed warrior, she entered the camp. As she approached her
sister's teepee, there stood Nakpa, still wearing her honorable
decorations. At the same moment, Zeezeewin came out to meet her with
both babies in her arms.
"Mechinkshee! mechinkshee! (my sons, my sons!)" was all that the poor
mother could say, as she all but fell from the saddle to the ground.
The despised Long Ears had not betrayed her trust.
V
SNANA'S FAWN
The Little Missouri was in her spring fulness, and the hills among
which she found her way to the Great Muddy were profusely adorned with
colors, much like those worn by the wild red man upon a holiday!
Between the gorgeous buttes and rainbow-tinted ridges there were narrow
plains, broken here and there by dry creeks or gulches, and these again
were clothed scantily with poplars and sad-colored bull-berry bushes,
while the bare spots were purple with the wild Dakota crocuses.
Upon the lowest of a series of natural terraces there stood on this May
morning a young Sioux girl, whose graceful movements were not unlike
those of a doe which chanced to be lurking in a neighboring gulch. On
the upper plains, not far away, were her young companions, all busily
employed with the wewoptay, as it is called--the sharp-pointed stick
with which the Sioux women dig wild turnips. They were gayly gossiping
together, or each humming a love-song as she worked, only Snana stood
somewhat apart from the rest; in fact, concealed by the crest of the
ridge.
It was now full-born day. The sun shone hot upon the bare ground, and
the drops stood upon Snana's forehead as she plied her long pole. There
was a cool spring in the dry creek bed near by, well hidden by a clump
of choke-cherry bushes, and she turned thither to cool her thirsty
throat. In the depths of the ravine her eye caught a familiar
footprint--the track of a doe with the young fawn beside it. The
hunting instinct arose within.
"It will be a great feat if I can find and take from her the babe. The
little tawny skin shall be beautifully dressed by my mother. The legs
and the nose shall be embossed with porcupine quills. It will be my
work-bag," she said to herself.
As she stole forward on the fresh trail she scanned every nook, every
clump of bushes. There was a sudden rustle from within a grove of wild
plum trees, thickly festooned with grape and clematis, and the doe
mother bounded away as carelessly as if she were never to return.
Ah, a mother's ruse! Snana entered the thorny enclosure, which was
almost a rude teepee, and, tucked away in the further-most corner, lay
something with a trout-like, speckled, tawny coat. She bent over it.
The fawn was apparently sleeping. Presently its eyes moved a bit, and a
shiver passed through its subtle body.
"Thou shalt not die; thy skin shall not become my work-bag!"
unconsciously the maiden spoke. The mother sympathy had taken hold on
her mind. She picked the fawn up tenderly, bound its legs, and put it
on her back to carry like an Indian babe in the folds of her robe.
"I cannot leave you alone, Tachinchala. Your mother is not here. Our
hunters will soon return by this road, and your mother has left behind
her two plain tracks leading to this thicket," she murmured.
The wild creature struggled vigorously for a minute, and then became
quiet. Its graceful head protruded from the elk-skin robe just over
Snana's shoulder. She was slowly climbing the slope with her burden,
when suddenly like an apparition the doe mother stood before her. The
fawn called loudly when it was first seized, and the mother was not too
far away to hear. Now she called frantically for her child, at the same
time stamping with her delicate forefeet.
"Yes, sister, you are right; she is yours; but you cannot save her
to-day! The hunters will soon be here. Let me keep her for you; I will
return her to you safely. And hear me, O sister of the woods, that some
day I may become the mother of a noble race of warriors and of fine
women, as handsome as you are!"
At this moment the quick eyes of the Indian girl detected something
strange in the doe's actions. She glanced in every direction and
behold! a grizzly bear was cautiously approaching the group from a
considerable distance.
"Run, run, sister! I shall save your child if I can," she cried, and
flew for the nearest scrub oak on the edge of the bank. Up the tree she
scrambled, with the fawn still securely bound to her back. The grizzly
came on with teeth exposed, and the doe-mother in her flight came
between him and the tree, giving a series of indignant snorts as she
ran, and so distracted Mato from his object of attack; but only for a
few seconds--then on he came!
"Desist, O brave Mato! It does not become a great medicine-man to
attack a helpless woman with a burden upon her back!"
Snana spoke as if the huge brute could understand her, and, indeed, the
Indians hold that wild animals understand intuitively when appealed to
by human beings in distress. Yet he replied only with a hoarse growl,
as rising upon his hind legs he shook the little tree vigorously.
"Ye, ye, heyupi ye!" Snana called loudly to her companion
turnip-diggers. Her cry soon brought all the women into sight upon a
near-by ridge, and they immediately gave a general alarm. Mato saw
them, but appeared not at all concerned and was still intent upon
dislodging the girl, who clung frantically to her perch.
Presently there appeared upon the little knoll several warriors,
mounted and uttering the usual war-whoop, as if they were about to
swoop down upon a human enemy. This touched the dignity of Mato, and he
immediately prepared to accept the challenge. Every Indian was alive to
the possibilities of the occasion, for it is well known that Mato, or
grizzly bear, alone among animals is given the rank of a warrior, so
that whoever conquers him may wear an eagle feather.
"Woo! woo!" the warriors shouted, as they maneuvered to draw him into
the open plain.
He answered with hoarse growls, threatening a rider who had ventured
too near. But arrows were many and well-aimed, and in a few minutes the
great and warlike Mato lay dead at the foot of the tree.
The men ran forward and counted their _coups_ on him, just as when an
enemy is fallen. Then they looked at one another and placed their hands
over their mouths as the young girl descended the-tree with a fawn
bound upon her back.
"So that was the bait!" they cried. "And will you not make a feast with
that fawn for us who came to your rescue?"
"The fawn is young and tender, and we have not eaten meat for two days.
It will be a generous thing to do," added her father, who was among
them.
"Ye-e-e!" she cried out in distress. "Do not ask it! I have seen this
fawn's mother. I have promised to keep her child safe. See! I have
saved its life, even when my own was in danger."
"Ho, ho, wakan ye lo! (Yes, yes, 'tis holy or mysterious)," they
exclaimed approvingly.
It was no small trouble for Snana to keep her trust. As may well be
supposed, all the dogs of the teepee village must be watched and kept
at a distance. Neither was it easy to feed the little captive; but in
gaining its confidence the girl was an adept. The fawn soon followed
her everywhere, and called to her when hungry exactly as she had called
to her own mother.
After several days, when her fright at the encounter with the bear had
somewhat worn off, Snana took her pet into the woods and back to the
very spot in which she had found it. In the furthest corner of the wild
plum grove she laid it down, gently stroked its soft forehead, and
smoothed the leaf-like ears. The little thing closed its eyes. Once
more the Sioux girl bent over and laid her cheek against the fawn's
head; then reluctantly she moved away, hoping and yet dreading that the
mother would return. She crouched under a clump of bushes near by, and
gave the doe call. It was a reckless thing for her to do, for such a
call might bring upon her a mountain lion or ever-watchful silver-tip;
but Snana did not think of that.
In a few minutes she heard the light patter of hoofs, and caught a
glimpse of a doe running straight toward the fawn's hiding-place. When
she stole near enough to see, the doe and the fawn were examining one
another carefully, as if fearing some treachery. At last both were
apparently satisfied. The doe caressed her natural child, and the
little one accepted the milk she offered.
In the Sioux maiden's mind there was turmoil. A close attachment to the
little wild creature had already taken root there, contending with the
sense of justice that was strong within her. Now womanly sympathy for
the mother was in control, and now a desire to possess and protect her
helpless pet.
"I can take care of her against all hunters, both animal and human.
They are ever ready to seize the helpless fawn for food. Her life will
be often exposed. You cannot save her from disaster. O, Takcha, my
sister, let me still keep her for you!" she finally appealed to the
poor doe, who was nervously watching the intruder, and apparently
thinking how she might best escape with the fawn.
Just at this moment there came a low call from the wood. It was a doe
call; but the wild mother and her new friend both knew that it was not
the call of a real doe.
"It is a Sioux hunter!" whispered the girl. "You must go, my sister! Be
off; I will take your child to safety!"
While she was yet speaking, the doe seemed to realize the danger. She
stopped only an instant to lick fondly the tawny coat of the little
one, then she bounded away.
As Snana emerged from the bushes with her charge, a young hunter met
her face to face, and stared at her curiously. He was not of her
father's camp, but a stranger.
"Ugh, you have my game."
"Tosh!" she replied coquettishly.
It was so often said among the Indians that the doe was wont to put on
human form to mislead the hunter, that it looked strange to see a woman
with a fawn, and the young man could not forbear to gaze upon Snana.
"You are not the real mother in maiden's guise? Tell me truly if you
are of human blood," he demanded rudely.
"I am a Sioux maiden! Do you not know my father?" she replied.
"Ah, but who is your father? What is his name?" he insisted, nervously
fingering his arrows.
"Do not be a coward! Surely you should know a maid of your own race,"
she replied reproachfully.
"Ah, you know the tricks of the doe! What is thy name?"
"Hast thou forgotten the etiquette of thy people, and wouldst compel me
to pronounce my own name? I refuse; thou art jesting!" she retorted
with a smile.
"Thou dost give the tricky answers of a doe. I cannot wait; I must act
before I lose my natural mind. But already I am yours. Whatever purpose
you may have in thus charming a poor hunter, be merciful," and,
throwing aside his quiver, he sat down.
The maiden stole a glance at his face and then another. He was
handsome. Softly she reentered the thicket and laid down the little
fawn.
"Promise me never to hunt here again!" she said earnestly, as she came
forth without her pretty burden, and he exacted another promise in
return. Thus Snana lost her fawn, and found a lover.
VI
HAKADAH'S FIRST OFFERING
"Hakadah, coowah!" was the sonorous call that came from a large teepee
in the midst of the Indian encampment. In answer to the summons there
emerged from the woods, which were only a few steps away, a boy,
accompanied by a splendid black dog. There was little in the appearance
of the little fellow to distinguish him from the other Sioux boys.
He hastened to the tent from which he had been summoned, carrying in
his hands a bow and arrows gorgeously painted, while the small birds
and squirrels that he had killed with these weapons dangled from his
belt.
Within the tent sat two old women, one on each side of the fire.
Uncheedah was the boy's grandmother, who had brought up the motherless
child. Wahchewin was only a caller, but she had been invited to remain
and assist in the first personal offering of Hakadah to the "Great
Mystery."
It had been whispered through the teepee village that Uncheedah
intended to give a feast in honor of her grandchild's first sacrificial
offering. This was mere speculation, however, for the clear-sighted old
woman had determined to keep this part of the matter secret until the
offering should be completed, believing that the "Great Mystery" should
be met in silence and dignity.
The boy came rushing into the lodge, followed by his dog Ohitika, who
was wagging his tail promiscuously, as if to say: "Master and I are
really hunters!"
Hakadah breathlessly gave a descriptive narrative of the killing of
each bird and squirrel as he pulled them off his belt and threw them
before his grandmother.
"This blunt-headed arrow," said he, "actually had eyes this morning.
Before the squirrel can dodge around the tree it strikes him in the
head, and, as he falls to the ground, my Ohitika is upon him."
He knelt upon one knee as he talked, his black eyes shining like
evening stars.
"Sit down here," said Uncheedah to the boy; "I have something to say to
you. You see that you are now almost a man. Observe the game you have
brought me! It will not be long before you will leave me, for a warrior
must seek opportunities to make him great among his people.
"You must endeavor to equal your father and grandfather," she went on.
"They were warriors and feast-makers. But it is not the poor hunter who
makes many feasts. Do you not remember the 'Legend of the Feast-Maker,'
who gave forty feasts in twelve moons? And have you forgotten the story
of the warrior who sought the will of the Great Mystery? To-day you
will make your first offering to him."
The concluding sentence fairly dilated the eyes of the young hunter,
for he felt that a great event was about to occur, in which he would be
the principal actor. But Uncheedah resumed her speech.
"You must give up one of your belongings--whichever is dearest to
you--for this is to be a sacrificial offering."
This somewhat confused the boy; not that he was selfish, but rather
uncertain as to what would be the most appropriate thing to give. Then,
too, he supposed that his grandmother referred to his ornaments and
playthings only. So he volunteered:
"I can give up my best bow and arrows, and all the paints I have,
and--and my bear's claws necklace, grandmother!"
"Are these the things dearest to you?" she demanded.
"Not the bow and arrows, but the paints will be very hard to get, for
there are no white people near; and the necklace--it is not easy to get
one like it again. I will also give up my otter-skin head-dress, if you
think that it not enough."
"But think, my boy, you have not yet mentioned the thing that will be a
pleasant offering to the Great Mystery."
The boy looked into the woman's face with a puzzled expression.
"I have nothing else as good as those things I have named, grandmother,
unless it is my spotted pony; and I am sure that the Great Mystery will
not require a little boy to make him so large a gift. Besides, my uncle
gave three otter-skins and five eagle-feathers for him and I promised
to keep him a long while, if the Blackfeet or the Crows do not steal
him."
Uncheedah was not fully satisfied with the boy's free offerings.
Perhaps it had not occurred to him what she really wanted. But
Uncheedah knew where his affection was vested. His faithful dog, his
pet and companion--Hakadah was almost inseparable from the loving
beast.
She was sure that it would be difficult to obtain his consent to
sacrifice the animal, but she ventured upon a final appeal.
"You must remember," she said, "that in this offering you will call
upon him who looks at you from every creation. In the wind you hear him
whisper to you. He gives his war-whoop in the thunder. He watches you
by day with his eye, the sun; at night, he gazes upon your sleeping
countenance through the moon. In short, it is the Mystery of Mysteries,
who controls all things, to whom you will make your first offering. By
this act, you will ask him to grant to you what he has granted to few
men. I know you wish to be a great warrior and hunter. I am not
prepared to see my Hakadah show any cowardice, for the love of
possessions is a woman's trait and not a brave's."
During this speech, the boy had been completely aroused to the spirit
of manliness, and in his excitement was willing to give up anything he
had--even his pony! But he was unmindful of his friend and companion,
Ohitika, the dog! So, scarcely had Uncheedah finished speaking, when he
almost shouted:
"Grandmother, I will give up any of my possessions for the offering to
the Great Mystery! You may select what you think will be most pleasing
to him."
There were two silent spectators of this little dialogue. One was
Wahchewin, the other was Ohitika. The woman had been invited to stay,
although only a neighbor. The dog, by force of habit, had taken up his
usual position by the side of his master when they entered the teepee.
Without moving a muscle, save those of his eyes, he had been a very
close observer of what passed.
Had the dog but moved once to attract the attention of his little
friend, he might have been dissuaded from that impetuous exclamation:
"Grandmother, I will give up any of my possessions!"
It was hard for Uncheedah to tell the boy that he must part with his
dog, but she was equal to the situation.
"Hakadah," she proceeded cautiously, "you are a young brave. I know,
though young, your heart is strong and your courage is great. You will
be pleased to give up the dearest thing you have for your first
offering. You must give up Ohitika. He is brave; and you, too, are
brave. He will not fear death; you will bear his loss bravely.
Come,--here are four bundles of paints and a filled pipe,--let us go to
the place!"
When the last words were uttered, Hakadah did not seem to hear them. He
was simply unable to speak. To a civilized eye, he would have appeared
at that moment like a little copper statue. His bright black eyes were
fast melting in floods of tears, when he caught his grandmother's eye
and recollected her oft-repeated adage: "Tears for woman and the
war-whoop for man to drown sorrow!"
He swallowed two or three big mouthfuls of heartache and the little
warrior was master of the situation.
"Grandmother, my Brave will have to die! Let me tie together two of the
prettiest tails of the squirrels that he and I killed this morning, to
show to the Great Mystery what a hunter he has been. Let me paint him
myself."
This request Uncheedah could not refuse, and she left the pair alone
for a few minutes, while she went to ask Wacoota to execute Ohitika.
Every Indian boy knows that, when a warrior is about to meet death, he
must sing a death dirge. Hakadah thought of his Ohitika as a person who
would meet his death without a struggle, so he began to sing a dirge
for him, at the same time hugging him tight to himself. As if he were a
human being, he whispered in his ear:
[Illustration: He began to sing a dirge for him. _Page 140._]
"Be brave, my Ohitika! I shall remember you the first time I am upon
the war-path in the Ojibway country."
At last he heard Uncheedah talking with a man outside the teepee, so he
quickly took up his paints. Ohitika was a jet-black dog, with a silver
tip on the end of his tail and on his nose, beside one white paw and a
white star upon a protuberance between his ears. Hakadah knew that a
man who prepares for death usually paints with red and black. Nature
had partially provided Ohitika in this respect, so that only red was
required and this Hakadah supplied generously.
Then he took off a piece of red cloth and tied it around the dog's
neck; to this he fastened two of the squirrels' tails and a wing from
the oriole they had killed that morning.
Just then it occurred to him that good warriors always mourn for their
departed friends, and the usual mourning was black paint. He loosened
his black braided locks, ground a dead coal, mixed it with bear's oil
and rubbed it on his entire face.