The celebration was over and Timid Hare was tired out from excitement.
Never before had she seen so many wonders. Why, the chief of chiefs,
the chief of all the Dahcotas, had been one of the visitors and had
slept in Bent Horn's tepee. Timid Hare herself had helped to serve
him. And when he had gone forth to the council and to the feasts he
was the grandest looking person she had ever beheld in her life. He
wore a head-dress of war-eagle feathers. Thick and heavy was this
head-dress, and beautiful were the feathers beyond compare. The great
chief's face shone with grease, and was made fearful to look upon with
much paint. On his robe were pictured the many battles in which he had
taken part; it was trimmed with a heavy fringe of scalp-locks. His
leggings and moccasins were richly embroidered with porcupine quills.
He walked forth like a king. The children of the village trembled as
they gazed upon him.
Bent Horn looked grand also in his own robes of state. Many a day had
his wife spent embroidering this robe with porcupine quills and
trimming it with fringes of his enemies scalp-locks. Heavy chains hung
around his neck. His long hair, which he had greased well, had been
divided into two parts and crossed on the top of his head, where it was
then gathered into a knot.
"Bent Horn's head-dress is almost as handsome as that of the Great
Chief," Timid Hare said to herself, as she watched the two men walking
together towards the council house.
The sun shone brightly throughout the whole celebration and the feasts
were spread outdoors. The chiefs and braves sat in a half-circle at
these feasts and the food was passed to them from steaming kettles.
There was bear meat in plenty, fat and rich; baked turtles; juicy
buffalo steaks and stews; but at the principal feast of all, only dog
flesh was served.
Then it was that the people of the village gathered in crowds around
the feasters to watch and listen. Closest of all were the braves and
their sons. Back of them were the squaws and their little daughters.
Timid Hare, beside her young mistress Sweet Grass, listened with wonder
to the noble speeches of the chiefs. Bent Horn spoke first of all.
"My brother," he said to the Great Chief, "our hearts are almost
bursting with gladness that you are with us today.
"And you also"--Bent Horn continued, turning to one after another of
the lesser chiefs, "we welcome you with gladness and feel that the
Great Spirit has sent you to us. In token of our love we have killed
faithful dogs that you may feast. May the Great Spirit bind us closely
together. I say no more."
As Bent Horn ended his speech he lifted before the eyes of the feasters
a carved necklace made of the claws of grizzly bears, and his own robe
of elk skins which he had just taken from his shoulders. Then he
slowly rose and, going to the side of the guest of honor, he laid the
gifts before him. Next, he took other gifts--embroidered moccasins and
leggings--and presented them to the lesser chiefs.
For a moment all were silent. Then the guests themselves made
speeches, each one telling of his love for Bent Horn and his band, and
giving rich gifts in return.
And now the pipe of peace was lighted and brought to Bent Horn.
Solemnly he pointed the stem to the north, the south, the east, and the
west. Last of all, he lifted it towards the sun. Then he spoke.
"How--how--how," he said slowly. Then in silence he smoked it, but
only to take one long whiff, after which he held it in turn to the
mouths of the other chiefs, that they might smoke it also.
Not a word was spoken by any one during this solemn time. But as soon
as the last guest had smoked, the dog-meat, floating in rich gravy, was
brought from the steaming kettles and handed around in wooden bowls
among the guests. All ate their fill. Then silently, they got up and
went away. They had smoked and eaten the sacrifice together. Surely,
they thought, there could be no better token of their friendship for
each other.
Timid Hare looked on from afar. She felt pride in her dear mistress's
brother who had given up his own pet dog, in place of Black Bull. She
was also filled with wonder at the greatness of the Dahcotas.
"They are a mighty tribe," thought the little girl. She drew a long
breath of sadness, feeling that she could never hope to go from among
them. But when she afterwards looked on at the wrestling matches,
races on horseback, and dances such as she had never seen before, she
forgot everything else for the moment. Her eyes shone with excitement;
her breath came quick. Never before, it seemed to her, had she seen
such skill.
When the entertainment of each day ended, however, and Timid Hare went
to her bed of buffalo skins, she would lie thinking of the old home, of
the loving White Mink, the kind Three Bears, and the good
foster-brother Big Moose. Then tears would roll down over the little
girl's cheeks and she would choke back a sob.
"Can it be," she would think, "that the story White Mink told me before
I was taken from her, is true? Am I truly a white child, and is she
not my real mother?" Then the little captive would touch the baby's
sock fastened by a cord of deer-sinews about her waist and next to her
flesh.
"It is safe," she would whisper to herself, "and no one here has
discovered it--not even The Stone. It did not save me from being
captured, but it may yet bring good fortune, even as White Mink hoped."