That evening the chief, Bent Horn, sat by his fireside, smoking with
his friends. Close beside him was his handsome son. On the women's
side of the lodge Sweet Grass and her mother squatted, listening to the
stories of the men. As the hours passed by, the visitors rose one by
one and went home for the night's sleep. When the last one had gone
Sweet Grass got up from her place and held out to her father the mat
she had been making for him. A pretty picture had been woven into the
rushes; it had taken all the young girl's skill to do it.
"For you, my father," said Sweet Grass.
The chief smiled. He was proud of his young son who gave promise of
becoming a fine hunter. But he was also proud of this one daughter.
He loved her so dearly that he could not bear to say, No, to anything
she might ask of him.
"My father," now said Sweet Grass, "I wish to speak to you of the child
Timid Hare whom you gave into the keeping of The Stone."
The chief scowled. "That pale-faced daughter of the cowardly Mandans?
She may thank you that she still lives," he said sternly.
"But I have seen her and talked with her, my father, and she has won my
heart. I want her to live with me and serve me. Will you let it be
so?"
There was no answer.
"And she no longer makes one think of the pale-faced Mandans. Her skin
is now dark with paint so that she looks even as we do." The voice of
Sweet Grass was tender with pleading.
"I saw her at the spring one day," broke in young Antelope. "The
hump-back, Black Bull, had just left her. Her eyes spoke fright, but
also a good temper. Let my sister have her wish."
The chief turned to his wife. In matters of the household the Indian
woman generally has her will.
"Let the child come and serve Sweet Grass," said the squaw who had a
noble face and must once have been as beautiful as her daughter.
"You shall have your wish." Bent Horn spoke as though not wholly
pleased; but when he saw the delight his words gave Sweet Grass, his
face showed more kindness than his voice.
Two days afterwards a messenger from Bent Horn appeared in The Stone's
doorway.
"I bring you word from our chief," he told her. "The captive, Timid
Hare, is to return with me. She will serve the maiden Sweet Grass."
The Stone's ugly eyes filled with anger. Yet she did not dare refuse
the command of the chief.
"Go," she said turning to Timid Hare, who was busy at one side of the
lodge pounding wild rice into flour. "Go, you cowardly
good-for-nothing. Let the chief discover what I have borne."
Timid Hare was almost overcome with delight. To serve the beautiful
maiden, Sweet Grass! It seemed too good to be true.
Yet it must be true, for The Stone, with uplifted arms, was fairly
driving her from the lodge as she would a troublesome mosquito.
As the little girl passed through the doorway she met Black Bull
entering, with Smoke at his heels. Over the youth's eyes swept a cloud
of fear at the unusual brightness in the little girl's face. He felt
instantly that she was going to leave him. Sad as she had been, she
had brought a little sunshine into the dreary home.
"Good-bye, Black Bull," she whispered. "I will not forget you." Then,
without a last glance at The Stone, she hurried on after the messenger
who had come for her.
When she reached the chief's lodge, there was Sweet Grass waiting for
her with a kind smile. The maiden's mother, whom she had never seen
before, was also in the lodge. The squaw was busily cooking the
evening meal like any other red woman, though her husband was the chief
of the whole band.
Sweet Grass had just motioned to the little girl to take her place
beside her, when Young Antelope burst into the tepee. The day before
he had gone hunting, and when night came had not appeared. His mother
and sister had worried at his absence, but the chief had said, "We will
not fear. The lad has no doubt lost his way. But he knows how to care
for himself."
And now Young Antelope stood once more in the home, safe and happy! He
had had an exciting adventure, and was eager to tell of it. Yes, he
had lost his way out on the prairies. He was ashamed of this, for he
had been taught that an Indian should always watch the winds and the
heavens, and carefully mark every change in the appearance of the
country over which he travels; then it is an easy matter to find his
way back without trouble.
But his pony was fleet of foot, and the birds he was seeking flew fast.
After many, many miles had been covered and his game bag had been
filled, he decided to return. But he was hungry; he thought of the
tender birds he had killed and of the feast they would make.
"I will rest for awhile and cook some of the game," he decided.
All this he now told his mother on his return home. So eager was he to
describe his adventure that he did not notice the little stranger
squatting beside Sweet Grass, and looking at him with admiring eyes.
"I soon had a fire started," he continued, "and then began to roast my
game. Ugh! the feast was a fine one. But after it was over, I began
the search for home. Then darkness fell suddenly and fast gathering
clouds covered the setting sun. I was alone and far from you all. I
could hear wolves howling in the distance. They were hungry as I had
been."
[Illustration: "I soon had a fire started."]
The youth shivered. Then he went on: "But I remembered how to keep
wolves from drawing too near. They do not love fire. I piled the
brush high, and flames leaped up in the air. All night long I did
this, and now, my mother and my sister, I am with you once more. No
harm befell me."
"You did well, my son," replied his mother. That was all, but her eyes
shone with pride and gladness. So did those of Sweet Grass who
exclaimed, "Those fearful wolves! How I hate them! But you are safe.
They did not devour you; that is enough."