THE COMING OF THE GREAT SPIRIT
With the years White Weasel spindled up into a youth whose legs quite
naturally fitted around the barrel of a horse. He no longer had to climb
up the fore leg of a camp-pony, but could spring on to those that ran in
his father's herd and maintain his position there.
Having observed this, one night his foster-father said to him: "You are
old enough, my son, to be trusted with my ponies out in the hills. You
must begin to study the ponies, or you will never be able to take or
hold any of your own. Not to have horses is not to hunt buffalo or go to
the enemy, and not to have a wife. Go, then, when the morning comes,
with your brother, and watch my herd. See that they feed safely; see
that by evening they come to the lodges. You are old enough now to wear
the loin-cloth; you must begin to be a man. You will never find your
shadow-self here among the noisy lodges; it will only come to you out in
the quiet of the hills. The Bad Spirits always have their arms out to
clutch you when you are asleep in the night; as you ride in the shadows;
when you ford the waters,--they come in the wind, the rain, the snow;
they point the bullet and the battle-axe to your breast, and they will
warn the Sioux when you are coming after their ponies. But out in the
hills the Sak-a-war-te[1] will send some bird or some little wolf to you
as his friend; in some way he will talk to you and give a sign that will
protect you from the Bad Gods. Do not eat food or drink water; pray to
him, and he will come to you; if he does not, you will be lost. You will
never see the Spiritland when your body lies flat on the ground and your
shadow has gone."
[1] Great Spirit of the Crows.
After saying this, his father's pipe died out, the mother put no more
dry sticks on the fire, the shapes along the lodge walls died away in
the gloom, and left the youth awake with a new existence playing through
his brain. He was to begin to be a man. Already he had done in play,
about the camp, the things which the warriors did among the thundering
buffalo herds; he had imitated the fierce nervous effort to take the
enemy's life in battle and the wolfish quest after ponies. He had begun
to take notice of the great difference between himself and the girls
about the camp; he had a meaning which they did not; his lot was in the
field.
Before the sun rose he was one of the many noisy boys who ran about
among the horses, trailing his lariat to throw over some pony which he
knew. By a fortunate jerk he curled it about one's neck, the shy
creature crouching under its embracing fold, knowing full well the
awful strangle which followed opposition. With ears forward, the animal
watched the naked youth, as he slowly approached him along the taut
rope, saying softly; "Eh-ah-h-h--um-m-m-um-m-m--eh-h-h-h-h." Tying the
rope on the horse's jaw, with a soft spring he fixed himself on its
back, tucking his loin-cloth under him. Now he moved to the outskirts of
the thronging horses, crying softly to them as he and his brother
separated their father's stock from that of the neighbor herds. He had
done this before, but he had never been responsible for the outcome.
The faint rose of the morning cut the trotting herd into dull shadowy
forms against the gray grass, and said as plain as any words could to
White Weasel: "I, the sun, will make the grass yellow as a new brass
kettle from the traders. I will make the hot air dance along the plains,
and I will chase every cloud out of the sky. See me come," said the sun
to White Weasel.
"Come," thought the boy in reply, "I am a man." For all Indians talk
intimately with all things in nature; everything has life; everything
has to do with their own lives personally; and all nature can speak as
well as any Crow.
Zigzagging behind the herd, they left the smell of smoke, carrion, and
other nameless evils of men behind them, until the bark of wolf-dogs
dulled, and was lost to their ears.
Daylight found the two boys sitting quietly, as they sped along beside
the herd of many-colored ponies. To look at the white boy, with his
vermilioned skin, and long, braided hair, one would expect to hear the
craunch and grind of a procession of the war-cars of ancient Gaul coming
over the nearest hill. He would have been the true part of any such
sight.
"Brother," spoke his companion, "we must never shut our eyes. The
Cut-Arms are everywhere; they come out of the sky, they come out of the
ground to take our horses. You must watch the birds floating in the air;
they will speak to you about the bad Indians, when you learn their talk;
you must watch the wolves and the buffalo, and, above all, the antelope.
These any one can understand. We must not let the ponies go near the
broken land or the trees. The ponies themselves are fools, yet, if you
will watch them, you will see them turn slowly away from an enemy, and
often looking back, pointing with their ears. It may be only a bear
which they go away from; for the ponies are fools--they are afraid of
everything. The grass has been eaten off here by these buffalo, and the
ponies wander. I will ride to the high hill, while you, brother, bring
the herd slowly. Watch me, brother; I may give the sign of danger."
Saying which, the older boy loped gracefully on ahead.
All day the herd grazed, or stood drooping, as the sun made its slow arc
over the sky, while the boys sat on the ground in the shadows cast by
their mounts, their eyes ceaselessly wandering. Many were the mysteries
of horse-herding expounded by the one to the other. That the white
Absaroke was hungry, it was explained, made no difference. Absarokes
were often hungry out in the hills. The Dakotah were worse than the
hunger, and to lose the ponies meant hunger in their father's lodge.
This shadow-day herding was like good dreams; wait until the hail beat
on the ponies' backs, and made them run before it; wait until the
warriors fought about the camp, defending it; then it was hard work to
hold them quietly. Even when the snow blew all ways at the same time,
the Cut-Throats might come. White Weasel found a world of half-suspected
things all coming to him at once, and gradually a realizing sense stole
over him that the ponies and the eating and the land were very serious
things, all put here for use and trouble to the Absaroke.
As the days wore on, the birds and the wild animals talked to the boy,
and he understood. When they plainly hovered, or ran wildly, he helped
to gather up the ponies and start them toward the lodges. If the mounted
scouts came scurrying along the land, with the white dust in a long
trail behind them, he headed for the cottonwoods with the herd,
galloping. At times the number of the ponies in his charge changed, as
his father won or lost at the game of "hand"; but after the dried-meat
moon his father had brought home many new ponies from the camps of the
Cut-Arms toward the Morning.
His father had often spoken praise of him beside the lodge-fire, and it
made him feel good. He was beginning to be a man, and he was proud of
it; he would be a warrior some day, and he would see that nothing
hurtful happened to his father's horses.
It was now the month of the cold moon.[2] The skies were leaden at
times; the snow-laden winds swept down from the mountains, and in the
morning Weasel's skin was blue and bloodless under his buffalo-robe when
he started out for the hills, where the wind had swept the snow off from
the weeds and grass. Never mind, the sun of the yellow grass had not
cooked the ambition out of him, and he would fight off the arrows of the
cold.
[2] December.
His brother, being older, had at last succumbed to his thirst for glory.
He had gone with some other boys to try his fortune on other people's
horses. Weasel was left alone with the herd. His father often helped him
to take the ponies out to good grazing, and then left him. The Absaroke
had been sore pressed by the Indians out on the plains, and had retired
to the Chew-cârâ-âsh-Nitishic[3] country, where the salt-weed grew. Here
they could be pushed no farther. Aided by the circling wall of mountain,
their own courage, and their fat horses, they could maintain themselves.
Their scouts lay far out, and the camp felt as much security as a wild
people can ever feel.
[3] Big Horn Basin.
One day, as usual, Weasel had taken his ponies far away to fresh feed,
that near the camps having been eaten off. The day was bright, but
heavy, dense clouds drifted around the surrounding mountain-tops, and
later they crawled slowly down their sides. Weasel noticed this as he
sat shivering in his buffalo-robe; also he noticed far away other horse
herds moving slowly toward the Arsha-Nitishic, along whose waters lay
the camp of his people. He began to gather his ponies and rode circling
about. They acted wildly--strung out and began to run. Glancing about,
Weasel saw many big gray wolves loping along in unison with his charges.
It was not strange that wolves were in the vicinity of Indians. The
wolves, the ravens, and the Indians were brothers in blood, and all
followed the buffalo herds together. A lame or loose pony or a crippled
Indian often went the way of the wolves, and many wolves' hides passed
over the trader's counter. Thus they always got along together, with the
raven last at the feast.
As Weasel turned his nervous eye about him, he knew that he had never
seen so many wolves before. He had seen dozens and dozens, but not so
many as these. They were coming in nearer to the horses--they were
losing their fear. The horses were running--heads up, and blowing with
loud snorts. Weasel's pony needed no whip; his dorsal action was swift
and terrific.
The wolves did not seem to pay particular attention to him--they rather
minded the herd. They gathered in great numbers at the head of the
drove. Weasel could have veered off and out of the chase. He thought of
this, but his blue eyes opened bravely and he rode along. A young colt,
having lost its mother, ran out of the line of horses, uttering
whinnies. Instantly a dozen gray forms covered its body, which sank with
a shriek, as Weasel flashed by.
The leading ponies stopped suddenly and ran circling, turning their
tails to the wolves, kicking and squealing viciously. The following ones
closed up into the compact mass of horses, and Weasel rode, last of all,
into the midst of them. What had been a line of rushing horses two
arrow-flights long before, was now a closely packed mass of animals
which could have been covered by a lariat. In the middle of the bunch
sat Weasel, with his legs drawn up to avoid the crushing horses. It was
all very strange; it had happened so quickly that he could not
comprehend. He had never been told about this. Were they really wolves,
or spirits sent by the Bad Gods to destroy the boy and his horses?
[Illustration: "IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BUNCH SAT WEASEL."]
All his waking hours had been spent with the ponies; he knew no other
world; he had scarcely had any other thoughts. He was with them now, but
instead of his protecting them they were protecting him. With their
tails turned toward the circling mass of devil-animals, they struck and
lashed when attacked. Nothing was heard but the snap of teeth, the stamp
of hooves, the shrill squealing of horses, with an occasional thud
followed by a yelp. The departing sun stole for a moment through a
friendly rift in the clouds, encrimsoning the cold snow, and then
departed, leaving the gray tragedy to the spirits of the night.
The smoke eddied from the top of the lodges; a bright spark showed from
time to time as some one lifted an entrance flap; the ponies huddled in
the dense bush; the dogs came out and barked at the wilderness of never
ending plain. All was warmth and light, friendship, and safety,--even
the baying wolf-dogs were only defying the shades and distances out
beyond for their own amusement; it was perfunctory.
"Why does not my son come in with the ponies?" asked the foster-father
of his squaw, but she could only answer, "Why?"
Wrapping his robe about him, he walked to the edge of the camp and stood
long squinting across the dusky land. He saw nothing to encourage him.
Possibly the ponies had come in, but why not the boy?
Oh! that was possible! That had happened! A long walk failed to locate
the horses. Then he spoke to a chief, and soon all was excitement.
"The little white Crow and his horses have not come in," was repeated in
every lodge.
"The Sioux! The Sioux!" spoke the echo.
It was too dark for a search. "The Sioux" was the answer to every
question, and no one hunted the Sioux by night. They might even now be
on the outskirts. Swiftly the scouts made their way to the outposts. The
warriors loaded their guns, and the women put out the fires. Every dog
howled with all the energy of his emotional nature. There was no sleep
for the Absaroke camp. It was seldom that an enemy got by the far-riding
watchers of the Crow camps, but there was always a fear. It had
happened.
Ba-cher-hish-a sobbed and wailed all night in her lodge, while the
foster-father walked outside, speculating endlessly with his friends.
Long before day he was mounted, and with a small party far on the way to
the herd-grounds which he had chosen the day before.
As the plain began to unfold itself to their straining eyes, their quick
ears ran ahead of them. A snarling, a horse-squealing, a curious medley
of sounds, bore on them. Being old men, they knew. "It is the wolves,"
said they, almost in a chorus. Forward with a rush, a shrill yelling,
and firing, swept the little party. The sun strove mightily to get over
the mountains to help them. They now saw the solid mass of horses, with
the wolves scurrying away on all sides. A faint answering human whoop
came from the body of the beleaguered horse band. As the rescuers rode
up, the ponies spread out from each other. Relieved from the pressure of
the slimy fangs, the poor animals knew that men were better than wolves.
Some of them were torn and bloody about the flanks; a few lay still on
the snow with their tendons cut; but best of all which the Indians saw
was little White Weasel sitting in the midst of the group. He allowed
his robe to fall from his tight clutch. The men pushed their horses in
among the disintegrating bunch. They saw that the boy's lips were
without color, that his arms hung nerveless, but that his brave, deep
eyes were open, and that they showed no emotion. He had passed the time
of fear, and he had passed the time for hope, long hours ago.
They lifted him from his horse, and laid him on the ground, covered with
many robes, while willing hands kneaded his marbled flesh. A fire was
built beside him, and the old men marvelled and talked. It was the time
when the gray wolves changed their hunting-grounds. Many had seen it
before. When they sought the lower country, many grasses ago, to get
away from the snow, one had known them to eat a Crow who happened in
their way; this when he was a boy.
The wolves did not always act like this--not every snow. Sudden bad
storms in the mountains had driven them out. The horse herds must be
well looked after for a time, until the flood of wolves had passed down
the valley.
The tired ponies stood about on the plain with their heads down. They,
too, had become exhausted by the all-night fight. The sun came back,
warm and clear, to see a more cheerful scene than it had left. Little
Weasel spoke weakly to his father: "The Great Spirit came to me in the
night, father,--the cold wind whispered to me that White Weasel must
always carry a hoof of the white stallion in his medicine-bag. 'It is
the thing that will protect you,' said the wind. The white stallion lies
over there--cut down behind. Kill him, and give me one of his rear
hooves, father."
Accordingly, the noble beast, the leader of the horses in battle, was
relieved of what was, at best, useless suffering,--sacrificed to the
gods of men, whom he dreaded less than the wolves,--and his
wolf-smashing hoof did useful things for many years afterward.