The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Punishment of the Stingy, by George Bird
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Title: The Punishment of the Stingy
and Other Indian Stories
Author: George Bird Grinnell
Illustrator: Edwin Willard Deming
Release Date: October 25, 2021 [eBook #66596]
Language: English
Produced by: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file
was produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PUNISHMENT OF THE STINGY ***
THE PUNISHMENT OF THE STINGY
AND OTHER INDIAN STORIES
by
GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL
Illustrated
New York and London
Harper & Brothers Publishers
1901
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Stories and the Story-Tellers vii
The Bluejay Stories ix
The Punishment of the Stingy 3
Bluejay, the Imitator 19
Bluejay Visits the Ghosts 35
The Girl Who Was the Ring 49
The First Corn 65
The Star Boy 75
The Grizzly Bear’s Medicine 87
The First Medicine Lodge 117
Thunder Maker and Cold Maker 127
The Blindness of Pi-waṕ-ōk 143
Ragged Head 159
Nothing Child 167
Shield Quiver’s Wife 189
The Beaver Stick 201
Little Friend Coyote 219
ILLUSTRATIONS
“THEN THEY WENT SEAWARD” Frontispiece
“HE SAW A BALD-HEADED EAGLE” Facing p. 8
“THE BIRD CAME DOWN” 10
“FIVE TIMES HE CIRCLED AROUND THEM” 12
“THERE WAS NO BOY THERE, ONLY A PILE OF BONES” 38
“ONLY BONES LAY THERE” 40
“ITS HEAD WAS SO HEAVY THAT IT THREW IT DOWN” 42
THE STICK GAME 50
SWINGING THE GIRL TO CALL THE BUFFALO 52
COYOTE HOLDS A COUNCIL OF WAR 54
“‘I CAN TELL WHICH STICK IS THE NEARER’” 58
“SNORTED ‘WHOOF,’ AND BLEW RED DUST FROM HIS NOSTRILS” 92
“THEY COULD NOT HURT HIM” 100
THE CONFERENCE IN THE LODGE 106
“SU-YE-SAI-PI CLUNG TO HIM” 226
“‘OH, LITTLE WOLF,’ SHE CRIED” 230
THE STORIES AND THE STORY-TELLERS
The stories in this book deal with peoples of widely different
surroundings and habit—some with dwellers on the sea-shore, whose skies
are often obscured by rain and fog, who draw their living from the sea,
and are at home on the water; and others with inhabitants of the high
plains, where the air is pure and dry, and the summer sun is rarely
hidden by clouds.
As the Indians have no written characters, memorable events are
retained only in the minds of the people, and are handed down by the
elders to their children, and by these again transmitted to their
children, so passing from generation to generation. Until recent years,
one of the sacred duties of certain elders of the tribes was the
handing down of these histories to their successors. As they repeated
them, they impressed upon the hearer the importance of remembering the
stories precisely as told, and of telling them again exactly as he had
received them, neither adding nor taking away anything. Thus early
taught his duty, each listener strove to perform it, and to impress on
those whom he in turn instructed a similar obligation.
In transcribing stories such as these, care must be used to take down
just what the narrator says. The stories must be reproduced as they are
told; otherwise they lose that primitive flavor which is often one of
their chief charms. In their true form they are full of human nature,
full of unconscious suggestion as to how the primitive mind worked, and
full also of hints as to the customs and life of the people in the old
days.
Seated by the flickering fire in Blackfoot skin-lodge, or in Pawnee
dirt-house, or in sea-shore dwelling on the northwest coast, I have
received these stories from the lips of aged historians, and have set
them down here as I have heard them.
THE BLUEJAY STORIES
On the shores of the ocean which washes our northwest coast live many
tribes of a hardy, seafaring people. Their houses stand along the beach
just above high-water mark, and behind them the wooded mountains rise
sharply. The waters at their feet yield them the chief share of their
living. The salmon that each year come to the rivers to spawn, the
great shoals of little herrings that visit the beach, the halibut that
lie at the bottom far at sea, the seals, the sea-lions, the porpoises,
and the whales, all provide something towards the tribe’s support. Or,
if for a while all these fail, there are flat-fish on the shoals, clams
in the mud flats, and mussels clinging to the rocks. In the stories
told by this race of seafarers, the incidents have to do with the
common events of their lives, and the scenes are commonly laid on the
water or at the water’s edge. Thus they treat of the hunting of the
sea-lion, of the catching of the salmon, most often of the search for
food.
Most of the stories to be related here are very old, and date from a
period when men and animals were far more closely related than they
seem to be to-day; when, as the tales clearly show, each could
understand the other’s language, and when friendly intercourse between
them was common. Although in recent years all the conditions of the
lives of these people have changed, stories such as these may still be
heard, if one can gain the confidence of the aged men and women who yet
retain this legendary lore. In somewhat different form, the Bluejay
Stories, in the original tongue, may be found in the Chinook Texts,
collected by that eminent ethnologist, Dr. Franz Boas, whose studies of
American tribes have yielded such important and valuable results.
THE PUNISHMENT OF THE STINGY
A BLUEJAY STORY
At Sea Side lived many people—a big village. Their houses were on the
bank, and, below, the wide beach sloped down to the salt water. Under
the bank the canoes rested on the beach above high-water mark. Beyond
was the sea.
One day the Chief of the village died. He had one son, a big boy just
growing up to be a man. It was winter, and the people had hardly
anything to eat. They looked along the beach for food cast up by the
sea, but they could find nothing. They were hungry, and did not know
what they should do. Mussels and roots were their only food.
One day a hunter said to the men: “Everybody get ready; let us go out
to sea. Perhaps there we may find something to eat; even if we kill
nothing, we can at least gather mussels.”
So all the men got ready, and they started out to sea in two canoes.
After they had gone some distance they came to a small island, and saw
there some sea-lions, and the hunter speared one, and it jumped out to
the water and swam strongly, and then it died and floated on the water.
They dragged it up on the shore near by, and Bluejay said, “We will
boil it here.” So they made a fire there and singed it and cut it up
and boiled it. Then Bluejay said: “Let us eat it here. Let us eat all
of it, and not take any of it home with us.” So these people ate there.
The Raven wished to take home some of the meat to give to persons who
were hungry, and hid a piece in his mat and carried it to the canoe,
but Bluejay ran down and took the meat and threw it into the fire and
burned it. After they had eaten all they wanted, they made ready to go
home. They gathered mussels, large and small. In the evening they came
to the village, and Bluejay called out to his wife, “Stikuá, come and
get your mussels.” There was a noise of many feet as Stikuá and the
other women came running down to get their mussels, and carried them up
to the houses.
The Raven took care of the Chief’s son. That night the boy said to him,
“To-morrow I want to go with you.” Bluejay said: “What are you going to
do? The waves will carry you away. You will be washed away. I was
almost washed away.”
Early the next morning the men made ready to go hunting again. They
went down to the beach and got into the canoes, and the boy also went
down to the beach. He intended to go with them, and as they were
pushing off he tried to get into one of the canoes. Bluejay said to
him: “Go up to the houses. Go up to the houses.” The boy went, as he
had been told, but he felt very sorry, and then Bluejay said, “Quick,
let us leave him.” The people began to paddle.
At length they reached the land where they had been the day before. It
was a rocky island. The hunter went ashore and speared a sea-lion. They
hauled it to the shore and pulled it up on land, and then pulled it up
away from the beach. Bluejay said, “We will eat it all here, or else
our Chief’s son will always be wanting to come with us.” So now they
singed the sea-lion, and cut it up and boiled it there. Then, when what
they were cooking was ready, they ate plenty. The Raven tried to save
one piece of the meat. He tied it in his hair, intending to hide it,
but Bluejay took it out and threw it into the fire and burned it. When
they started home they gathered mussels, and at evening they got home.
Before they landed, Bluejay called out loud, “Come, Stikuá, and get
your mussels.” There was a noise of feet running, and Stikuá and her
children came running to the beach with all the other women. Then they
carried the mussels up to the houses. Bluejay said to the men who had
been with him, “Do not tell the Chief’s son, any of you, for if you do
he will always go with us.”
That night the boy said, “To-morrow I am going with you”; and Bluejay
said to him: “What are you going to do? You may drift away. You may be
overwhelmed by the waves.” The boy said, “I will go with you.”
On the third morning they rose early and went to the beach, and the boy
also went to the beach, and took hold of the side of the canoe to get
in. Bluejay said: “What are you doing here? Go to the houses.” The boy
cried, but he went back. Then Bluejay said to the others, “Quick,
paddle; we will leave him behind.” Then the people paddled away. At
length they arrived at the rock of the sea-lions, and the hunter went
ashore. He speared a large sea-lion, and pretty soon it floated dead on
the water. They pulled it in to the shore and up on the beach, and then
they hauled it up above the beach and singed and cut it up and boiled
it there. When it was done they ate, and Bluejay said: “We will eat it
all. We will not tell any one, for fear that our Chief’s son should
want to come with us.” After all had eaten enough, a little meat was
still left. The Raven tried to hide a piece of it. He tied it to his
leg and put a bandage over it, and said that his leg was broken.
Bluejay burned all the meat that was left over. He said to the Raven,
“I want to see your leg.” He seized the Raven’s leg and untied it, and
found the piece of meat that the Raven had tied to it and burned it.
Towards evening they gathered mussels, and then they went home.
When they were nearly at their home Bluejay called out, “Stikuá, your
mussels.” There was a noise of feet, and Stikuá and the women ran to
the beach. They carried the mussels up from the beach and ate mussels
all night. The boy said, “To-morrow, I think, I shall surely go along
with you.” Bluejay said to him: “What are you going to do? You will
drift away. I should have drifted away twice if I had not caught hold
of the canoe.”
Early the next morning they made themselves ready, and the boy got up
and made himself ready. Then the people hauled their canoes down to the
water and got into them. The boy tried to get into a canoe too, but
Bluejay took hold of him and threw him into the water. He stood in the
water up to his waist. He took hold of the side of the canoe, but
Bluejay hit his hands to make him let go. For a long time he held on,
and cried and cried, but at last he let go and went up to the house.
Then Bluejay and the other people paddled away. After a while they
reached the rock where the sea-lions lived, and the hunter went ashore
and speared a sea-lion, and it jumped into the water and soon floated
there dead. Then they towed it to the beach and pulled it up and singed
it, and cut it up and boiled it. Bluejay said, “We will eat it here.”
They ate for a long time and ate half of it, and then they were
satisfied. They were so full that they went to sleep. After a while
Bluejay awoke and burned all the meat that was left. Towards evening
they gathered mussels and then started home.
When they were near the shore, Bluejay called out to his wife, “Come
and get your mussels, Stikuá,” and they heard the noise of feet running
down to the shore. Then they carried up the mussels from the beach.
That night the boy said, “To-morrow I shall go with you”; and Bluejay
said to him: “What are you going to do? We may be thrown into the water
and you may drown.”
Early the next morning the men made ready to start. The boy also got up
and made himself ready. Then Bluejay and the people hauled the canoes
down to the water and got into them. The boy tried to get into the
canoe, but Bluejay threw him into the water, and they pushed off. The
boy caught hold of the side of the canoe and held it. He stood there in
the water up to his armpits, and tried to get into the canoe, but
Bluejay hit his hands and made him let go. The boy cried and cried.
Bluejay and the people paddled away.
After a little time the boy went up to the beach, feeling very sad, and
trying to think what he should do. At last he went into the house and
took his arrows and started walking along the shore. He walked around a
point, and saw a black eagle, and shot it. He skinned it and tried to
put the skin on his body, but it was too small. It did not reach down
as far as his knees. He took it off and left it there and went on.
After a while he saw another eagle, and he shot it, and it fell down.
Its head was partly white. He skinned it and put the skin on his body,
but it was too small. It reached down only a little below his knees.
Then he took it off and left it lying there, and went on a long way. At
last he saw a bald-headed eagle. He shot it, and it fell down. Then he
skinned it and put the skin on himself. Even this was too small, but it
nearly fitted him. Then he tried to fly. At first he could only fly
downward. He could not rise in the air. He tried again, and this time
he found that he could turn, so he kept on trying, and pretty soon he
could fly well.
Now he flew towards the village, and when he had come near to this
point he smelled smoke, and in that smoke he smelled fat cooking. So
before he got to the village he turned and flew out to sea, following
the smell of the smoke. Pretty soon he came to the rock of the
sea-lions, and there he saw the men of his village. He alit on a tree
far off and watched them, looking down on them below. He saw that they
were cooking, and when the meat was done he saw them eating. When they
had nearly finished eating, he flew towards them, and he thought, “I
wish Bluejay would see me.” Bluejay did see the bird flying, and he
said, “Ha! a bird is coming to get food from us.” The boy flew around
them once, and then again. Five times he circled around them, all the
time coming lower. Bluejay took a piece of meat and threw it out, and
said to the bird, “I give you this to eat; take it.” The bird came
down, and, grasping the piece of meat, flew away. Then Bluejay said,
“Why, that bird has feet just like a person!”
When Bluejay and the people had finished eating they went to sleep.
Again the Raven hid a piece of meat. Towards evening Bluejay awoke, and
then the people ate again, and afterwards Bluejay burned what they had
left. Then they gathered mussels and started to go home. When they were
close to the houses Bluejay called out, “Ah, Stikuá, get your mussels.”
All the women ran down to the beach with a noise of feet, and carried
up the mussels.
When the boy got home he at once lay down. That evening the people
tried to wake him, but he did not rise.
The next morning, as soon as it became day, early, they began to get
ready, and again they hauled their canoes into the water. The Chief’s
son still lay in bed. He did not try to go with them, and they started
off. After a while the sun rose. Then the boy got up. He called
together all the women and children and said to them: “Quick, wash
yourselves. Hurry; don’t be lazy.” They all washed themselves. Then he
said, “Quick, comb your hair.” They did so.
Then he put down a plank on the ground and took a piece of meat from
under his blanket, and said to them, “All your husbands eat a great
deal of this meat every day.” He put two pieces of the meat side by
side on the plank. Then he cut off a piece of the meat and greased the
heads of all the women and the children. Then he pulled out of the
ground the wall planks of the houses and sharpened them. If a wall
plank was wide, he split it. He sharpened all of them. The Raven’s
house was the last house in the village. He did not pull down its
planks. He fastened the planks on the backs of the women, and said to
the women, “Now go to the beach and swim towards the sea, and as you
go, swim five times around that rock and then go out to sea. After this
you shall be killer whales. When you find sea-lions you shall always
kill them, but do not give any of them to stingy people. When you kill
a good whale you shall eat it, but do not give any of it to stingy
people. I shall take these children with me. They shall live on the sea
and be my relations.” Then he began to split sinews; he split a great
many of them. He threw down the sinews that he had split on the stones
where the people used to gather their mussels, and said to the mussels,
“After this when Bluejay and these others go to take up you mussels,
you shall always be tied fast to the rocks.”
Now the women went down to the water’s edge and swam about, and began
slowly to jump out of the water. Five times they swam backward and
forward before the village; then they went seaward, swimming very fast.
They kept on to the island where Bluejay and his fellows were cooking
their food. Bluejay said to the men, “What is this that is coming?” The
men looked at the things that were coming, and saw the women often
jumping out of the water. Five times they swam around that rock, then
they went out to sea. After a while birds came flying after them
towards the sea—birds with red bills, just as if blood were on their
beaks. They kept following one another, many of them. Bluejay said: “Do
you see these birds, how they keep coming? Where do they come from?”
Then the Raven said, “How is it that you do not recognize these as your
children?” Five times the birds flew around the rock, just as the women
had gone around it, and then they flew away out to sea.
When Bluejay and his people were eating the meat that they had killed,
that hunter said: “Quick, let us go home. I am afraid that we have seen
bad spirits. We never before saw anything like this at this rock.” Then
they gathered some mussels, and put in the canoes the meat that was
left and carried it with them. Just at evening they came to the
village, and Bluejay called out, “Ah, Stikuá, come and get your
mussels.” There was no noise of people running. Five times he called to
her, but no one came. It was all still. They went up on the beach, and
then they saw that no one was there, and that the walls of the houses
had disappeared. Then they began to cry, and Bluejay cried too. Some
one said to him, “Be quiet, Bluejay; if you had not been bad, our Chief
would not have done this to us.”
Now they made only one house for all; all lived together. Only the
Raven, who had been kind-hearted, had a house to himself. He often went
along the beach looking for food, and was lucky, for sometimes he found
a sturgeon; or again he went along the beach looking for food and he
found a porpoise. Bluejay often went along the beach trying to find
food, but he was always unlucky, for he found nothing, and often, while
he was looking, suddenly it would begin to hail—big hailstones. Often
he went out to gather mussels and tried to break them off from the
rocks, but he could not do it. They were stuck fast to the stones. So
he gave up and went home. He cried a great deal. Often the Raven looked
for food along the beach and found a seal. The others had nothing to
eat except roots.
Thus these men who had not brought food to their families had now lost
their women and children, their houses had been pulled down and taken
away, and they had nothing to eat. So their Chief punished them for
being stingy.
BLUEJAY, THE IMITATOR
Bluejay and his elder sister Ioí, with her five children, lived
together in a house by the sea beach. Every morning they went out to
walk along the beach, to see what the tide had washed up during the
night that was good to eat. Sometimes they found fish, or a seal, and
sometimes a whale. Some days when they found nothing, they dug clams on
the flat, but some days they could get no clams, and so they were
hungry. Up and down the shore lived their neighbors.
One day Bluejay said to his sister: “Let us go visiting; let us visit
the Magpie.” She said, “Let it be so. We will go.”
Early next morning they put their canoe in the water and paddled away,
and when they came near the Magpie’s house they saw him sitting on the
roof. They landed, and went up to the house, and the Magpie came down
from the roof, and all went inside and sat down. Bluejay and his sister
sat there and looked all around, but they saw no food. After a little
while the Magpie swept his house, and while he was sweeping it out he
found one dry salmon egg. He put this in the feathers of his head. Then
he made a fire and heated some stones. He filled a basket-work kettle
with water, put the salmon egg in the water, then put the stones in the
water, one after another, and covered the kettle. Soon the water was
boiling, and when it had boiled a little while he took off the cover,
and the kettle was full of boiled salmon eggs. The Magpie put the
kettle before Bluejay and his sister, and said, “Eat, my friends; you
must be hungry.” They ate until they were satisfied, and still the
kettle was half full.
After a time they started to return to their house, taking with them
the kettle with the food that was left. When they were about to start,
his sister said to Bluejay, “You go down first to the beach.” He said
to her, “No, you go down first.” So his sister went down first to the
beach to get the canoe ready.
Bluejay said to the Magpie, “To-morrow come and visit us and get your
kettle and bring it back with you.” The Magpie said, “It is good; I
will go to visit you.” Then Bluejay and his sister went home.
The next morning, early, Bluejay went up on the roof of his house and
sat there. After a time he called out to his sister, and said: “A canoe
is coming.” She answered: “It is coming, because you told him to come.”
Pretty soon, as they looked, they could see that it was the Magpie in
the canoe, and at length he landed and pulled his canoe up on the beach
and walked up to the house. Bluejay came down from the roof, and they
went in and sat down.
Soon Bluejay got up and swept his house, and found one dry salmon egg,
which he put in his topknot. When he had finished sweeping his house,
he built a fire and heated some stones and filled a basket-work kettle
with water and put in it the salmon egg, and then the hot stones, and
covered the kettle. He did everything just as the Magpie had done it.
Soon the water boiled, and he took the cover off, but there was nothing
in the kettle but hot water.
The Magpie said, “Bluejay can do only one thing.” He took the kettle
and threw the stones out of it. Then he heated more stones, put a dry
salmon egg in the water, put in the hot stones, and covered the kettle,
and soon the water began to boil. Presently he took the cover off the
kettle, and it was full of boiled salmon eggs. Then the Magpie went
down to the beach and put his canoe in the water and paddled away to
his home.
After several nights Bluejay and his sister were hungry. Bluejay said:
“Let us go visiting. Let us go and visit the Duck.” “We will go
to-morrow,” said his sister. The next morning early they started and
paddled away towards the Duck’s house. After a while they came within
sight of the house, and then landed on the beach and went up to the
house. After they had sat a little while, the Duck said to her five
children, “Go and wash yourselves.” They went down to the beach and
went into the water and washed themselves. Then they dived, and when
each came to the top of the water it had a trout in its mouth. They put
these on a mat on the beach. Ten times they dived, and by that time
their mat was full of trout. They took them up to the house and made a
fire and roasted them, and when the fish were cooked they gave them to
Bluejay and his sister, and they ate part of them and were satisfied.
Pretty soon the visitors got ready to go, taking with them the food
that was left. Ioí said to her brother: “You go down first to the
beach, or else you will talk ever so much.” Bluejay answered her: “No,
you go down first.” So his sister went down first to get the canoe
ready, and when she had gone, Bluejay said to the Duck: “Come to my
house to-morrow and get your mat.” The Duck said: “To-morrow I will go
to visit you.” Then Bluejay and his sister paddled away, and soon came
to their house.
Early next morning Bluejay got up and went up to the roof of the house.
After he had been sitting there for some time, he called out to his
sister: “A canoe is coming.” She said to him: “It comes because you
asked them to come.” Pretty soon the Duck, with her five children,
reached the beach, and after they had pulled the canoe out of the
water, they went up to the house. After they had sat a while, Bluejay
said to his sister’s children: “Go and wash yourselves.”
The children went down to the beach and into the water and washed
themselves. They tried to dive, but no matter how hard they might try
their backs remained above the water. Ten times they tried to dive, and
their feathers were all wet and clinging to them, and they were almost
dead with cold. They came up to the house shivering, and not bringing
anything with them.
The Duck said: “Bluejay can do only one thing.” Then she said to her
children: “Go and wash yourselves. We will give them something to eat.”
The Duck’s children went down to the beach and washed themselves. They
dived ten times, and then their mat was full of trout. They brought
them up to the house and threw them on the ground. Then the Ducks went
home.
Some little time after this Bluejay and his sister were again hungry.
Bluejay said: “Let us go and visit Black Bear.” Early the next morning
they set out, and before noon they reached the Black Bear’s house and
went in and sat down.
They looked around. No food was to be seen. Pretty soon the Bear built
a fire and began to heat stones. Bluejay was wondering what food would
be given them, and he said to his sister: “What will he give us to
eat?”
When the stones were hot the Bear took his knife and cut the soles from
his feet, and cut a big piece of meat out of his thigh. Then he rubbed
his hands over the wounds, and at once they were healed. Then he cut
the flesh that he had taken from his feet and from his thigh into small
pieces and put it in the kettle, and put the hot stones in the kettle
and boiled it. When it was cooked he placed the kettle before them, and
said to them: “Eat, my friends; you must be hungry.” They ate, and
pretty soon they were satisfied. When they were ready to go home Ioí
said to her brother: “You go down first, or else you will be talking a
great deal.” Bluejay said: “No, you go down first.” His sister went,
and when she had gone Bluejay said to the Bear: “Come to-morrow and
visit us.” The Bear said he would do so; then Bluejay and his sister
went home to their house.
Early the next morning Bluejay got up and made a fire, and went up on
the roof of his house. After a while, he called out to his sister: “A
canoe is coming,” and she answered: “It comes because you invited him.”
Pretty soon the Bear paddled up to the beach and landed, and came up to
the house, and they all sat down. Bluejay began to heat the stones in
the fire and to get ready for cooking. When the stones were hot he
sharpened his knife and began to cut his feet, but, oh, it hurt him
very much. It hurt him so much that he fainted away. They blew on him
until he recovered.
The Bear said: “You can do only one thing, Bluejay.” The Bear took his
knife and slowly cut the soles off his feet. He cut a piece of flesh
out of his thigh. Then he rubbed his hands over the wounds and
immediately they were healed. Then he cut the flesh in small pieces and
boiled it. When he had finished cooking and it was done, he threw it
down before them, and went home to his house. Bluejay’s feet were sore.
After a number of nights they were again hungry. Then Bluejay said to
his sister: “Let us go visiting again. To-morrow we will go and visit
the Beaver.” Early in the morning they started out, and before very
long they reached the Beaver’s house. The Beaver was on the roof of his
house. He came down, and they went in and sat down. After a little
while the Beaver went out and brought into the house a bundle of willow
twigs, which he put down before them. Then he took a dish and went out
and brought it back filled with mud. Bluejay and his sister could not
eat these things, and pretty soon they got ready to go home. As they
were about to start, his sister said to him: “You go down first to the
beach, or else you will talk a great deal.” The Bluejay said to his
sister: “No, you go down first.” So she went down first to the beach.
When she had gone Bluejay said: “Come to my house to-morrow to fetch
your dish,” and the Beaver answered: “I will come to-morrow.”
Early next morning Bluejay got up and made a fire, and went up on the
roof of his house. After he had sat there for a while, he called out to
his sister: “A canoe is coming.” She answered: “It comes because you
asked it to come.” The Beaver landed and came up the beach and entered
the house, and they all sat down. Bluejay went out of the house, and
after he had been gone a little while he came back with a bunch of
willow twigs, and he put them before the Beaver, who began to eat them,
and soon ate them all up. Then Bluejay ran down to the beach and got
some mud, which he put before the Beaver. The Beaver ate it all and
went home.
Not many days after this they were again hungry, and Bluejay said: “Let
us go visiting again. To-morrow let us go to visit the Seal.” Early the
next morning they started, and at length they came to the house of the
Seal. The Seal had five children. After they had been sitting a while
in her house, the Seal said to her children: “Go to the beach and lie
down there.” They went down to the edge of the water and lay there.
Then the Seal took a stick and went down there, too, and when she
reached her children she struck the youngest one on the head and it lay
there. She said to the others: “Dive down,” and they did so, and when
they came to the surface of the water there were five of them. Then she
dragged up to the house the one that she had killed and singed it, and
when she had finished singeing it she cut it up. She boiled it, and
when it was cooked she gave it to Bluejay and his sister. They ate, and
presently they were satisfied. When they were getting ready to go home
his sister said to her brother: “You go down first.” He answered: “No,
you go down first. You always want to stay where they give us food.” So
his sister went down to the beach. Then Bluejay said to the Seal: “Come
to-morrow and visit us, and fetch your kettle.” The Seal said: “I shall
come.” Then Bluejay and his sister went home to their house.
Early next morning Bluejay got up and went on to the roof of his house.
After a while he called out to his sister: “A canoe is coming.” She
answered him: “It comes because you have asked them to come.” The canoe
came to the beach, and the Seal and her children landed and pulled the
canoe up on the beach, and then came up to the house. Pretty soon
Bluejay said to his sister’s children: “Go to the beach and lie down
there.” The children went and lay down at the edge of the water.
Bluejay took a stick and went down and struck the youngest one on the
head. Then he said to the other children: “Quick now, dive.” They
dived, but when they came up there were only four. Five times they
dived, but the one that Bluejay had struck remained dead. Then Ioí and
her children cried for the dead one.
The Seal said: “Bluejay only knows how to do one thing.” She struck one
of her daughters on the head with a stick, and said to the others:
“Quick, dive.” They dived, and when they came up again all five of them
were there. Then she singed her daughter, and when she had finished
singeing her she cut her up and threw her down before Bluejay and his
sister, saying: “You may eat this.” Then they tied up and buried the
dead child, and the Seals went home.
After a time these two were again hungry, and Blue jay said: “Let us go
and visit the Shadows.” His sister said: “We will go to-morrow.” Early
next morning they started, and at last they reached the home of the
Shadows and went up to the house. It was full of food, and on the beds
there were lying ornaments, clothing, coats, blankets of deer skin, of
mountain-goat wool, and of ground-hog skin. Blue jay said to his
sister: “Where are these people?” His sister answered: “They are here,
but you cannot see them.”
Blue jay took up one of the large ear ornaments. “Look out! You are
pulling my ear, Bluejay!” cried a person. Bluejay was surprised, for he
saw no one, and he dropped the ear ornament. Then they heard many
people laughing. He took hold of a ground-hog blanket, and pulled at
it. “Let go of my ground-hog blanket, Bluejay,” said a person, but he
could see no one. He looked under the bed for the one who had spoken,
and again they heard people laughing. He took up a coat made of goat
wool, and somebody cried out, “Why do you lift my coat, Bluejay?” He
took hold of a nose ornament, and a person cried, “Let go of my nose
ornament, Bluejay.” Then a basket fell down from above. He lifted it up
and put it back. Then he began to look under the bed and all through
the house for persons, and again they heard many people laughing. His
sister said to him: “Stay here quietly. They are Shadows, and so you
cannot see them.” They ate some of the food.
When it got dark Bluejay said, “We will sleep here.” So they slept
there during the night, but all through the night they had bad dreams,
for so the Shadows punished Bluejay, because he had teased them. Then
Bluejay and his sister went home, and his sister said, “Now we have
gone visiting enough.”
BLUEJAY VISITS THE GHOSTS
In a certain village there lived Ioí and her younger brother, Bluejay.
One night the ghosts went out to buy a wife. They bought Ioí. The
presents they gave for her were not sent back; they were kept. So at
night she was married, and when day came Ioí was gone from her father’s
house. For a long time Bluejay did nothing; but at length he felt
lonely, and after a year had passed he said, “I am going to look for my
elder sister.” He started for the country of the ghosts, and on his way
he began to ask every one whom he saw, “Where does a person go when he
dies?” He asked all the trees, but they could not tell him. He asked
all the birds, but they could not tell him. At last he asked a Wedge,
and the Wedge said, “If you will pay me, I will carry you there.” He
paid, and the Wedge carried him to the country of the ghosts.
They came to a large village, but no smoke rose from the houses; only
from the last house—a big one—they saw smoke rising. Bluejay went into
this house, and there he saw his elder sister. She said to him: “Ah, my
younger brother, where do you come from? Are you dead?” He answered,
“No, I am not dead; the Wedge brought me here on its back.”
After a little Bluejay went out and walked through the village, and
began to open the doors of the houses and to look into them; and when
he looked into them he did not find people in any of the houses, but
only bones. Then he came back to where his elder sister was. On the bed
near where his sister was sitting lay a skull and some bones. He asked
her, “What are you going to do with that skull and those bones?” She
said to him, “That is my husband, your brother-in-law.” Bluejay did not
believe her; he said to himself: “Ioí is telling lies. She says a skull
and bones is my brother-in-law!”
When it got dark people began to appear, and soon the house was full.
It was a large house, but there were many people in it. Bluejay said to
his elder sister, “Where have all these people come from?” She answered
him: “Do you think that they are people? They are ghosts. They are
ghosts.” Now these people always spoke in whispers, and Bluejay could
not hear what they said, and did not understand them.
He stayed a long time with his elder sister. One day she said to him:
“Why do you not do as they do? Go fishing with them, with your
dip-net.” He said, “I will do so.” When it got dark he made ready to
go, and a boy also made ready. His sister said: “This is your
brother-in-law’s relation. You two had better go together. Do not speak
much to him. Keep silent.”
They put their canoe in the water and started, and as they were
paddling down the river they saw ahead of them some people, also going
down the river in a canoe and singing. When they had almost overtaken
them Bluejay began to sing too, joining in their song, and at once the
people were silent. He looked back at the boy in the stern of the
canoe, but now there was no boy there, only a pile of bones. The noise
Bluejay made caused the boy to disappear, and only bones were left.
Now, as they floated down the stream, Bluejay sat silent, and was
wondering what all this meant, and pretty soon when he looked back at
the stern of the canoe the boy was sitting there again. Bluejay said to
him, speaking slowly and in a low voice, “Where is your fishing-fence?”
The boy answered, “It is beyond here, down the stream.” They went on
farther; then Bluejay said out loud and suddenly, “Where is your
fishing-fence?” Only bones were in the stern of the canoe. Again
Bluejay was silent, and when he next looked back the boy was again in
the canoe. Bluejay again spoke to him in low tones, and said, “Where is
your fishing-fence?” The boy answered, “Here.”
Now they began to fish, Bluejay using the dip-net, while the boy held
the canoe. Soon Bluejay felt something in his net and raised it, but
only two dead branches were in it. He threw them out, and again put his
net into the water. Again he felt something in it and raised it, and it
was full of leaves. He threw them out, but a part of the leaves fell in
the canoe, and the boy gathered them up. Again he caught a branch and
threw it out into the water; again he caught some leaves and threw them
out, but a part of them fell in the canoe. The boy gathered them up.
Again he caught two branches—both large ones. He was pleased with these
branches, and said to himself, “I will take these back to Ioí; she can
use them to build her fire.” At length they turned back and went
homeward and reached the village. Bluejay was angry because he had
caught nothing.
When they went up from the beach to the houses the boy was carrying a
mat full of trout. After the trout were roasted and the people were
eating them, the boy talked a great deal, saying: “He threw out of the
canoe all that he had caught. If he had not thrown it away, our canoe
would have been almost full.” His elder sister said to Bluejay, “Why
did you throw away what you had caught?” “I threw away what I caught
because they were branches,” said Bluejay. His sister said: “Do you
think they were branches? That is our food. When you caught leaves,
those were trout. When you caught branches, those were fall salmon.”
Bluejay did not believe this. He said to her: “I brought home to you
two branches. You can use them to make your fire.” His sister went to
the beach and found two fall salmon in the canoe. She took them up to
the house and went in, carrying them in her hand. Blue jay said to her,
“Where did you steal those fall salmon, Ioí?” She answered, “These are
what you caught.” Bluejay said to himself, “Ioí keeps telling lies to
me all the time.”
When day came Bluejay went down to the water’s edge, to the beach.
There on the beach were the canoes of the ghosts. They were old and
full of holes, and partly grown over with moss. He went up to the house
and said to his sister, “How bad your husband’s canoes are, Ioí.” She
answered, “After this keep quiet, or the people will get tired of you.”
But he repeated, “The canoes of these people are full of holes.” She
said to him, angrily: “People? people? They are ghosts.”
When it again grew dark Blue jay again made himself ready, and the boy
got ready, and they went fishing. Now Bluejay teased that boy. As they
were going along he shouted, and only bones were in the canoe. He did
this several times, but at last they reached the fishing-place, and
began to fish with the dip-net. Now Bluejay took into the canoe all the
branches that he caught, and all the leaves, and when the tide began to
fall their canoe was full, and they started homeward. Now he began to
tease the ghosts, and when they met one he shouted, and only bones were
in the canoe. At last they reached home, and he carried up to his
sister’s house part of what he had caught. She also carried up a
part—salmon of two kinds.
The next morning when it became day he went through the village again,
and he found many bones in those houses.
It got dark, and some one said, “A whale has been found.” His elder
sister gave him a knife, and said to him, “Quick, run! a whale has been
found.” Then Bluejay ran fast, and when he reached the beach he met
some of those people. He called out to them in a loud voice, asking
them, “Where is this whale?” Only bones lay where the people had stood.
He kicked the skulls out of the way and ran on a long distance, and met
some other people. Again he called out loudly to them; only bones lay
there. He did this several times. At last he came to a big log, thrown
up on the beach—a big log with thick bark—and many people were at work
peeling off that bark. Bluejay shouted. Only bones lay there. That bark
was full of pitch. Bluejay began to peel it off. He peeled off two
pieces and put them on his shoulder and went home. As he was going
along he said to himself, “I thought it was really a whale, but it is
only a fir-tree.” He kept on, and at last he reached the house. Outside
the door he threw down the bark and went in. He said to his elder
sister, “I thought it was really a whale, but you see it is only bark.”
His elder sister said to him: “It is whale, it is whale. Do you think
it is bark?” She went outside, and there two cuts of whale meat lay on
the ground. Ioí said, “It is a good whale; its blubber is very thick.”
Bluejay looked at it. Now he believed that a whale lay on the beach. He
turned back and met a person who was carrying bark on his back. Blue
jay shouted, and only bones lay there. He took the piece of bark and
put it on his shoulder and carried it home. In this way he treated all
these ghosts, and after a while he had a great deal of whale meat.
Bluejay continued to live there. One day he went into a house in the
village and took a child’s skull and put it on the bones of a grown-up
person. He took the large skull and put it on the child’s bones. Thus
he did to all these people. When night came the child sat up, intending
to rise to its feet, but it fell over. Its head was so heavy that it
threw it down. The old man got up. His head was light. The next morning
when it became day he changed these heads back again. Sometimes he
changed the legs of the ghosts, so that he gave small legs to an old
man and large legs to a child. Sometimes he gave a man’s legs to a
woman, and a woman’s legs to a man. After a time the ghosts began to
dislike him. Ioí’s husband said to her: “These people dislike Bluejay
because he treats them in this way. It will be good for you to tell him
to go away to his home, for now people do not like him.” Ioí tried to
stop her younger brother, but he would not listen to her. Now again
when it became day Bluejay arose early. Ioí had in her arms a skull.
Bluejay threw it away, saying, “Why does she hold that skull in her
arms?” She said to him, “Ah! you have broken your brother-in-law’s
neck.” It became night, and his brother-in-law was sick. His relations
tried to cure him, and pretty soon the brother-in-law got well.
Now Bluejay started to go to his home. But as he was going home he got
caught in a fire, and was burned and died. Then he started back for the
country of the ghosts. When he came to the river he called out to his
elder sister, and she said, “Ah, my brother is dead.”
She put her canoe into the water and went across the river to fetch
him. When she reached him he said to her, “Your canoe is pretty, Ioí.”
She said to him, “You used to say that canoe was grown over with moss.”
Bluejay thought: “Ioí is always telling lies to me. The other canoes
had holes and were moss-covered.” She said to him, “You are dead now;
that makes the difference.” Bluejay thought, “Ioí keeps telling lies to
me.”
Soon she carried him to the other side of the river, and he saw the
people. They were playing games—dice and the ring game—and dancing—tum,
tum, tum, tum—and singing. Bluejay wanted to go to these singers. He
tried to sing and to call out loud, but they laughed at him. Then he
went into his brother-in-law’s house. There sat a chief, a good-looking
man; it was Ioí’s husband. Ioí said, “And you broke his neck.” Bluejay
thought, “Ioí keeps telling me lies.”
“Where did these canoes come from? They are pretty.” Ioí answered, “And
you said they were moss-grown.” Bluejay thought: “Ioí is always telling
lies. The others were full of holes, and were partly overgrown with
moss.” “You are dead now,” said his sister; “that makes the
difference.”
Then Bluejay gave it up and became quiet.
THE GIRL WHO WAS THE RING [1]
By the bank of a river stood a lodge, in which lived four brothers and
their sister. The boys made arrows. To the branch of a tree in front of
the lodge they had hung a rawhide strap, such as women use for carrying
wood, so as to make a swing for the girl.
Whenever their meat was all gone and they began to get hungry, the girl
used to send her brothers into the timber to cut dogwood shoots to make
arrows. When the arrows were ready, she would get into the swing and
the boys would swing her. As the swing moved, they would see dust
rising all around the horizon, and would know that the Buffalo were
coming. Then all four boys would take their bows and arrows, and stand
about the swing so as to protect the girl and not let the Buffalo come
near her. When the Buffalo had come close, the boys would kill them in
a circle all about the swing. They would quickly carry the girl into
the lodge, and would kill so many Buffalo that the rest would be
frightened and run away. So they would have plenty to eat, and the
dried meat would be piled high in the lodge.
One day the boys went out to get wood for arrows, and left the girl in
the lodge alone. While they were away a Coyote came to the lodge and
talked to the girl. He said to her: “Granddaughter, I am very poor, and
I am very hungry. I have no meat in my lodge, and my children also are
hungry. I told my relations that I was coming to ask you for food, and
they have been laughing at me. They said, ‘Your granddaughter will not
give you anything to eat.’”
The girl answered him: “Grandfather, here is plenty of meat. This house
is full of it. Take what you want. Take the fattest pieces. Take it to
your children. Let them eat.”
The Coyote began to cry. He said: “Yes, my relations laughed at me when
I said I was going to visit you and ask you for something to eat. They
said you would not give me anything. I do not want any dried meat—I
want some fresh meat to take to my children. Have pity on me, and let
me put you in the swing, so as to bring the Buffalo. I do not want to
swing you hard so as to bring the Buffalo in great herds. I want to
swing you only a little so as to bring a few Buffalo. I have a quiver
full of arrows to keep the Buffalo off.”
The girl said: “No, grandfather, I cannot do this. My brothers are
away. Without them we can do nothing.”
Then the Coyote slapped his breast and said: “Look at me. Am I not a
man and strong? I can run around you fast, after you are in the swing,
and I can keep the Buffalo off. I can shoot clear through a Buffalo. I
have plenty of arrows, and I need only use a single one for each
Buffalo. Come on, I want to swing you just a little, so that but few
Buffalo will come.” So he coaxed the girl, but still she refused.
After he had begged her for a long time, she agreed to let him swing
her a little, and got in the swing. He began to swing her, at first
gently, but all at once he pushed her very hard, and kept doing this
until she swung high. She screamed and cried, and tried to get off the
swing, but it was now too late. All around—from all sides—the Buffalo
were coming in great crowds. The Coyote had made ready his arrows, and
was running around the girl, trying to kill the Buffalo and keep them
off, but they crowded upon him—so many that he could do nothing—and at
last he got frightened and ran into the lodge. The Buffalo were now
just all over the ground about the lodge, and suddenly one of the young
Bulls, the leader of a big band, as he passed under the swing, threw up
his head, and the girl disappeared, but the Coyote, peeping out of the
lodge door, saw on the horn of this Bull a ring, and then he knew that
this ring was the girl. Then the Bull ran away fast, and all the
Buffalo ran after him.
When the Buffalo had gone, the Coyote came out of the lodge and saw
that the girl was not there. He did not know what to do. He was
frightened. Pretty soon he heard the girl’s brothers coming. They had
seen the dust, and knew that some one was swinging their sister, and
that the Buffalo had come. They hurried back, running fast, and when
they reached the lodge they found the Coyote just dragging himself out
of a mud-hole. He crawled out, crying, and pretended that the Buffalo
had run over him and trampled him. His bow and arrows were in the mud.
He told the brothers his story and said that he had tried hard to save
the girl, but that he had not known that so many Buffalo would come. He
said he had thought that the girl must be swung high, so that the
Buffalo could see her from a long way off.
The brothers felt very sorry that their sister was lost. They
counselled together to see what they should do, trying to decide what
would be the best plan to get her back again. While they were talking
about this, the Coyote, with all the mud upon him, stood before them
and said: “Brothers, do not feel sorry because your sister is lost. I
will get her back again. Live on just as you always do. Do not think
about this. Do not let it trouble you. I will get her back again.”
After he had spoken thus, he said, “Now I am going to start off on the
war-path,” and he left them and went away.
He journeyed on alone considering what he should do, and at length, as
he was travelling along over the prairie, he met a Badger, who said to
him, “Brother, where are you going?” The Coyote said: “I am going on
the war-path against my enemies. Will you join my party?” The Badger
said, “Yes, I will join you.” They went on. After they had gone a long
way, they saw a Swift Hawk sitting on the limb of a tree by a ravine.
He asked them where they were going, and they told him, and asked him
if he would go with them. He said he would go. After a time they met a
Kit Fox, and asked him to join them, and he did so. Then they met a
Jack Rabbit, who said he would go with them. They went on, and at
length they met a Blackbird, and asked him to join them. He said: “Let
it be so. I will go.”
Soon after they had all got together they stopped and sat down, and the
Coyote told them how the girl had been lost, and said that he intended
to try to get her back. Then they talked, and the Coyote told them the
plan that he—the leader—had made. The others listened, and said that
they would do whatever he told them to do. They were all glad to help
to recover the girl.
Then they all stood up and made ready to start, and the Coyote said to
the Blackbird, “Friend, you stay here until the time comes.” So the
Blackbird remained there where they had been talking, and the others
went on. After they had gone some distance farther, the Coyote told the
Hawk to stop and wait there. He did so. The others went on a long way,
and then the Coyote said to the Rabbit, “You stay here.” The others
went on, and at the next stopping-place he left the Kit Fox; and at the
next—last of all—he left the Badger. Then the Coyote went on alone and
travelled a long way, and at length he came to the Buffalo camp. He
went out to the place where the young Bulls used to play the stick
game, and lay down there. It was early in the morning.
After a time some of the young Bulls came out, and began to roll the
ring and to throw their sticks at it. The Coyote now pretended to be
very sick. His hair was all covered with mud, and his tongue hung out
of his mouth, and he staggered about and fell down and then got up
again, and seemed to feel badly. Sometimes he would get over near to
where the ring was being rolled, and then the young Bulls would call
out: “Here, hold on! Get away there! Don’t get in the way.”
After a little while the Coyote pretended that he felt better, and he
got up and went over to where the young Bulls were sitting, looking on
at the game, and sat down with them, and watched the play with the
others. Every now and then two of the young Bulls would begin to
dispute over the game, each saying that his stick was the nearer to the
ring, and sometimes they would wrangle for a long time. Once, while
they were doing this, the Coyote went up to them and said: “Here! You
men need not quarrel about this. Let me look. I know all about this
game. I can tell which stick is the nearer.” The Bulls stopped talking
and looked at him, and then said: “Yes, let him look. Let us hear what
he says.” Then the Coyote went up to the ring and looked, and said,
pointing: “That stick is nearest. That man has won.” The Bulls looked
at each other, and nodded their heads and said: “He knows. He is
right.” The next time they had a dispute, he decided it again, and all
were satisfied.
At length two of the young Bulls had a very fierce dispute, and almost
came to fighting over it. The Coyote came up and looked, and said:
“This is very close. I must look carefully, but I cannot see well if
you are all crowding around me in this way. I must have room. You would
all better go over to that hill, and sit down there and wait for me to
decide.” The Bulls all went over to the hill and sat down, and then the
Coyote began to look. First he would go to one stick and look
carefully, and then he would go to the other and look. The sticks were
about the same distance from the ring, and for a long time it seemed
that he could not make up his mind which was the nearer. He went
backward and forward, looking at the sticks, and stooping down and
putting his hands on his knees and squinting, and at last, when once
his face was close to the ground, he suddenly snatched up the ring in
his mouth, and started, running as hard as he could, for the place
where he had left the Badger.
As soon as he had started, all the Bulls on the hill saw what he was
doing—that he was taking the ring away from them—and they started after
him. They did not want to lose the ring, for it was very useful to
them, and they played with it all the time. When the Buffalo in the
camp saw that the young Bulls had started, they all followed, so that
soon all the Buffalo were rushing after the Coyote. He ran fast, and
for a long time he kept ahead of the Buffalo, but they followed, a
great mass of Buffalo crowding and pushing, running as hard as they
could run. At last the Coyote was beginning to get tired, and was
running more slowly, and the Buffalo were beginning to catch up to him,
but he was getting near to where the Badger was. After a time the
Buffalo were getting nearer to the Coyote. He was very tired, and it
seemed to him as if he could not run any farther. If he did not soon
get to where he had left the Badger, the Buffalo would run over him and
trample him to death, and get back the ring. At length, when they were
close behind him, he ran over the top of a little hill, and down in the
valley below saw the Badger sitting at the mouth of his hole. The
Coyote raced down the hill as fast as he could, and when he got to the
hole he gave the ring to the Badger, and just as the herd of Buffalo
got to the place, they both dived down into the hole.
The Buffalo crowded about the Badger’s hole, and began to paw the
ground, to dig it up so as to get the Coyote and the ring, but the
Badger had dug a hole a long way under the ground, and while the
Buffalo were digging he ran along through this hole and came out far
off, and ran as hard as he could towards the brothers’ lodge. Before he
had gone very far, some of the Buffalo on the outside of the herd saw
him, and called out to the others: “There he is! There he goes!” Then
all the Buffalo started again and ran after the Badger. When they had
come pretty close to him, he would stop running and dig another hole,
and while the Buffalo were crowding around the hole, trying to dig him
out, he would dig along under the ground, until he had got far beyond
them, and would then come to the top of the ground, and run as fast as
he could towards the lodge. Then the Buffalo would see him and follow
him.
In this way he went a long distance, but at length he got tired and
felt that he could not run or dig much farther. He was almost spent. At
last, when he dug out of the ground, he saw not far off the Kit Fox,
lying curled upon a rock, asleep in the sun. He called out: “Oh, my
brother, I am almost tired out! Help me!” The Kit Fox jumped up and ran
to him and took the ring in his mouth and started running, and the
Badger dug a deep hole, and stayed there. The little Fox ran fast,
gliding along like a bird; and the Buffalo, when they saw him running,
chased him and ran hard.
The Kit Fox is a swift animal, and for a long time he kept ahead of the
Buffalo. When he was almost tired out, he came to where the Rabbit was,
and gave him the ring, and ran into a hole, and the Rabbit ran on. The
Buffalo followed the Rabbit, but he ran fast and kept ahead of them for
a long time. When they had almost caught him, he came to where the Hawk
was sitting. The Hawk took the ring in his claws and flew off with it,
and the Rabbit ran off to one side and hid in the long grass. The
Buffalo followed the Hawk, and ran after him. They seemed never to get
tired. The Hawk, after he had been flying a long time, began to feel
very weary. He would sail down low over the Buffalo’s backs, and was
only just able to keep above them. At last he got near to where the
Blackbird was.
When the Blackbird heard the pounding of many hoofs and knew that the
Buffalo were coming, he flew up on a sunflower stalk and waited. When
the Buffalo came to the place where he was, he flew up over them to the
Hawk, and took the ring on his neck, and flew along over the Buffalo.
The ring was heavy for so small a bird, and he would alight on the
backs of the Buffalo and fly from one to another. The Buffalo would
toss their heads and try to hit him with their horns, but he kept
flying from one to another, and the Buffalo behind were always pushing
forward to get near the ring, and they pushed the other Buffalo ahead
of them. Pretty soon the herd passed over a hill and were rushing down
to the place on the river where the brothers’ lodge stood.
Ever since their sister had been lost, the brothers had been making
arrows, and now they had piles of them stacked up about the lodge. When
they saw the Buffalo coming they got their bows and took their arrows
in their hands, and shot and shot until they had killed many, many
Buffalo, and the rest were frightened and ran away.
The Blackbird had flown into the lodge with the ring, and after the
brothers had finished killing, they went into the lodge. And there,
sitting by the fire and smiling at them as they came in, they saw their
sister.
THE FIRST CORN
A long time ago there lived in the Pawnee village a young man who was a
great gambler. Every day he played at sticks, and he was almost always
unlucky. Sometimes he would lose everything that he had, and would even
lose things belonging to his father. His father had often scolded him
about gambling, and had told him that he ought to stop it. There were
two things that he never staked; these two things were his shield and
his lance.
One day he played sticks for a long time, and when he got through he
had lost everything that he had except these two things. When he went
home at night to his father’s lodge he told his relations what he had
done, and his father said to him: “My son, for a long time you have
been doing this, and I have many times spoken to you about it. Now I
have done. I cannot have you here any longer. You cannot live here in
my lodge or in this village. You must go away.”
The young man thought about it for a little while, and then he said:
“Well, I will go. It does not make much difference where I am.” So he
took his shield and his spear and went out of the lodge and started to
go away from the village. When he got outside of the village and had
gone some distance, he heard behind him a loud rushing sound like a
strong wind—the sound kept getting nearer and louder—and all at once it
was above him, and then the sound stopped, and something spoke to him
and said: “Well, I am here. I have come to find you. I have been sent,
and am here on purpose to get you and take you with me.” The voice that
spoke to him was the Wind.
The Wind took the young man up and carried him away towards the west.
They travelled many days, and passed over broad prairies and then
across high mountains and then over high, wide plains and over other
mountains until they came to the end of the world, where the sky bends
down and touches the ground. The last thing the young man saw was the
gate through the edge of the sky. A great buffalo bull stands in this
gateway and blocks it up. He had to move to one side to let the Wind
and the young man pass through.
Every year one hair drops from the hide of this bull. When all have
fallen the end of the world will come.
After they had passed through this gate they went on, and it seemed as
if they were passing over a big water. There was nothing to be seen
except the sky and the water. At last they came to a land. Here were
many people—great crowds of them. The Wind told the young man, “These
are all waiters on the Father.” They went on, and at last came to the
Father’s lodge and went in. When they had sat down the Father spoke to
the young man and said to him: “My son, I have known you for a long
time and have watched you. I wanted to see you, and that is why I gave
you bad luck at the sticks, and why I sent my Wind to bring you here.
Your people are very hungry now because they can find no buffalo, but I
am going to give you something on which you can live, even when the
buffalo fail.” Then he gave him three little sacks. The first contained
squash seed; the second beans, red and white, and the third corn,
white, red, blue, and yellow.
The Father said: “Tie these sacks to your shield, and do not lose them.
When you get back to your people give each one some of the seeds and
tell him to put them in the ground; then they will make more. These
things are good to eat, but the first year do not let the people eat
them; let them put the yield away, and the next year again put it in
the ground. After that they can eat a part of what grows, but they must
always save some for seed. So the people will always have something to
eat with their buffalo meat, and something to depend on if the buffalo
fail.” The Father gave him also a buffalo robe, and said to him: “When
you go back, the next day after you have got there, call all the people
together in your lodge, and give them what is in this robe, and tell
them all these things. Now you can go back to your people.”
The Wind took the young man back. They travelled a long time, and at
last they came to the Pawnee village. The Wind put the young man down,
and he went into his father’s lodge and said, “Father, I am here”; but
his father did not believe him, and said, “It is not you.” He had been
gone so long that they had thought him dead. Then he said to his
mother, “Mother, I am here,” and his mother knew him and was glad that
he had returned.
At this time the people had no buffalo. They had scouted far and near
and could find none anywhere, and they were all very hungry. The little
children cried with hunger. The next day after he got back, the young
man sent out an old man to go through the camp and call all the people
to come to his father’s lodge. When they were there, he opened his robe
and spread it out, and it was covered with pieces of fat buffalo meat
piled high. The young man gave to each person all he could carry, but
while he was handing out the pieces, his father was trying to pull off
the robe the hind-quarters of the buffalo and hide them. He was afraid
that the young man might give away all the meat, and he wanted to save
this for their own lodge. But the young man said: “Father, do not take
this away. Do not touch anything. There is enough.”
After he had given them the meat he showed them the sacks of seed and
told them what they were for, and explained to them that they must not
eat any the first year, but that they must always save some to plant,
and the people listened. Then he said to them: “I hear that you have no
buffalo. Come out to-morrow and I will show you where to go for
buffalo.” The people wondered where this could be, for they had
travelled far in all directions looking for buffalo. The next day they
went out as he had told them, and the young man sent two boys to the
top of a high hill close to camp, and told them to let him know what
they saw from it. When the boys got to the top of the hill, they saw
down below them in the hollow a big band of buffalo.
When the people learned that the buffalo were there, they all took
their arrows and ran out and chased the buffalo and made a big killing,
so that there was plenty in the camp and they made much dried meat.
Four days after this he again sent out the boys, and they found
buffalo. Now that they had plenty of meat they stayed in one place, and
when spring came the young man put the seed in the ground. When the
people first saw these strange plants growing they wondered at them,
for they were new and different from anything that they had ever seen
growing on the prairie. They liked the color of the young stalks, and
the way they tasselled out, and the way the ears formed. They found
that besides being pretty to look at they were good to eat, for when
the young man had gathered the crop he gave the people a little to
taste, so that they might know that the words that he had spoken were
true. The rest he kept for seed. Next season he gave all the people
seed to plant, and after that they always had these things.
Later, this young man became one of the head men and taught the people
many things. He told them that always when they killed buffalo they
must bring the fattest and offer them to the Father. He taught them
about the sacred bundles, and told them that they must put an ear of
corn on the bundles and must keep a piece of fat in the bundles along
with the corn, and that both must be kept out of sight. In the fall
they should take the ear of corn out of the bundle and rub the piece of
fat over it. [2] Thus they would have good crops and plenty of food.
All these things the people did, and it was a help to them in their
living.
THE STAR BOY
One hot night in summer two girls climbed up on an arbor in front of an
earth lodge to sleep where it was cool. As they lay there before they
went to sleep, they were talking about the different stars that they
saw in the sky above them, saying how pretty they were. One of the
girls saw a bright star, and pointed to it and said: “I like that one
best of all. I choose it for mine.” After a little while the girls went
to sleep.
When this girl that had chosen the star awoke, she was in a strange
country, and saw strange people about her. She cried, and wanted to go
back to her home, but the man in whose lodge she was told her that he
was the star she had said she liked, and that, as she had chosen him,
he had taken her for his wife. Finally, she got over feeling badly and
was content to stay with him.
Every day when the evening came he would get ready for his journey. He
would comb his hair and paint his face red, and then start out to
travel. When it was morning he would be back again.
About three years after this the girl had a baby boy. One day after
this she went out to dig roots. Her husband had told her not to dig too
deep in the ground, and for a long time she was careful, but one day
she dug too deep and dug through that ground. There before her was a
hole, through which she could look down and see this world below her.
She could see a camp, and near it a party of men playing the stick
game. They were very small and looked like ants. She looked at them and
looked at them for a long time, and then suddenly she felt that she
wanted to go back to where she had come from, and wanted again to see
her people—the Pawnees.
After she had thought about this for a long time, she went home and
asked her husband to bring her a lot of sinews. He brought them to her,
and from the sinews she began to make a rope. It took her a long time
to make the rope, and in making it she used all the sinews that she
had. After she had finished it, she waited until her man had gone out
on his journey, and then put her child on her back and went to the
hole, carrying the rope of sinew. She took with her also a long stake,
and drove it into the ground near the hole. To this stake she tied the
rope, and then let it down through the hole. It seemed to her that it
did not reach the ground, but she thought that perhaps it reached
almost down to it, and she made up her mind that she would try to
descend.
All around the hole she dug the earth away so as to make it large
enough for her body to pass through. Then she put her child on her
back, and let herself slide down by the rope. For a long time she went
down, and at last she came to the end of the rope, but it did not
nearly reach the ground. That was far below her. She clung to the rope,
crying, for she was afraid to let go and no one came to help her, for
there was no one near to hear. It was a long way to the camp.
After a time the woman’s husband came back to their lodge and found
that his wife was gone. He looked for her everywhere, but could see
nothing of her. At last he found the hole that she had dug, and when he
looked down through it he saw her there hanging to the rope. Then he
was angry. He looked about on the ground for a stone just the size of
the hole, and dropped it through, and it fell on the woman’s head and
killed her, but by his power the Star Man took care of the little child
so that when it fell to the ground it was not hurt.
When the woman fell the boy crawled out from under her. He stayed there
by his mother three days. Every now and then he would start to go off
somewhere, and would go a little way, and then would come back to his
mother and try to rouse her; but she was dead. The fourth day he
started to go off a long way, and as he was going along he came to a
patch of corn and squashes, and he walked among the corn and pulled
some ears and ate them.
Near by this field was a poor little lodge, in which lived an old woman
and her little grandson. One day the little boy went into the corn
patch and saw there the footprints of a little child. He went back home
and told his grandmother about it. They did not know whether the tracks
had been made by a girl or a boy. They looked for the child everywhere,
but could not find it.
At last the old woman told her grandson to take out a flesher and a hoe
and leave them in the field. “If it is a girl,” the old woman said,
“she will take them.” The little boy did as she had said, and left the
things there, but when the strange child came he did not take them.
They could see his tracks where he had walked straight by them. Then
the old woman said: “My son, take your bow and arrows and put them
there. If it is a boy he will take them.” He did so.
When the little boy next went back to the corn patch after leaving the
bow and arrows, they were gone. Then the little boy went into the corn
and hid himself and waited. He stayed hidden there until the little
Star Boy came back; then he walked up to him. He said: “Come, let us go
to where my grandmother lives. We can play there together with our bows
and arrows.” The boys went to the lodge and went in and ate together.
Then they went out and played with their bows and arrows.
They lived thus for a long time. When they had grown so that they could
go a long way from home, they would sometimes stay away too long, and
the old woman would get frightened about them and would scold them when
they came back.
One day she said to the boys: “My sons, you must never go over there to
that place where the timber grows thick. Never go there. That is where
your fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, and brothers were killed by a
grizzly bear. It is dangerous to go there.”
Not long after that the little Star Boy said, “Let us go out and kill
little birds.” They went out, and when they had got some distance from
the lodge he said, “Brother, let us go over to that place where
grandmother told us not to go.” The other boy said: “It is good. We
will go.” They went over there, and when they had gone into the thick
timber, suddenly they saw a bear. It seemed very angry and roared and
growled. The Star Boy laughed at it, and walked up to it and tapped it
on the head with his bow. His father was using his power so that the
bear could not hurt him. The boy took the bear home with him to the
lodge, and called to his grandmother to come out and said,
“Grandmother, here is a bear; you can have him to pack wood and water
for you.” The old woman was scared. The boy killed the bear with his
little arrows.
One day after that the old woman said to the boys: “Now, boys, do not
go to that thick-timbered place over there. That is where some of your
brothers and relations disappeared. Do not go there.” Soon after this,
one day when they were out hunting little birds and had got away from
the lodge, the Star Boy said, “Brother, let us go over to that place
where grandmother told us not to go. Let us see what is there.” They
went, and as they were going along through the timber they saw a
panther. The panther growled and looked very fierce, but the boy walked
up to it and shot his little arrow at it and killed it. His father was
helping him. The boys skinned it and took it home and stuffed it with
grass and stood it up in the lodge. Their grandmother was away. When
she came back they told her to go into the lodge; they said, “We have
something nice for you in there.” She went into the lodge, and when she
saw the panther she was frightened almost to death, and the boys
laughed. The boys said to the old woman, “Grandmother, we have done
this so that we could put this skin outside the lodge to scare away
other animals so that they will not come near us.”
The grandmother said: “Boys, boys, you must not do as you have been
doing. You must not go so far away, and you must not go into danger.
Right up there on the hill is a den of snakes. I do not want you to go
there. You must not go near that place.” Soon after this the Star Boy
said to his playmate: “Brother, let us go over to that hill where the
snakes live. Let us each take a piece of rock and we will kill them.”
They went, and when they got to the place he said: “Sit down. Put your
rock on the ground and sit down on it. I know what the snakes are going
to do, but our father will take care of us.”
The snakes came out of the den—great lots of them—and came towards the
boys. All at once the boys saw a cloud rising and coming towards them,
and pretty soon it began to rain where the snakes were, and the water
got so deep that the snakes were swimming, but where the boys were it
did not rain. On them the sun was shining warm and bright. Then the sun
got hotter and hotter, and at last it was so hot it made the water boil
and killed all the snakes.
The boys went home, and the old woman’s grandson told her what had
happened—just how it all was. Then she said to him: “Grandson, I
believe there is power in this little boy. Now we will go back to our
people.” They had left their people because they were poor and had no
horses, and the others in the camp did not take care of them. She said,
“We will go back and try to find out where this boy came from, and
whether he is a relative of any of our people there.” Before they
started the grandmother asked the Star Boy where he came from. He told
her that he did not know; that he had come from above, but he
remembered that his mother had told him that they did not belong up
there, but down below, and that she had been taken up by a star. He
said that she had come down with him on her back, but had been killed
by a stone dropped from above, which had hit her on the head but did
not kill him.
Then the old woman remembered that once a girl had disappeared one
night from the camp when she was sleeping on an arbor, and that this
girl was the daughter of a chief.
They left their lodge and went back to their people. When they reached
the camp, they had a lodge of their own and all lived together. His
relations, when they found out who the Star Boy was, wanted him to come
and live with them, but for a long time he would not do so. When he did
go, he took the old woman and her grandson with him.
When he grew up he began to go on the war-path, and he had good luck
and struck many of his enemies. At length he married the daughter of a
chief, and the grandson married another daughter.
THE GRIZZLY BEAR’S MEDICINE
A long time ago there lived in a camp of Pawnees a certain poor boy.
His father had only one pony. Once he had been a leading man in the
tribe, but now he seemed to be unlucky. When he went on the war-path he
brought back nothing, and when he fought he did nothing, and the people
did not now look up to him.
There was a chief’s son who loved the poor boy, and these two went
together all the time. They were like brothers; they used to hunt
together and go courting together, and when they were travelling, the
poor boy often rode one of the ponies of the chief’s son, and the
latter used to go to the poor boy’s lodge and sleep there with him.
Once the camp went off to hunt buffalo, and the poor boy and the
chief’s son rode together all the time. After the people had made camp
at a certain place, the chiefs decided to stop here for four days,
because the buffalo were close by, and they could kill plenty and dry
the meat here. North of the camp was a hill on which grew many
cedar-trees, and during the day the poor boy had overheard people
saying that many Indians had been killed on that hill, among those
trees. They said that no one ought to go there, for it was a dangerous
place.
That night the chief’s son went over to his friend’s lodge to sleep
there, but before they went to bed he left the lodge for a time, and
while he was gone the poor boy, as he sat there waiting, began to think
about himself and how unhappy he was. He remembered how poor he and his
father were, and how everybody looked down on them and despised them,
and it did not seem to him that things would ever be any better for
them than they were now. For a long time he sat there thinking about
all these things, and the more he thought of them the worse they
seemed, and at last he felt that he was no longer glad to live, and he
made up his mind to go up into those cedars.
He went out of the lodge and started to go up towards the trees. It was
bright moonlight, so that he could see well. Just before he reached the
edge of the timber he crossed a ravine, and saw there many skeletons of
people who had been killed. The ground was white with these bones. He
went on into the cedars, and came to a ravine leading up the hill and
followed it. As he went on he saw before him a trail and followed it,
and when he came to the head of the ravine there was a big hole in the
bank, and the trail led to it. He stopped for a moment when he came to
this hole, but then he went in, and when he had entered he saw there,
sitting by the fire, a big she-bear and some little cubs.
As the boy stood there looking at her, the she-bear said to him: “I am
sorry that you have come here. My husband is the one who kills persons
and brings them here for the children and me to eat. You had better go
back to your people quickly, or he will eat you up. He has gone
hunting, but he will soon be back again. If he finds you here he will
kill you.”
The poor boy said: “Well, I came here on purpose to be killed, and I
give myself up to you. I shall be glad to be eaten by you. I am here
ready to be killed. I am yours. Take me.”
The she-bear said: “Oh, I wish I could do something to save you, but I
cannot. He is one of those bad bears—a grizzly—medicine. I can do
nothing for you, but I will try. As soon as you hear any noise
outside—any one coming—pick up that cub, the littlest one, and hold it
in your arms. When he comes in he will tell you to put it down, but do
not do so. Hold it tight; he loves that one best of all.”
All at once the boy heard outside the cave the noise of a bear snorting
and grunting. The she-bear said, “Pick up the cub, quick; he is
coming.” The boy caught up the little bear, and held it tight to his
breast. All at once the noise came to the mouth of the den and stopped.
It was the Bear. The boy could hear him talking. He said: “Here!
somebody has been about my house. I smell human beings. Yes, he even
came in. Where is he? Let me see him, so that I may jump upon him and
kill him.” When he came in he saw the boy, and seemed very angry. He
stood up on his hind feet and threw up his hands, and then came down
again and struck his paws on the ground, and then rose up and snorted
“whoof,” and blew out red dust from his nostrils, and then came down
and jumped about, and sometimes sprang towards the boy, as though he
were going to seize him. He was very terrible, and the boy was very
much afraid.
The Bear called out to the boy in a loud voice: “How dare you take up
my child and hold it? Let it go, or I will tear you to pieces and eat
you.” But the boy still held the cub. No matter what the Bear said or
what he did, the boy held fast to the cub.
When the Bear saw that the boy would not let the cub go, he became
quiet, and no longer seemed angry. He said: “Boy, you are my son. Put
down your brother, for now he is your brother. He shall go with you, he
shall be your companion, and shall be with you always as your guide and
helper. He has told me your story, and how you are poor, unhappy, and
now he has kept you from being eaten up. I have taken pity on you, and
we will send you back to your people, where you may do some good among
them. My son, I am at the head of all these animal lodges, down at
Pahŭk′ and at Pahūr′ and everywhere else. I am at the head; there is no
animal living that is stronger than I; none that I cannot kill. If a
man shoots at me, I make the arrow to fall from my skin without hurting
me. Look up around my lodge. See these arrows, these guns, these
leggings, these beads, and the medicine that men have brought, thinking
to kill me; but I have killed them, and have taken these things, and
keep them here.
“I knew that your people were coming to this place to hunt. I drove the
buffalo over, so that the people should stop here and hunt and kill
meat, in order that you might come to my lodge. I know all your
feelings. I know that you are sorry for your poor father, my brother,
and I wished you to come here, so that I might make you my son and give
my power to you, so that you may become a great man among your people.
I know that they are now killing buffalo, and that they will be camped
here for four days.
“Now, my son, set your brother free. All the power that I have I give
to you. I shall kill my son, your little brother there, and give you
his skin to keep and to carry away with you, so that he may be your
companion and may be with you always. Your brother, your friend at the
camp, is looking for you, mourning for you, for he thinks you dead, but
to-morrow night you shall see him, and shall tell him to rejoice for
you and not to mourn. You shall tell him where you have been.”
The little bear that he was holding said to the boy: “It is all right
now, brother; put me down. My father means what he says. I am glad that
I am going to be with you, my brother.” The boy put him down.
Then the Bear said to his wife: “Get up. Take that gun.” The she-bear
took the gun, and they walked around the fireplace in a circle, and
sang, and the boy looked on. The Bear took the gun and told the boy to
look at them, and to watch carefully everything that they did. After a
little he stopped, and shot his wife, and she fell down dead. Then he
put down the gun, and went to the she-bear and put his mouth on the
wound, and breathed on it and snorted “whoof,” and sucked in his breath
and took the bullet out, and went around the lodge, singing and making
motions, and then he took hold of the she-bear and lifted her to her
feet, and supported her, and pushed her around, and helped her, and at
last she walked, and was well. Then he called the boy to him and said,
“Now I will do the same thing to you.” And he did the same thing to the
boy, and brought him to life in the same way. Then he said, “That is
one power I give you to-night.”
Then he gave the gun to the boy and went to the other side of the
lodge, and sat up, and said, “Now I will open my mouth, and you shoot
me right in the mouth.” He opened his mouth, and the boy shot him, and
he fell over. After a moment he got up on his feet and slapped his paws
on his chest several times, and the bullet came out of his mouth, and
he walked around the fireplace two or three times, and made motions and
grunted, and then he was well. Then he took the boy in his arms, and
hugged him and kissed him and breathed on him, and said: “Now I give
you my power. Go over there and I will shoot you as you shot me. Do
just as I did.” The boy went over there, and the Bear shot him, and the
boy did just as the Bear had done, and made himself well.
The Bear then put an arrow in the gun and shot it at the boy, and when
the smoke cleared away the boy found the arrow fast in his throat, the
feather end sticking out. The Bear took it out and made him well, and
gave him also this power. Then the Bear told him to load the gun with a
ball and to shoot it at him, and he did so, and shot the Bear, but the
lead was made flat and dropped to the ground. The bullet did not go
into the Bear.
The Bear now told the boy to take the bow and arrow and to shoot at him
with all his strength. The boy did this, but the arrow did not go
through the Bear, but the spike rolled up and the shaft was split. The
Bear said: “Now you see, my son, that the gun and the bow, the bullet
and the arrow, cannot harm me. You shall have the same power. When you
go into battle you shall not carry a gun nor arrows, for they are not
mine, but you shall take this paint, and put it all over your body,
then put this feather on your head, and take this club, which is part
of my jawbone. All these things have my power and medicine. When you
are carrying these things your enemy cannot hurt you, even if you run
right on to him; but with one stroke of this club you shall kill your
enemy.”
The next morning the Bear took the boy out on the prairie and showed
him the different roots and leaves of medicines, and told him how to
use them; how he should eat some medicine and then he could cure the
wounded by just breathing on the wound.
That night the Bear said to him: “Hereafter you shall have the same
feelings as the bear. When you get angry, you will have a grunt like a
bear; and if you get too fierce, tushes like a bear’s will stick out of
your mouth, so that the people will know that you are very angry. You
shall have my power, and you can go into any of the lodges of the
animals, of which I am the chief.” And he told him how to get into
these lodges.
That day they stayed in the Bear’s lodge, and the Bear took the claw
off from his little finger and gave it and a little bundle of medicine
to the boy. He said, “Take this claw and this bundle of medicine and
put them on a string and wear them on your neck always, the claw
hanging in front.” He taught him how to make plums grow on trees, and
how to make ground-cherries come out of his mouth.
That night he sent the boy back to the camp. He said: “Tell your father
and mother not to mourn for you, for you will return in two days more.
I have driven plenty of buffalo to this place, and the people will kill
them and dry the meat. Now go to the camp and get a pipe and some
tobacco, and bring them here.”
The boy went back to the camp. When he went into the lodge his father
and mother were glad to see him. He told them not to be anxious about
him, and not to say anything about his having been away. Then he went
out and found his brother, the chief’s son, asleep. He said to him:
“Wake up, brother. I want you to get some tobacco and a pipe from your
father. Tell no one that it is for me. Bring it here. I want to smoke
with you. I am going away again, but you must stay in camp. I shall
return in a few days.” The chief’s son got the things and gave them to
the boy. He wanted to go with him, but the poor boy would not let him.
That same night the boy went back to the Bear’s den, carrying with him
the pipe and tobacco. After he went into the lodge he filled his pipe
and lighted it, and he and the Bear smoked together. The Bear said to
him: “After you have gone home, whenever you smoke, always point your
pipe towards my den and ask me to smoke with you. After lighting your
pipe, point it first to Atíus Tiráwat, and then blow a few whiffs to
me. Then I shall know that you still remember me. All my power comes
from Atíus. He made me. There will be an end to my days as there is to
those of every mortal. So long as I live I shall protect you; when I
die of old age, you shall die too.”
After this he said, “Now bring my youngest boy here.” The boy brought
the little cub, and the Bear said, “Now kill him.” The boy hesitated to
do this. He did not want to kill the little bear, but it said to him:
“Go on, my brother, kill me. After this I am going to be a spirit, and
always to be with you.” Then the boy killed him, and skinned him, and
tanned his hide. After it was tanned he put some red medicine paint on
the hide. When this was done the Bear told him to put his paint, his
feather, and his war-club in this hide, and to wrap them up and make a
bundle of them. Then he said: “Now, my son, go to your people, and when
you get home hang your bundle up at the back of the lodge, and let the
people know nothing of all this. Keep it secret. Wherever you go, or
wherever you are, I shall be with you.”
The boy went home to the camp, and told his mother to hang up his
bundle, as the Bear had said. Next morning he was in camp and all the
people saw him. They were surprised, for they had thought that he had
been killed. By this time the Pawnees had all the buffalo they wanted,
and the next day they started back to their village.
After they had reached their home, the boy told the chief’s son that he
wanted him to go off with him on the war-path. His brother said: “It is
good. I will go.” The poor boy took his bundle, and they started. After
travelling many days they came to a camp of the enemy. They went into
the village in the daytime, and took many horses and started away with
them, riding hard. Soon the enemy pursued them, and at length they
could see them coming, and it seemed as if they must soon overtake
them. Then the poor boy got off his horse and stopped, telling his
brother to go on, driving the horses.
The boy had painted himself red over his whole body. He held his
war-club in his hand, and had his feather tied on his head and the
little bear-skin on his back. The enemy soon came up and tried to kill
him, but they could not. He would run after one and kill him, and all
the others would shoot at him with their arrows, but they could not
hurt him, and at last they left him and went back, and he went on and
overtook the chief’s son. Then his brother saw that he had great power.
After this they travelled on slowly, and at last reached the village.
His brother told the people that this man was powerful, that they had
taken the horses in broad daylight, and the young man had stayed behind
on foot and fought the enemy off, while he drove on the horses.
A few days after they reached home, a war-party of the enemy attacked
the village. All the Pawnees went out to fight them, but the poor boy
stayed behind in the lodge. He took down his bundle, filled the pipe,
and pointed it first to Atíus, and then towards the Bear’s lodge, and
smoked. Then he took the paint and mixed it with grease, and rubbed it
all over his body except his face: that he painted black. Then he put
the feather on his head and the little bear-robe on his back, and took
his war-club in his hand and started out. The Bear had told him that in
going into battle he must never start towards the east, but must attack
going towards the west. So he went around, and came on the battle-field
from one side.
As he came up he saw that his people were having a hard time, and were
being driven back. There was one of the enemy who seemed to be the
bravest of all. The poor boy rushed at this man and killed him with his
club, and then ran back to his own line. When his people looked at him,
and saw that it was really the poor boy who had just done so brave a
deed, they knew that what the chief’s son had said was true. When he
started again to rush towards the enemy’s line, all the Pawnees
followed him. He ran among the enemy, and with his club killed one here
and one there, and the enemy became afraid and ran, and the Pawnees
followed and killed many of them. That night they returned to the
village, rejoicing over the victory. Everybody was praising the young
man. Old men were calling his name, young women were singing about him,
and old women dancing before him. People no longer made fun of his
father or mother, or of him. Now they looked upon him as a great and
powerful person.
The Bear had told him that when he wanted his name changed he must call
himself Ku ruks la war´ uks ti, Medicine Bear.
That night the Bear came to the boy in his sleep and spoke to him. He
said: “My son, to-morrow the chief of the tribe is going to ask you to
take his daughter for your wife, but you must not do this yet. I wish
you to wait until you have done certain things. If you take a wife
before that time, your power will go from you.”
The next day the chief came to Medicine Bear and asked him to marry his
daughter, and told him the people wanted him to be their head chief. He
refused.
Some time after this all the different tribes that had been attacked by
them joined forces and came down together to fight the Pawnees. All the
people went out to meet them, but he stayed in his lodge and painted
himself, and put his feather in his head and the bear-claw on his neck
and his bear-skin on his back, and smoked as he always did, and took
his club and went out. When he came to the battle, the Pawnees were
having a hard time, because the enemy were so many. Medicine Bear
charged, and killed a man, and then came back, and the second time he
charged, the people charged all together, following him, and they
killed many and drove the enemy off, and those who had the fastest
horses were the only ones who got away. The Pawnees went home to the
village. Everybody rejoiced, and there were many scalp-dances. Now the
poor boy was more highly thought of than ever. Even the chiefs bowed
their heads when they saw him. They could not equal him. This time he
called himself Ku ruks ti carish, Angry Bear.
After the excitement had quieted down, one day the head chief said:
“Medicine Bear, in all this tribe there is no chief who is equal to
you. Sit down by my daughter. Take her for your wife, and take my place
as chief. I and my wife will go out of this lodge, and it shall be
yours. You shall be the chief of the tribe. Whatever you say we will
abide by.” The poor boy said: “My father, I will think about this. By
morning I will let you know.” In the night, before he slept, he filled
the pipe and smoked as the Bear had told him to do, and then he went to
bed. In dreams the Bear said to him: “My son, you have done what I
wished you to do. Now the power will remain with you as long as you
shall live. Now you can marry, if you will.”
But the boy was not yet ready to do this. The girl was very pretty, and
he liked her, but he felt that before he married there were still some
things that he must do. He called his brother and said to him, “Go,
kill the fattest of the buffalo; bring it to me, and I will take a long
journey with you.”
His brother went hunting and killed a buffalo, and brought the meat
home, and they dried it and made a bundle of it. Medicine Bear told his
brother to carry this bundle and a rawhide rope and a little hatchet,
and they started on a journey towards the Missouri River. One day
towards evening they reached the river, and they found themselves on
top of a steep-cut bluff. The river ran at its foot. The poor boy cut a
cottonwood pole and drove it into the ground, and tied the rope to it,
and then tied the other end of the rope about his brother’s body. Then
he sharpened a stick and gave it to his brother and said: “Now take the
bundle of meat, and I will let you down over the bank. You must put the
meat on a ledge of the cliff, and when the birds come you must feed
them. Give a piece to the first one that comes, and then take your
sharp stick and get another piece, and so feed all the birds. They are
the ones that have power, and they can take pity on you.” So he let the
chief’s son down.
The first bird that came was a buzzard, then an eagle, then hawks and
owls, all kinds of birds that kill their prey. He fed them all. While
he was doing this, the poor boy was above lying on top of the bank.
Late in the afternoon, just as the sun was going down, he saw, far up
the river, what looked like a flock of geese coming. They came nearer
and nearer, and at last passed out of sight under the bank. Afterwards,
when he looked down on the river, he could see in the water red light
as if it were all on fire, and as he lay on the bank he could hear down
below him the sound of drumming and singing just as plain as could be,
and all the time the chief’s son was hanging there in front of the
bank, and the poor boy would call down to him to cry and ask the
animals to take pity on him. When Medicine Bear had done this, he
started back and went home, leaving the chief’s son hanging there.
The chief’s son stayed there all the night and all the next day, and
for three days and nights, and on the night of the fourth day he fell
asleep. When he awoke he was in a lodge. It was under the Missouri
River. When he looked about him he saw that those in the lodge were all
animals. There was the beaver, there was the otter, two buffalo, the
antelope, hawks, owls, ermines, bears, frogs, woodpeckers, catfish—all
kinds of animals. On each side of the lodge was a little pool, and in
each pool sat a goose, and every time they sang, the geese would shake
their wings on the water, and it sounded just like drumming. The chief
of the animals spoke to him, saying: “My son, at this time we can do
nothing for you. We must first send our messenger up to the Bear’s
lodge to ask him what we may do for you.” While he was saying this the
Bear’s servant entered the lodge and said: “My father, it is all right.
Our father the Bear told me to say to you that his son has sent this
young man to you, and you must exert all your power for him.”
Now the animals began to make ready to use their power to help the
chief’s son. First the Beaver talked to the young man, to tell him of
his powers and his ways, so that he might perform wonderful acts. How
he should take the branch of a tree and strike a man with its point and
it would go through him, and then how to draw it out and to make the
man well again. He gave him the power to do this. He taught him how to
take a stick two feet long and swallow it, and then take it out again
from his throat, and gave him this power.
The Otter gave him the power, if his enemies ever attacked him, to
break their arrows with his teeth and shoot back the shaft without a
spike, and if he hit an enemy with the shaft, it would kill him. “The
poison from your mouth will kill him,” he said.
The Ground-dog said: “My son, here is my little one. I give him to you.
Take him, and if you have an enemy among the doctors in your tribe,
take this little one down to the water early in the morning and dip his
nose in the water, and when you take it out it will have a piece of
liver in its mouth. The man who has tried to kill you will be found
dead.”
The Owl said: “My son, I give you power to see in the night. When you
go on the war-path and want to take horses, the night will be like
daytime for you.”
The Hawk said: “My son, I give you power to run swiftly, and I give you
my war-club, which is my wing. You shall strike your enemy with it only
once, and the blow shall kill him. Take also this little black rope;
you shall use it when you go on the war-path to catch horses. Take also
this scalp which you see hanging down from my claw. You shall be a
great man for scalping.”
Each of the other animals gave him all his kinds of power.
For two days and two nights they taught him the different kinds of
power, and for two days and two nights they taught him the different
kinds of roots and herbs for healing the sick. They said to him: “You
shall be the great doctor of your people. Every now and then you must
bring us tobacco, so that we can smoke.” They further told him that at
this time they could teach him only a little, but that afterwards, one
at a time, they would meet him out on the prairie, and would teach him
more. At last they said: “Now it is time for you to go. Your friend has
come, and is waiting for you out on the prairie.”
The Buffalo now stood up and said: “My son, I want to be with you
always. I give you my robe. Wear it wherever you go, that the people
may know that you come from this place.” All the animals said, “We want
to be with you too.” Each one of the birds took off a feather and put
it on the robe, and each animal put one of its claws on it, and some
put medicine on it. In one of the holes the Beaver tied a little
sweet-grass, and others did the same. By the time they were through,
the robe was all covered with feathers and claws and smelled sweet. The
animals had put their medicine on it so that it smelled sweet. Then the
animals said, “Go, my son, to your people, and bring us something to
smoke, so that we may be satisfied.”
Presently the chief’s son found himself upon the bluff, facing his
brother. His brother grasped him in his arms and said: “Oh, my brother,
you smell nice. What a fine robe you have on! Look at all these
feathers.” They hugged each other. Then they went home together. The
chief’s son had a bundle that the animals had given him.
Soon after this the Pawnees had a big doctors’ dance. These boys went
into the doctors’ lodge and said: “Doctors, you are the head doctors,
but we have come to-night to visit you. We want to do a few things
ourselves.” The doctors all said “Lau-a.” The young men took seats
close to the door, which is the most important place in this dance. All
the doctors were surprised, and said “Uh!”
The Bear boy got up first and began shooting at the chief’s son, just
as he had done with the Bear, and all the doctors thought he was
powerful, shooting at this young man and curing him. When he got
through, it was the other boy’s turn. He would take a long sharp stick
and thrust it through his brother, and then heal him again, and then
take a knife and stab him, and then cure him. He did some powerful
things, more so than his brother had done. After the doctors had seen
all these things they all said, “Let us have these two for our head
doctors.” But the poor boy said: “Not so. This one who is sitting by me
has more power than I have. He ought to be the head doctor, for I am a
warrior, and can never stay in the camp to doctor people. My brother
has gone into the animals’ lodge, and they have given him more power
than I possess.” So the chief’s son was chosen to be the head doctor.
When the doctors’ dance was over, the two brothers at once started to
go to the animals’ lodge, carrying with them tobacco and a pipe. When
they got there, the chief’s son told his brother to wait on the bank,
that he was going down to take the tobacco and the pipe to his fathers.
He jumped off the steep bank into the river, down into the door of the
lodge, and went in. When they saw him all the animals slapped their
mouths and called out. They were glad to see him. After smoking with
them, he went back to his friend. After that the chief’s son would go
off by himself and would meet the animals on the hills. They would tell
him about different roots, and how to doctor this disease and that. He
would come back with some roots and herbs and put them away.
Finally the head chief sent for the Bear man and said to him: “My son,
I offered you my lodge, my daughter, and the whole tribe. Now take all
this. Let me go out of this lodge and look for another one, and you
stay here with my daughter.” The young man said: “What of my brother?
Send for the other chief. Let him give his daughter, his lodge, his
people, to him, and this day we will accept your gifts to us. My
brother will after this be the head doctor of this tribe.” The other
chief, when asked to do this, agreed, and it was so done.
The Bear man went often on the war-path, but his brother stayed at
home, and fought against the enemy only when they attacked the village.
He took charge of the doctors’ lodge. The Bear man after this had some
children, and when they had grown up he told his son the secrets of his
power. He was now beginning to grow old, and his son went on the
war-path, while he stayed at home.
One night he had a dream about his father the Bear. The Bear said to
him: “My son, I made you great and powerful among your people. The
hairs of my body are falling, and soon I shall die. Then you too will
die. Tell your son all the secret powers that I gave you. He shall keep
the same power that you have had.”
Soon after this the old Bear must have died, for the man died. Before
he died he said to his brother: “Do not mourn for me, for I shall
always be near you. Take care of your people. Cure them when they are
sick, and always be their chief.”
When the enemy came and attacked the people and wounded any, the
chief’s son was always there and always cured them. He was a great
doctor. At last he also died, but his son had the same kind of power.
But these two sons never had so great powers as their fathers.
THE FIRST MEDICINE LODGE
A great many winters ago the Piegans were camped near a small creek.
Their lodges were arranged in a circle, enclosing a large open space.
This was long before they had horses. They used dogs to pack with.
The head chief had a daughter. She was good and beautiful. Many young
men had asked to marry her, but she had refused them all. One day she
went to the stream for water. There she met a boy, well known through
the camp, because of a great scar on his cheek, which made him very
ugly. From this the people called him Scarface. He was very poor. His
mother and father were dead, and he lived with his grandmother. His
clothes were old and torn, and he wore about him part of a worn buffalo
robe. Yet, though his clothes were poor and his face was ugly, his
heart was good, and the cruel taunts of his people often made him very
sad.
When Scarface met the beautiful girl, he asked her if she would marry
him. She looked at him in scorn and said: “Do you think I would marry
such an ugly person as you? When you remove that great scar from your
face, come and ask me.” Then she left him. He sat for a long time
thinking over the cruel words the girl had spoken. His heart was sad.
At last he went slowly to his grandmother’s lodge.
When he entered he said: “Grandmother, make me some moccasins and put
some dried buffalo meat in a sack for me. I am going away and may be
gone a long time.” She gave him the things he asked for, and he left
the lodge and started to go to a butte not far from the camp.
When he reached the top of the butte, he threw himself upon the ground
and wept and prayed to the Sun to have pity on him and remove the scar.
At last he stood up and made a bed of the stones which he found on the
side of the butte. Then he lay down to sleep. While he slept a voice
said to him: “My son, rise, and go to the butte to the right of you.
There you will find your father.” He did as the voice had said.
When he reached the place, he threw himself on the ground and wept as
before, and prayed the Sun to help him. He made a bed of stones like
the one he had lain on before, and while he slept another voice said:
“My son, your journey is not yet ended. Rise and go to that butte still
farther to the right. There you will find one who will direct you on
your way.” Again he obeyed the voice.
When he reached this butte he made his bed as before, and slept, but no
voice spoke to him. In the morning he awoke. As he sat on the ground,
he was wondering what he should do next. Again a voice spoke, saying,
“My friend, shut your eyes.” He did so, and in a short time the strange
voice said, “Open your eyes and look about you.”
When he opened his eyes, he was far up in the blue sky, in another
world. It was all a wide prairie. There were no mountains, no trees.
There were only rivers, with a few bushes upon their banks. He could
now see the person who had spoken to him. He was a young man about his
own age, but he was very handsome. He wore a shirt, leggings, and robe
of some strange animal’s fur, and his moccasins were embroidered in
strange and beautiful colors and patterns. The young man said to
Scarface: “My name is Sun Dog. The Sun is my father and the Moon my
mother. Yonder is my father’s lodge. Let us go to it. My father is not
now there. At night he will enter.”
They reached the lodge. Very large it was and very beautiful. Many
unknown animals were painted on it, and behind it, hanging from a
tripod, were the war clothes of the Sun, made of the skins of strange
animals, and trimmed with fine feathers. Scarface was ashamed to enter
this beautiful lodge, for his clothes were poor and his moccasins were
worn with travel; but Sun Dog said to him, “Enter, my new friend, and
fear nothing.”
They entered. All about were seats covered with white robes, and
everything was strange. The Moon was there. Sun Dog approached her and
said: “Mother, I have brought a young man to our lodge who is very
poor. I beg you to have pity on him and help him in his trouble.” The
Moon spoke kindly to Scarface, and gave him something to eat.
When it was time for the Sun to come home, Sun Dog hid Scarface and
covered him up with robes. When the Sun came to the door, he stopped
and said, “There is a person here.” “Yes, father,” said Sun Dog, “a
good young man, who is in trouble, has come to see you.” The Sun said,
“Bring him to me.” Sun Dog removed the robes and brought Scarface
before the Sun. The Sun looked at Scarface a short time, and turning to
the Moon, bade her make Scarface as handsome as their own son, and give
him some nice clothes to wear. The Moon made some medicine and rubbed
it over Scarface. In a short time he was changed into a very handsome
young man. The Moon took Sun Dog and Scarface before the Sun and said,
“O Sun, tell me which is Sun Dog.” The Sun looked at the two boys for a
moment, and then pointed to Sun Dog, and said, “This is our son.” Again
the Moon rubbed the medicine on Scarface, until she was sure that the
two young men looked alike, and again she took them before the Sun and
said, “O Sun, tell me now which is our son.” He looked at them a long
time, and, pointing to Scarface, said, “This must be our son.”
In the morning before leaving the lodge, the Sun called the young men
to him and said, “My children, do not go near that lodge by the river,
for in it live four large white birds with long bills with which they
pluck out people’s hearts. I have had four other sons, but they have
all been killed by these birds.” Then he left them.
The two young men went out hunting. They went on and on, when suddenly
Sun Dog cried out, “This is the place where my brothers were killed!
See! there are the birds coming one after another towards us. Let us
make haste to get away.” He ran away, but Scarface waited until the
birds came near him. As they came up, he struck each on the head with a
club which he carried, and killed them. After some time Sun Dog
returned, and the young men took the birds home to the lodge.
The Moon was very happy when she saw that the destroyers of her sons
were dead. When the Sun returned in the evening, Sun Dog said, “Father,
my friend killed the bad birds to-day,” and he showed them to him. The
Sun called Scarface to him and dressed him in clothes made of white
buffalo skins and painted his face and said: “It is now time, my son,
for you to return to your people, for they need your help. They are
beneath us, and not far from here. Sun Dog will take you and will tell
you what I wish you to do.” After shaking hands with the Sun and Moon,
the two young men started on their journey.
After they had gone some distance, they stopped. Sun Dog said: “Soon we
will have to part, but first I must tell you what the Sun has commanded
you to do. If there are any sick or dying among your people, in order
to make them well you must build the Medicine Lodge. First you must get
one hundred buffalo tongues. Select four pure women of your tribe to
help. Let one woman make the medicine, another cut thin and dry the
tongues, and the other two boil the tongues. Go into the tall brush and
clear a place for the Medicine Lodge. When everything is ready, call
the people together to take part in the dance. Let each take a piece of
the tongue, and let all say together, ‘Great Sun, let us eat together,
and grant to us that our people may recover.’ If the women you select
to make the medicine and to cut and boil the tongue are pure women, the
sick and the dying among your people will recover; if not, they will
die.
“Now, my brother,” continued Sun Dog, “you have heard the commands of
the Sun. You will soon find yourself on the butte you came from. We
must now part.” They shook hands. Sun Dog said, “Shut your eyes.”
Scarface shut his eyes, and when he opened them he found himself
sitting at the foot of the butte from which he came. The circular camp
lay before him.
He went to his grandmother’s lodge, but no one recognized in the
handsome young man the one who had left them so poor and ugly. All
gathered about him to listen to his wonderful story. He told them of
the commands of the Sun, and a short time after made the Medicine Lodge
as the Sun had commanded. This was the first Medicine Lodge.
Scarface became a great chief and all listened to his wise words. The
beautiful girl came to him and said, “You are very handsome now, and a
great chief, and I will marry you.” But he sent her away. He married
good women and lived a long time. When he died Sun Dog took him back to
the Sun, where he lives forever.
THUNDER MAKER AND COLD MAKER
In ancient times, before horses had come from the south and been taught
to bear burdens, the people did not move camp often, but remained in
one place so long as sufficient game could be found to furnish food.
They shrank from taking down their lodges and travelling over the
prairie to fresh hunting-grounds, for their dogs could not pack
everything, and they themselves were forced to carry heavy loads on
their backs. One season they had hunted on a little stream in the
foot-hills since early spring. The summer passed, the leaves began to
fall, and with the approach of winter the great herds of buffalo slowly
grazed out on the plains, and finally disappeared to the eastward.
Hardy and warmly furred as they were they feared the deep snow and the
cold of the mountain country.
When the last of the buffalo had gone, a great hunter named Low Wolf
thought that it was also time for him to move. He said to the chiefs:
“Come, now, the buffalo have gone; they are our food; let us too move
away from the mountains and follow them.”
But the chiefs said they would not break camp for a while. “Snow will
not fall for one or two moons,” they said, “and there are still plenty
of elk, deer, moose, and other small game close by. Do not be
impatient. Let us wait.”
Low Wolf would not listen to them. “No,” he said, “I am not a hunter of
small game. The buffalo are my living, and to-morrow I shall follow
them, even if I go alone.”
The people thought that he was joking; but the next morning they
learned that he meant what he said, for when they arose they saw that
already his lodge had been taken down, and his wife and daughter were
busy packing the dogs and lashing the travois on them.
“Hold on,” said the chiefs, coming up; “why all this hurry? It is not
safe for you to go alone. It is not right for you to take your wife and
daughter out on the lonely plains. Think of all the dangers. Wait until
we are ready to move.”
“What the Low Wolf has said cannot be unsaid,” he replied. “I told you
that to-day I should start after the buffalo, and now I am going.”
For several days the little family travelled eastward along the valley
of the evergrowing stream, but found no buffalo. Then they turned
northeast, and after four nights on the wide prairie saw before them
another valley. Buffalo were all around them now, and Low Wolf said
that if they could find plenty of timber and water he would be content
to stay in this place until spring. There was a large river flowing
through the valley, and along its banks grew groves of large
cotton-woods and willows. At the edge of one of these groves the dogs
were unpacked and the lodge put up where it was protected from the
wind. That night, as the little family sat about the fire eating fat
buffalo ribs, Low Wolf said: “Ah, how foolish were the people not to
come with me; here we have a fine sheltered camp, plenty of wood, and
on all sides the buffalo darken the prairie. Besides, down here it is
still summer weather, while up there where they are it is already
freezing at night.”
The days passed happily. Every morning Low Wolf went out to hunt, and
his wife and daughter dried the meat that he brought in, tanned soft
robes for sleeping and for covering, and cut great piles of fire-wood
against the cold of approaching winter.
One evening, Plover Call, the daughter, went out to gather the night’s
wood, and while she was lashing a pile of it to carry in she happened
to look up, and saw standing near a man wearing his robe hair side out.
He was facing the river, his back towards her, but she supposed it was
her father, although it seemed strange that he should follow her out
into the timber, as there were no signs of any enemy about.
“What are you doing there?” she asked. “Come, I have gathered my wood;
let us go home.”
The man turned towards her and lowered his robe from his face, and she
saw that he was a stranger—a handsome young man, with light-colored
hair and a white face. Strangely enough she was not afraid of him, for
he had a kind face, and his blue eyes looked pleasant.
“Ah,” he said, as he slowly drew near where she stood, “I have come
from a far land. I have left my people, for something told me to go in
search of a wife. When I saw you I knew that you were the one I was
meant to find. Let us live together.”
Plover Call forgot her wood as she looked at him. “Come with me to our
lodge,” she said at last, “and I will find out if it may be as you
ask.” When they came to it she told him to stand outside for a little.
“Father, mother,” she said, as she entered the doorway, “I have found a
young man out in the woods who wishes to marry me; are you willing that
he should?”
“Is he strong and active?” asked Low Wolf.
“Is he well clothed and good-looking?” the mother inquired.
“Oh,” said the girl, “he is everything you ask, and more; he is even
strange-looking, for he has a white face, and his hair is the color of
last year’s prairie grass.”
“Well,” said Low Wolf, “it matters not about his looks, so long as he
is an active man; yet it is strange that he is so different from us.
Tell him to come in.”
Plover Call went to the doorway and beckoned to the young man, and when
he had entered, her father and mother motioned him to a seat, and soon
began to talk to him, asking many questions. The young man replied
readily to all of them, so after he had considered for a time, Low Wolf
concluded to give him his daughter. The next day she and her mother
began to make a new lodge, and as soon as it was finished, put up and
stored with robes and clothing, food and other things, the two were
married.
“I am glad that you came,” the father said to the young man, “and glad
to give you my good daughter. We will not be so lonely now, and if the
enemy should come there will be two of us to fight them.”
The fourth day after the young couple were married and had moved into
the new lodge, the stranger arose early, and after a hurried meal told
Plover Call that he intended to go hunting. His wife was pleased, and
said that he must bring in a deer, for she wished to tan the skin and
make him some moccasins.
He picked up his bow-case and quiver, slung it on his back and started,
and shortly after he left the lodge, low, continuous rumbling of
thunder was heard, beginning quite near the lodges, and finally dying
away in the distance. Plover Call and her parents came out of their
lodges, looked around, and were surprised to see that there was not a
cloud in the sky; and again it was the wrong time of year for thunder.
Moreover, the young man was not to be seen in any direction, although
he had gone but a moment before. It was all very strange.
Evening came; the sun had gone down, and the shadow of night covered
the valley, when again thunder was heard, this time far away at first,
and then coming nearer. Then presently Plover Call heard something
heavy fall by the doorway, and her husband entering, said: “Well, I got
the deer for you. There it lies just outside.”
The young woman was uneasy; she went over and consulted her father.
“Surely mysterious things are happening about here,” said Low Wolf,
“and I suspect your husband is not what he seems to be. Anyhow, it is
well to be on the safe side; do not eat any of the deer he brought in.”
The young woman went back to her lodge, cut some meat from the deer,
and cooked it for her husband. While he was eating she skinned the
animal, cut it into quarters, and hung it out on a near-by bush. After
the evening meal was over her father came in, and the two men talked
for a long time about hunting and war, and her husband told interesting
stories about his people. Listening to him, both Plover Call and her
father were ashamed of their fears, and resolved to make amends by
treating the young man as kindly as they knew how.
The next day the wind changed to the north, and there came a light fall
of snow; no hunting was done. The following morning Plover Call’s
husband again started out with his bow and arrows, and, as before, as
soon as he left it thundered for a long time. The fears of the little
family were again aroused, and when at night the young man returned
after a long rumbling of thunder, they were all frightened, and feared
that something dreadful was about to happen. The hunter had brought in
another deer and told how he had killed it, and where he had been
hunting.
“Why,” said Low Wolf, “I was out there, too, this morning; it is
strange I did not see you. I should have seen your tracks anyhow.”
They learned the next day that he made no tracks. When he started out
they watched him; he took four steps from the lodge door, and then
suddenly vanished, the thunder beginning again and rumbling away into
the distance. As he disappeared, a strange-looking bird was seen flying
the way the thunder was muttering. Then they knew that this person was
really the thunder bird, and their hearts were filled with a great
fear.
Four times the strange husband went hunting, always disappearing at the
lodge door in his mysterious way, always accompanied by thunder, going
and coming, never leaving any footprints beyond the lodge. Yet when at
home he was just like any other young man, light-hearted, sociable, and
kind to his wife. The morning after his fourth hunt he said that he
must go and visit his people.
“It is a very long distance that I must travel,” he said to them, “and
I may be away many moons; but do not worry, for I shall return as soon
as I can.” With that he left the lodge, and peering through the folds
of the doorway, they saw him vanish as before, and as the thunder
rolled, saw the bird flying out across the valley, over the rim of the
plain towards the south.
The moons came, grew, and went, but Plover Call’s husband did not
return. She was glad of it, and so were her parents, for they all
feared his terrible, mysterious ways.
One evening the young woman was again chopping wood by the river, and,
again looking up, she saw a man standing near her, wearing his robe
hair side out. Again she thought it was her father, but when she
addressed him he turned around, and she saw it was a stranger. At first
she was sure it was her husband, but as he lowered his robe she saw
that he was dark-faced and black-haired like herself. “Who are you?”
she asked. “Why are you here?”
“I am of your race,” he said, “but from a far-away tribe. I am seeking
a wife; will you marry me?”
Plover Call would not answer his question, but told him to go with her
to her parents’ lodge. Low Wolf decided that she might marry the
stranger at once. “The other one,” he said, “that Thunder Maker, has
been gone a long time, and I am sure he will never return. We need
another drawer of the bow in case of attack, so put up your lodge again
and try to live happily.”
Although he had appeared rather strangely, and, like the Thunder Maker,
had said he came from a far country, there was nothing that seemed
either odd or mysterious about Plover Call’s new husband. He hunted
with her father, prayed to Nápi, the creator, as she did, and in no
respect was different from any young Blackfoot she knew. He was very
kind and gentle, and the girl soon loved him with all her heart. They
lived together very happily. One day, as he sat in the lodge making
some arrows, the distant rumbling of thunder was heard.
“Go!” his wife cried. “Leave here at once; the man I told you of is
returning.”
“I will not leave this lodge,” said he, calmly, “for the Thunder
person, nor any one else.”
“But you must,” she replied; “he will be angry; and oh, I fear him.
Listen! he is coming nearer. Hurry away before it is too late.”
“Ah,” said her husband, “you do not love me, or you would not ask
this.”
“It is because I do love you that I want to have you go.”
“Say no more,” he replied; “now that I know you love me, I shall surely
stay. I do not fear him.”
Suddenly the curtain of the doorway was thrown back and the Thunder
Maker bounded into the lodge. He was very angry. Streams of lightning
flashed continuously from his eyes. Sheets of ill-smelling smoke,
mingled with blue flame, rolled in waves from his body. Plover Call
shut her eyes, nearly fainting at the dreadful sight, and her heart
stood still from fear.
“What are you doing here?” he cried to the man calmly scraping his
arrows. “What are you doing here in my lodge? Go at once, or I will
kill you where you sit.”
“Do you go yourself,” the other replied, “or it will be the worse for
you. This is my house, and this woman whom you deserted is my wife.”
Thunder Maker sprang into the air in fury, and more fearfully than ever
the lightning flashed from his eyes. Raising his hand to strike, he
stepped suddenly towards his enemy, but the man as quickly held up some
soft, white, downy eagle feathers, and blew them from his hand, and a
terrible cold, biting wind filled the lodge. Thunder Maker fell back.
The wind increased, and the lodge shook as if it would be blown away.
Fine, sharp, stinging frost-flakes hissed in through the doorway and
from under the edges of the lodge skins. Colder and colder it grew;
and, trembling, quivering, his lips blue, his teeth chattering, Thunder
Maker staggered to a bed and fell upon it.
“You have beaten me; your power is greater than mine,” he cried. “Oh,
Cold Maker, have pity!”
For Plover Call’s new husband was Cold Maker, he who brings the fierce
storms, the biting wind, and drifting, whirling snow from out the
north. And now, as he saw his enemy gasping, shaking, and begging for
mercy, as he lay on the bed, he laughed. “Will you promise never to
return; never to trouble us again?” he asked. “I will go, I will go,”
groaned the other. “You promise? Then go, and be sure you keep your
word.”
The cold wind and the hazy frost ceased as suddenly as they had come.
Thunder Maker staggered to his feet. He reeled out of the lodge.
Lightning no longer flashed from his eyes. The blue flame and stifling
smoke no longer rolled from his person. He looked very poor and sick as
he disappeared.
Now that Plover Call knew who her new husband really was, she was not
at all afraid of him, although he was one of the deathless ones, who,
for the time, had taken the form of man. They continued to live happily
together, and when summer came he went with her and her parents, and
joined the great camp of the Blackfeet.
Often Cold Maker said to her people that he could not remain with them
always, but he never told them when he should go away. “After I have
gone,” he said once, “I will try to warn you of the approach of a cold
storm. When you see a raven flying about in the winter, and crying its
loud notes, look out, for the cold storm will be near.”
After many years Plover Call died of old age, and Cold Maker mourned.
“He will leave us now,” the people said. They were right. One day he
disappeared and was seen no more. But his words were not forgotten.
Since that time they have named the raven after him. Even to this day
the raven comes to give warning of an approaching storm.
THE BLINDNESS OF PI-WAṔ-ŌK
Pi-waṕ-ōk, Flint-knife, was a Blood warrior; he was brave and
ambitious, seldom passing a day idly in his lodge. If not away on the
war-path against some distant tribe, he was sure to be out hunting. The
burning heats of summer, the cold, and the piercing snow-drifting winds
of winter did not keep him back, if he thought game was to be found.
There were always many buffalo hides and many skins of elk, deer, and
antelope stacked up about his lodge, and within were thick warm robe
beds, and piles of soft buckskins, tanned by his wife Í-kai-si, the
Squirrel. None knew better than the poor, the blind, and the crippled,
that the parfleches piled up behind the beds, and filling the space
near the doorway, contained stores of fat dried meat, rich pemmican,
marrow fat, dried berries and roots, to a share of which they were
always welcome. The couple had no children, and they said that unless a
crowd of guests feasted and smoked in their lodge of an evening, they
felt lonesome. So for many years they lived, happy and prosperous, and
then a great trouble came on them.
One day Pi-waṕ-ōk returned from a hunt and complained that his eyes
hurt him. “They feel as if some one had thrown sand in them,” he said.
“When I try to see something far away, they fill with tears and
everything becomes indistinct.”
“Oh, that is nothing,” Í-kai-si said to him, “the hard wind which you
have been out in all day has made them a little sore. I’ll stew some of
those leaves my old grandmother used to say were good for the eyes, and
after you have bathed them once or twice, no doubt you will see clearly
again.”
The lotion was used for a day or two, but the inflammation increased. A
great doctor was called in; he looked carefully at the red lids and the
thin, ever-spreading film covering the eyes, and prescribed a steam
bath, into which he threw certain herbs. It did no good, and a great
medicine man was sent for. He came with ceremony, dressed in a
bear-skin robe, carrying a bag of mysterious medicines, and shaking his
rattles as he entered the lodge. Seating himself by the patient, he
asked many questions as he examined the swollen eyes. At last he
inquired if Pi-waṕ-ōk had experienced unpleasant dreams of late.
“Yes,” the sick man replied, “the night before this affliction came
upon me, I had a terrible dream; you remember that I killed two Crow
warriors this spring when we had the battle with them at the Yellow
River. Well, I was fighting it all over again in my sleep. I had
stabbed and taken the scalp of one Crow, and was turning to struggle
with the other, when the dead one sprang up, all bleeding and
sightless, the loose skin of the forehead hanging over his eyes, and
with a loud cry struck me with the war-club still hanging from his
wrist. Then I woke, frightened and trembling from the awful sight.”
“Ah!” said the medicine man, after thinking a little. “That explains it
all; the ghost of some enemy you have killed is near here, and is
blinding you in some mysterious way. Well, let me get to work; perhaps
I can drive him away.”
He opened the medicine bag and took from it a long pipe stem painted
red and black, to which was tied a small buckskin sack, ornamented with
the feathers of certain small birds, and curious claws and teeth. No
one but he knew what was inside the little sack; it was his secret
helper. “Hai-yu,” he cried to it, entreatingly. “Hai-yu, you certain
thing of the earth. Help me now; help me to drive away the ghosts from
this sufferer’s eyes. As you long ago told me in my dreams to do,
favored one of the Sun, that I will now do. Intercede for us all here
to-day; ask the Sun to have pity on us all; to grant us long life, good
health, and sufficient food.”
Such was his prayer. He knelt beside Pi-waṕ-ōk, and began an ancient
medicine song, shaking his rattles and motioning the unseen spirit to
depart. At times he picked up the long stem and blew through it on the
inflamed eyes, calling out at the end of every breath: “Whooh! Ghost,
retire.”
“How do you feel?” he asked, when about to leave, after many songs and
prayers, and blowings through the stem.
“Oh,” Pi-waṕ-ōk replied, “I can’t say that I see any plainer, but I
think my eyes are not so painful.”
“Ah!” the medicine man said, “that is but natural; you cannot recover
at once; when we have driven the ghost away for good, then it will
still take time for the eyes to become clear.”
After some days it was found that the medicine man’s charms had failed.
One after another, the doctors and mystery men of the tribe were called
in. This was expensive. One demanded two horses, another a gun and
blanket, another three horses; another would not step inside the lodge
until he had been paid ten horses. One by one Pi-waṕ-ōk’s herd changed
hands; little by little the store of soft robes and food disappeared,
and the lodge became bare. But the afflicted one did not get well. For
a time he could see objects dimly, then they became mere shadows; then
the light went out entirely. Pi-waṕ-ōk was blind.
It was hard for the man who had led such an active life to sit idly in
his lodge day after day. He visited but little from lodge to lodge, for
he did not like to ask any one to lead him about here and there. His
wife was kind, cheering him with her constant talk and making light of
their great misfortune. She worked hard to provide things as of old, by
tanning for a share the hides and skins brought in by hunters. The
people were all kind. They did not forget how generous the blind one
had been in his prosperous days, and they came daily to relieve his
poverty with gifts of meat, and even tongues and pemmican. Of an
evening the chiefs and warriors would assemble in his lodge as before,
to smoke and talk and cheer his spirits. Through all the pain, and the
darkness of constant night, Pi-waṕ-ōk kept up a good heart, though at
times, when he thought of the sunlight shimmering over the yellow
prairie and painting the tops of the distant mountains with wondrous
color, he was very sad to think that he was never again to behold it
all, never again to join in the chase, never again to experience the
fierce joy of battle. One thing that kept him up was the thought that
by some good chance he might, some day, be cured. He remembered the
stories of the ancient ones who had been made well by their brothers,
the animals of the plain and forest, of the air and the water, and he
thought that they might help him too, if only he had an opportunity to
meet them.
The people were camping along the foothills of the mountains, and one
evening, after a long day’s travel, the lodges were pitched by a wooded
stream, and right under a high sandstone cliff which formed one side of
the valley. The next morning, while yet the people slept and even the
dogs were quiet, while not a stir of any kind broke the stillness of
the camp, Pi-waṕ-ōk, restlessly turning on his bed, heard the shrill
cry of a bald eagle (Ksiḱ-i-kinni, whitehead), now near, now far, as it
circled around and around above the valley. In his mind he saw the
great bird soar, now high, now low, with scarcely a movement of its
powerful wings, saw the flash of golden light on its body as it turned
to the rising sun. “Ah,” he thought, “if my sight were only as good as
that bird’s, how happy I should be! Far up in the air, it looks down
upon the world, and nothing escapes its eye, from the great brown
buffalo quietly grazing to the little ground squirrel hunting about its
hole for a root of grass.”
Presently the camp awoke to another day of the chase, of toil, of
feasting, and of play. Í-kai-si arose, built a fire, and cooked the
morning meal. A friend dropped in to share it and tell of a recent
exciting bear hunt. Pi-waṕ-ōk scarcely heard him, for he was still
thinking of the great bird swinging so strong and free in the blue sky
above. All at once he realized that here, perhaps, was the opportunity
he had long sought; here, close by, was a “little brother,” as his
fathers called them, more keen-eyed than any other living thing. Surely
it knew how to keep the eyes bright and clear, how to cure them if they
became diseased. “Friend,” he said to his guest, “this morning, when
all was still, I heard a whitehead sounding its cry as it circled
around above us. Did you happen to see it?”
“Yes,” the man replied, “it has a nest here, and just as I came in I
saw it carrying something to feed its young. Far up on the cliff by
which we are camped is a short pine-tree, growing out from the climbing
rock; there, in the branches, the bird has built its home.”
“Friend,” Pi-waṕ-ōk cried; “it is as I thought: my chance has come. I
beg you to guide me to that place, for I believe the traveller of the
sky can cure me.”
“Hai-yu,” the friend exclaimed, “you know not what you ask. With my
good eyes, and seeing plainly where to cling and step, it would be a
hard task to reach that height; for you it would be sure death to
attempt the climb.”
“Even so,” the blind one replied, “yet must I try to do it. Death comes
in many ways. It stares us in the face at every turn. Wherever we go,
whatever we do, it lies in wait for us, like a panther for the deer by
a forest trail. I am not afraid; have pity and help me try to reach
that nest.”
Í-kai-si cried, and begged him to think no more of such a dangerous
thing; the friend told how straight and high the cliff was, how
difficult to climb, but they talked in vain. He said that if no one
would help him, he would go alone, on until he fell and died. At
length, seeing that he was not to be turned from this which he had set
his mind upon, the friend consented to be his guide, and they started.
It was but a few steps to the foot of the cliff, where the fallen rocks
made a sloping hill; they soon surmounted this, and then the climb
began. Sometimes they were side by side, the leader guiding the blind
one’s hands and feet, and again he was ahead, and reaching down would
pull Pi-waṕ-ōk up on a narrow shelf. All the people of the camp stood
watching them with wide-staring eyes, and as the two went on, higher
and higher, over places where it seemed there was no jutting rock to
offer foothold, they held their breath, fearing, expecting, that the
next step would be the climbers’ last.
Pi-waṕ-ōk’s courage won. At last, tired and breathless, they came to
where the gnarled and stunted tree hung to the cliff’s face by its
giant roots. “Hai!” said the guide; “I never thought we would reach it;
here we are at last. And now, what next?”
“Help me up into the nest.”
“That I cannot do. There is no room for more than one. The limb would
break if both of us were on it.”
“Then,” said Pi-waṕ-ōk, “I will go alone,” and he began to climb out on
the trunk, his friend telling him just where to reach for a hold on the
spreading branches. Then came the most dangerous feat of all, to climb
over the rim of the wide and loose-sticked nest; but that too was
accomplished, and the tired man lay down in its hollow beside the
scared and hissing fledglings. “Go,” he called out to his friend, “go
and leave me for a time here alone.”
The young man climbed on up to the summit of the cliff, and walked away
to a distant point, where he waited until he should be called.
Pi-waṕ-ōk lay motionless; the young birds ceased their frightened
cries, and all was still save for the breeze, which sung through the
tree-top with a mournful sound. If the limb on which the nest was built
gave way from his added weight, he knew that he would fall upon the
rocks far below, a crushed and shapeless mass. It was an uneasy and
frightful thought.
And now from afar the parent bird espied him in the nest, and swooped
down with a terrible rushing roar, like far-off thunder. Down, down,
she came, swift as an arrow, to the very edge of the nest, and then
soared upward with a bound, the rushing air behind swaying the tree as
if a hurricane was passing. Again and again, four times in all, the
bird made a rushing dive at the helpless man, and each time he heard
its nearing cry he prayed, crying out that he had not come to harm its
young, but to ask its aid. And at last the whitehead seemed to
understand, for after the fourth fierce rush, it slowly sailed around
and settled on the edge of the nest.
“Hai-yu,” Pi-waṕ-ōk cried, “be you male or female, father or mother of
these young birds, as you love them, pity me.”
“I am their mother,” the bird replied, “and, since you have called upon
me in their name, say what is in your mind; I will help you if I can.”
Then the blind one told of his affliction, and how through great danger
and sore distress of mind he had climbed the cliff, hoping the great
bird might cure him.
“Alas,” said the whitehead when he had finished, “what you ask is
beyond my power; nor could my husband, who is away hunting, help you.
None of my kind could make you see again, for we have never had
occasion to treat the eyes. We live to great age, but our eyes remain
strong and clear to the very end.”
Pi-waṕ-ōk wept. “Alas!” he cried, “how my hopes have fallen. This long
and dangerous climb, after all, brings no relief.”
“Not so,” said the bird. “I cannot give you sight, but in other ways I
can do much for you. Here is a feather from my tail; take it, and keep
it carefully, and you shall live to old age. And since you are helpless
in your blindness, I will do more. I will teach you many wonderful
things, and will give you power to heal the sick. Then you will not sit
sad and idle in your lodge. The people will keep coming for you to go
here and there to heal them and to practise your mysterious rites, and
you will be so busy that you will forget your blindness.”
Then the bird began, and through the long morning taught Pi-waṕ-ōk,
showing him the secret of many wonderful things, telling him how and
what to use for certain ailments. It took a long time to explain it
all, and just as the bird finished, the blind one fell asleep.
After a little he awoke. “Put out your hand and feel,” the whitehead
said. He did so and found he was lying on grassy ground.
“You are on the prairie at the top of the cliff,” the bird continued;
“your friend is sitting away over there on a point. Rise up and motion
him to come, for I must leave you now.”
When the young man saw him beckoning, he came running with all his
might. “Ah!” he cried, as he came near, “you are cured.”
“No,” Pi-waṕ-ōk replied. “I am still as blind as ever.”
“Then how came you here? How could you climb that awful cliff and still
be blind?”
“I do not know,” said Pi-waṕ-ōk. “I was asleep in the whitehead’s nest,
and when I awoke I was here.”
The way home was easy, for they followed the rim of the valley to a
point beyond the cliff, and then descended a sloping hill. And when
they had arrived at camp the people came crowding around to hear all
that had happened.
As the whitehead had said, Pi-waṕ-ōk became a great medicine man and
healer of the sick, and, through the secret power that the bird gave
him, he was able to do many strange things. He and his wife, Í-kai-si,
lived to a great age. He was the greatest healer the Bloods have ever
had.
RAGGED HEAD
Many years ago there was a Nez Percé Indian whose name was Ragged Head.
He wore the long hair on the front of his head tied up in a bunch, and
the ends hanging over were ragged and of different lengths. This was
why they gave him this name. This man was a great warrior. He could not
be killed. When he was a young man his dream helper had come to him in
his sleep and had spoken to him, saying:
“My son, you are a man who need not fear to go into battle, for neither
arrow nor bullet nor lance nor knife can hurt you. You may rush into
the very midst of the enemy, and they will all run away from you. Take
courage, therefore, take great courage.” Then his dream helper smoked
with him.
But when the dream helper had spoken to him in his sleep, and had told
him that he need not be afraid of his enemies, and had smoked with him,
it had said further:
“My son, some day you must die, and it may be that you will be killed
by your enemy, for there is one thing that can hurt you. Only one
thing, but of this you must be careful. If you should be shot with a
ramrod, it will pierce your flesh and you will die.”
After Ragged Head had returned to the camp, he told this part of his
dream to no one, except to two of his close friends, for he did not
wish it to be known and talked about. None of these three men thought
much about it, nor felt afraid, for every one knows that people when
they are in battle and are trying to kill their enemies, do not shoot
ramrods at them, but bullets.
When this man went to war he did not carry a gun, nor arrows, nor a
lance. His weapon was a great war-club, made from the butt of an elk
antler. With this he used to beat down his enemies. In the end of the
club he had put a lash, and he used it also as a riding quirt.
Every summer Ragged Head used to cross the mountains from his country
to the plains, to hunt buffalo and to make war on the Piegans. When he
saw a party of his enemies, he would charge down upon them, shaking his
war-club and shouting out the war-cry; and when the Piegans saw who it
was that was coming they all tried to get out of his way, for they knew
that he could not be killed, and that they could not do anything to
hurt him. So he killed many of his enemies, and had great fame among
his own people and among those against whom he fought. He was a leader
of war-parties and always successful. Everybody was afraid of him, for
all people knew that he had strong spiritual power, and that he could
not be killed.
It was early summer. The grass had started. The snow was melting on the
mountains. Already the streams were high. It was time to go to war.
From their camp on the plains a party of Piegans set out on the
war-path to cross the mountains and take horses from their enemies on
the other side—Snakes, Flat Heads, or Nez Percés. On foot they made
their way along the lower hills, climbed up through the narrow pass,
and at length stood on the top of the mountain range, from which they
could look out over the lower country to the west. There, in the wide
gray plain before them, they could trace the winding courses of many
streams, and from some of them rose smokes which showed that people
were camped there, and they knew that these people were their enemies.
While they were stopping here, overlooking the country, the leader of
the war-party said to his young men:
“Now, here we will separate and go off in small parties to see what we
can discover, and after ten nights we will all meet again at the Round
Butte at the foot of this mountain, and return to our camp together.”
So here the party divided, going off by twos and threes to try to find
the camps of their enemies.
There were two young Piegans who went off together. The younger of the
two carried a bow and arrows, and the other had an old shot-gun the
barrels of which had been cut off short, so that he could carry it
under his robe without its being seen. The tube which had held the
ramrod in its place had been broken off, and there was no way to carry
the rod except in the barrel of the gun. When the boy was shooting, he
held the ramrod in his hand.
After a few days’ travel these young men found a trail where people had
passed not long before, and following this trail, they saw a camp, and
hid themselves near by to wait for night and then to go to it and take
horses. This was the camp of the Nez Percés, and Ragged Head was its
chief.
In the night, after it was dark and the camp had become quiet, the
young men crept down to the river, close to the lodges, to see what
they might do. The older boy said to his companion, “I will go first
into the camp and see how things are there, and perhaps take a horse or
two, and then I will come back here and tell you, and we can both go
back and take more horses if all goes well.” The other said, “It is
good; I will wait for you here.”
The older boy crossed the stream and crept into the camp and looked
about. The people were sleeping; it was all quiet, and in front of the
lodges were tied many fine horses. He found two that he liked, and cut
the ropes that held them, and led them back across the stream to where
he had left his friend; but when he reached the place his friend was
not waiting there. So the young man led the horses into the brush and
tied them, and crossed the stream again for more. As he was wading
through the water, carrying his gun muzzle up so that the ramrod should
not fall out, and when he was near the other bank, he saw a man
standing there, and thought it was his friend.
When he came close to him he said: “Why did you not wait for me on the
other side, as you said you would?” The person did not answer, but
stretched out his left hand and caught the boy by the hair, pulled him
forward, and raised a great club, as if to strike him.
Then the young Piegan was frightened. He put up his left hand to ward
off the blow, and with his right he pushed the muzzle of his shot-gun
against the person’s body and pulled both triggers. The gun went off.
The man fell, and the young Piegan quickly ran away.
At the sound of the shot all the Nez Percés rushed out of their lodges
and up and down the stream to learn what had happened. On the
river-bank they found Ragged Head dead. In his body was the splintered
ramrod.
NOTHING CHILD
A long time ago there lived in the Blackfoot camp a young man who did
not like company. He preferred to be alone. He had a wife but no
children, and one young brother who lived with him. This was his only
close relation. This man had a tame bear, which he had caught when it
was a little cub. During the day he went hunting, and set traps and
snares for game, and at night, when he returned to the camp, he did not
go about visiting at the other lodges, but stayed at home by himself.
One day he thought he would move away from the village and camp
alone—just his own lodge. They started, the man and his wife, and the
young brother and the bear. They went up towards the mountains, and
camped in the timber. The man hunted and killed plenty of game, and
they stayed there for a long time. While the older brother was hunting,
the younger one used to stay at home, making arrows and shooting with
them, and at length he became a very good shot.
After a time the younger brother had grown big, and he was a handsome
boy, and the woman fell in love with him, but he took no notice of her.
One day, while the young brother was sitting in the lodge making
arrows, and the woman was outside tanning a hide, she called to him and
said, “Oh, brother, come out and kill this pretty bird that is here,”
but the boy was busy smoothing his arrows, and paid no attention.
Pretty soon she asked him again, and then a third time, and when she
called him the fourth time he got up and went outside and killed the
bird and gave it to her, and then went into the lodge again and kept on
working at his arrows. He did not stop and talk with her. Pretty soon
the boy went off into the timber to try his arrows. The bear was lying
by the door of the lodge.
The woman was angry at the boy because he took no notice of her, and
she made up her mind that she would be revenged on him. So while he was
gone she scratched and bruised her face and tore her hair.
At night her husband came home, and when he looked at his wife he saw
that her face was scratched and swollen and her hair all pulled about.
He sent out his young brother to hang up the meat that he had brought
in, and the boy went leaving arrows lying by the fire to dry. While he
was gone the woman said to her husband, “Your brother has beaten me
because I asked him to shoot a pretty bird for me.” She showed her
husband the scratches and bruises she had made on herself, and said,
“See how he has used me.”
When the man heard this he was angry, but he said nothing. When the boy
came back from hanging up the meat, he looked for his arrows but did
not see them. Then he asked, “Where have you put my arrows?” but no one
answered, and at length he saw the ends of them among the ashes, for
his brother had thrown them into the fire. When the boy saw that his
arrows had been burned he cried, and taking his robe and his bow and
what arrows he had left, he went out of the lodge. He made up his mind
that he could not live here with his brother any longer, and decided to
go away. The bear, which all this time had been lying by the door of
the lodge, listening, was angry at the lies the woman had told, and at
what her husband had done, and he got up and went out and followed the
boy. They travelled for a while and then slept, and the next day went
on again, going towards the mountains.
For two days they travelled, and on the third day, as they were going
along, the boy saw sitting in a tree-top a bird that was white as snow,
and different from any bird that he had seen before. He took an arrow
from his quiver and shot the bird, and as it fell, it caught among the
branches and lodged there. He threw sticks at it, but could not knock
it down, so he made up his mind that he would climb the tree and get
the bird and his arrow. When he had tightened his belt and was just
about to climb the tree, the bear spoke to him and said: “You had
better not do this. If you go up there something bad may happen. It
will be better to let the things go.” But the boy was very anxious to
get that bird and his arrow, and would not listen to the bear’s words,
but began to climb the tree.
He reached the branch where the arrow was, but when he stretched out
his hand to take it it moved up a little higher, just beyond his
fingers. So he climbed higher and again reached for the arrow, and
again it moved up a little higher. He kept climbing and climbing, with
the arrow always moving in front of him, until at last he climbed out
of sight.
For the rest of the day the bear stood at the foot of the tree, looking
upward and whining and moaning for his friend, but he saw nothing of
him. About sundown all the boy’s clothing came tumbling down together,
but nothing was seen of the boy. The bear would not leave the tree. He
waited there, hoping to see what had become of the boy, but that was
the last of him. He saw him no more.
After the boy and the bear had left the camp, the older brother kept
thinking of what had taken place. When they did not come back he felt
lonesome and sad, and began to fear that something would happen to his
young brother, and at last he made up his mind that he would start out
and learn what had become of him. He left his lodge and set out in the
direction the two had taken. He found their trail and followed it, and
after two days came to the tree and there saw the bear, standing on his
hind feet and resting his paws against the tree. The man asked the bear
what had become of the boy, but the bear would not reply to him. He
asked him the same question again, and a third and a fourth time, and
then the bear answered and said: “All this trouble has come upon us
through your fault, because you listened to the lies your woman told
you. Your brother has climbed this tree and has gone out of sight, and
now for three days I have stood here, waiting for him to come down. His
clothing has fallen down from up above, but he does not return.” They
waited by the tree longer, but the boy did not come down, and at length
the man said to the bear: “My brother is gone. He will never come back.
We had better go back to the camp where we can live.” The bear went
back with him.
On their way the bear told the man how it really had been, and that it
was not the boy who had hurt the woman, but that she had done it
herself, and in this way had caused his brother to lose his life. Then
the man was angry, and when they came near to the lodge he took an
arrow from his quiver and shot his wife, and her shadow went to the
sand-hills.
That night the man said to the bear, “Well, we are only two now, and
for myself, I have decided to stay here and starve to death, and as for
you, you had better leave me and go your way and make your living as
all bears do.” So the bear went away and did not return.
One night while the man was lying asleep, he dreamed of the bear; and
the bear spoke to him and said: “My brother, listen to the words that I
speak to you, and do now what I tell you to. Go back to the old camp of
your people, to the cliff where they drive the buffalo, the piś kun,
and wait there. A camp of your people is moving towards that place.
They are very poor and have but little to eat. It may be that you can
help them. Be sure to do exactly as I tell you from this time on, and
in the days to come you will be unhappy no longer, but will have plenty
of everything and will have full life. Now I wish you to-morrow, when
you awake, to eat up your lodge and everything that is in it. This
seems to you like a hard thing, something that cannot be done, but, by
the power that I give you, you will be able to do it.”
When the man awoke, in the morning, he thought for a long time over
what the bear had said to him in his sleep, and how it had said that in
the time to come he would be poor no longer, but would have full life,
and how it had said that it would give him that power, and he made up
his mind to do as the bear had told him. He tore down his lodge and
began to eat it, and found that this was not a hard thing to do. He ate
the lodge and the lining, his clothing, his wife’s things—everything
that he could find in the lodge, and then took his bow and arrows and
started to go to the cliff as the bear had told him to.
Now since the bear had left, the man had had no food to eat, and on his
journey he found himself getting weak and growing smaller. When he
reached the cliff there was no camp there, so he waited, and all the
time he kept getting weaker, and smaller and smaller, until he was no
bigger than a year-old child. He thought now that he would surely die,
and hid himself under a bunch of rye grass.
The next day the people moved in and camped at this place. An old woman
went out to get some grass for her bed, and while she was gathering it,
she heard a sound as if a little child were crying. She went in the
direction of the sound, and under a bunch of rye grass she found a
little child. She carried him into the camp and took good care of him.
When the chief of the camp heard of how she had found the child, he
said to the old woman, “Take good care of that child; he was put there
for some good purpose.”
As time passed the child grew fatter and stronger, and the old woman
grew fond and proud of him. They called him Kiś tap i pokau (Nothing
Child.)
Near this camp stood a tree, and every day an eagle came and alighted
in the tree. The chief had tried many times to kill this eagle, and so
had other men, but no one could kill it. When they found that no one
could kill it, they wanted it all the more. The chief had two very
pretty daughters, and at length he said that he would give his
daughters to any one who would kill this eagle. When this was called
out through the camp by the old crier, all the young men came out to
try to kill the eagle, but no one could do it. At last Nothing Child
said to the old woman, “Grandmother, make me some arrows so that I can
kill the eagle.” The old woman laughed when he asked her this, but she
was very fond of him, so she tied a string to a deer’s rib for a bow
and made him some little arrows, and he set out to kill the eagle. When
the young men who had been shooting at the eagle saw the child coming
with the tiny bow, they laughed and made fun of him, but Nothing Child
fitted a little arrow on the string of his bow, and shot and killed the
eagle. Then all who were standing by were astonished, but they said,
“It must have been a chance shot.” The eagle was taken to the chief’s
lodge, and they told him it had been killed by the Nothing Child. So he
told his daughters to go and marry the found boy.
But the young men were not satisfied with this decision. They said that
it was not fair, that the boy had made a chance shot, and they asked
the chief to try their skill in some other way. So the chief told the
young men that they might again try their luck for the young girls, and
that whoever killed a white wolf with a black tail should have his
daughters. All the men went out from the camp and built their wooden
traps, and Nothing Child also went out and made a wooden trap. The next
morning they all went out to visit their traps, and in almost all the
traps they found something—wolves, foxes, badgers, and other animals.
Some of the wolves were white all over, and some were white with gray
tails, but no one had a white wolf with a black tail. The Nothing
Child, with his grandmother, went out from the camp to his trap in a
different direction from the rest, and in their trap they found a white
wolf with a black tail. They took it into camp and to the chief’s
lodge, and when he saw it he said that this was the wolf he wanted.
Now all the young men in the camp were jealous of the Nothing Child,
for it was certain that he would get the chief’s daughters for his
wives. So they went to the chief and asked him to try his people once
more, that they thought that the Nothing Child had not killed the wolf
fairly. So the chief now said: “Whoever will bring me a white fox with
a black-tipped tail shall have my daughters. This will be the last
trial, and after this no one need complain.”
The young men set their traps all over the prairie, but Nothing Child
asked his grandmother to go with him, and he went to a place far from
all the others and there set his trap. The next morning the young men
all went out to look at their traps. Some had foxes and some had other
animals, but when Nothing Child went to his trap, he found in it a
white fox with a black-tipped tail, and when it was taken to the
chief’s lodge he said that this was the fox he meant, and he told his
daughters to get ready and go and marry the Nothing Child. The youngest
girl was willing to do what her father ordered, but the elder was not.
They put on their finest clothing and left their father’s lodge and
started for Nothing Child’s home. As they walked along, the elder girl
said to her sister, “I am not going to marry this child, to be laughed
at by everybody.” The younger sister said, “I am going to do what my
father told me to. It is better to do so. Besides that, the Nothing
Child must be a very powerful person. See how many wonderful things he
has done.” The elder girl said, “Well, I am not going to his lodge. I
am going to marry Masto pau (Raven Arrow).” This was a young man who
had the power to turn himself into a raven whenever he wished. So the
elder girl went her way to Raven Arrow, but the younger kept on towards
Nothing Child’s lodge.
When the girl came to the lodge and went in, the old woman told her to
sit down. Nothing Child was playing at the back of the lodge. The girl
said, “My father sent me to sit beside the person who killed the eagle,
the white wolf with the black tail, and the white fox with the
black-tipped tail.” Nothing Child said, “I am the person who did that,
but I do not want any woman to sit beside me.” The girl answered: “My
father sent me to sit beside you, and I shall stay here. I am not going
home any more.” When the boy saw that the girl was resolved to stay, he
said, “Very well, you shall be my wife.” So she stayed, and was
pleasant and nice with the boy and played with him, and he liked her.
She saw that he was very poor, but she seemed to take no notice of
that.
At this time the camp was very short of food. The young men scouted far
and near over the prairie, but could find no buffalo. It was a hard
time; everybody was hungry. One day Nothing Child said to his wife:
“Now you stay here for a while. I am going away for a time. I am going
to try to find a band of buffalo and bring them into camp.” He made
ready for his journey and started. After he had travelled a long way he
came to a wet, marshy place near the mountains, where in summer many
buffalo had been. Here he gathered up buffalo chips, and made great
piles of them in a row, and when he had finished, he went back some
way, and then came running and shouting towards the piles of chips.
When he got close to them he stopped, and then went back again, and
again came running and shouting upon the chips, but nothing happened.
He repeated this a third and a fourth time, and the fourth time, when
he got near the piles, the chips turned into buffaloes and rushed off
over the prairie, and Nothing Child ran them towards the camp and drove
them over the cliff into the piś kun, so that once more the camp was
supplied with meat.
The next day Nothing Child told his wife to go to her father’s lodge
for the day, and not to return until night. After the girl had gone he
spoke to his grandmother and said: “Grandmother, you have seen what
strange things I have done, and you can see that I have some power.
That power which I have was given to me by a bear that has helped me,
and because I have done just what he told me to I have been able to
accomplish the things that you have seen me do. I do not know the
secret of my power, but I know that I have it. Now, Grandmother, I want
you to do something for me. I want you to take a rope and tie me by the
feet to the lodge poles, so that I may hang head downward from the
poles. I am little, and you can easily hold me up.” The old woman did
as he had told her, and he hung there head downward. Pretty soon he
opened his mouth, and a little piece of cowskin stuck out. Nothing
Child took hold of this and began to pull on it, and more and more came
out, and at last he had pulled out the whole of his old lodge, and then
he pulled out the lining, and afterwards many of his old belongings.
When he had eaten all these things they had been old, but now they were
new and white, and finely ornamented. The lodge was painted, the
woman’s clothing was beautifully worked with porcupine quills; there
was a new full set of war clothing for himself—all very fine.
After he had done this Nothing Child asked the old woman to untie him,
and when he was on his feet again it was seen that he was no longer a
child, but a full-grown man, very handsome. He told the old woman to
set up the new lodge, and she did so. When his wife returned she was
surprised to see all the new things. They looked strange to her. Also
her husband, who, when she last saw him, was a small boy and rather
ugly, was now a big, fine-looking man. The girl was pleased with the
change, and now they lived together for a long time very happily.
After a time Raven Arrow became jealous of Nothing Child because of his
power, but Nothing Child did not notice this, and, because Raven Arrow
was poor, he asked him to come and live with him in his lodge. He did
so, and they lived together for some time, and now the elder daughter
of the chief was sorry that she had not done as her father had told her
to.
One day, in the early summer, Nothing Child’s wife said to him, “Oh,
how much I would like some fresh berries to eat!” He said to her: “Do
you want some fresh berries? Well, now, go out and gather a lot of
sarvis berry branches and bring them to me here in the lodge.” The
woman did as he had told her, and brought in the bushes and threw them
down on the floor of the lodge. Then Nothing Child took a tanned
elk-skin and covered the bushes with it. In a short time he told his
wife to take the skin off the brush, and when she did so she was
astonished, for she found the twigs loaded with fine ripe berries, as
though they were growing.
Now, when Raven Arrow’s wife saw this she felt that she too would like
some berries, and she asked her husband if he could do this. But he
said: “No. It is useless for me to try to do things that I know I
cannot do. I can change myself into a raven and can do many other
things, but I cannot make ripe berries grow in the spring, nor can I do
many other things that Nothing Child does.”
After some time it happened that food again became scarce in the camp,
and the chief sent word to his son-in-law, asking him if he could not
again bring the buffalo into the camp, as he had done before. The
hunters had been out and had travelled far over the prairie, but they
could see nothing. Nothing Child sent word back that this was a hard
thing he was asked to do; he feared he could not do it, but he would
try.
He made ready for his journey and started, travelling a long way
looking for the buffalo, but he found none. He then went to the marsh
where he had made buffalo before, and again made many little piles of
buffalo chips in rows, and again went back some distance and then came
charging down on the piles running and shouting. And the fourth time he
did this the piles of chips changed into real buffalo and started
running. And Nothing Child ran the herd over the cliff, as he had done
before, and again the camp was supplied with meat. In this herd was one
white buffalo. His wife met him at the cliff, and he told her that this
white buffalo was hers. That she must be careful of the skin when she
had taken it off.
His wife told her husband that Raven Arrow had changed himself into a
raven, and had flown away to look for buffalo, saying that if he found
any he was going to drive them out of the country. This made Nothing
Child angry, but he said nothing and waited. One day, as he was sitting
by the fire, Raven Arrow, in the shape of a white raven, flew into the
lodge and lit on the ground by him. When Nothing Child saw him he
seized him and tied him by the feet to a lodge pole high up in the
smoke and kept him there until he was nearly dead from the smoke. At
last Nothing Child asked him if he would promise never again to drive
the buffalo away from the people. Raven Arrow promised that he would
never again do so, and Nothing Child untied him and let him down, when
he changed into a man again. Up to that time ravens had always been
white, but ever since the smoking that this raven got they have been
black.
Nothing Child and his wife lived to full age and always had plenty of
everything.
SHIELD QUIVER’S WIFE
There were two young men growing up in the Blackfoot camp. They were
both good warriors and were making great names for themselves. One was
lucky in taking horses. His name was Shield Quiver. The other was
fortunate in killing enemies when he went to war. He was called
Bearhead. When either of the two went to war, he always had a big party
to follow him. Bearhead was jealous of Shield Quiver, because he always
brought in horses.
One time the Blackfeet were camped at the Bear Paw Mountains, when
Shield Quiver made up his mind that he would go off on the war-path.
When he said that he was going, a large party intended to go with him.
Before he started the chief of the camp sent for him to come to his
lodge, saying that he wished to speak with him. When Shield Quiver had
come to the lodge the chief said: “Here, my young man, now that you are
going to war, take my daughter with you, for you are the man that ought
to have her. But you will have to be on your guard against Bearhead. He
wants my daughter, and for a long time has been trying to get her, but
I cannot let him have her. He has a bad disposition. He has had many
wives, but, after living with them for a short time, he has got angry
with them and killed them. I am afraid that if I give him my daughter
he might kill her.”
Shield Quiver thought for a little while, and then said: “Very well; I
will go to war, and I will take your daughter with me, but if I go with
a woman I cannot let men go with me. I shall have to go alone.”
The chief said: “I cannot say anything about that. You will do what you
think best. I cannot advise you.”
So Shield Quiver took the chief’s daughter for his wife. He said to his
followers: “Now I am going to war, but you men cannot come with me. I
shall be gone two moons, and then I will come back. I am going alone.”
He started with his young wife, and they went towards the Snake
Country. They travelled for a good many days, until they came to a
range of mountains and crossed it. Then they went on towards the head
waters of a stream that they could see a long way off. When they
reached this stream they found that the Snakes had been camped there,
and had moved away that day. The fires were still burning in the camp.
When Shield Quiver found that the Snakes had only just moved from
there, he said to his wife: “Here, let us get back in the brush. These
people are not far from here. They may see us. We must hide ourselves.”
They went back into the brush and hid.
While they were waiting in the brush a dark cloud came up in the west,
and it looked as if they were going to have a storm. Shield Quiver said
to his wife: “While we have to wait, I will fix up a little shelter of
brush here, so that we may keep dry; but to-night we will go to the
camp and take horses.”
“Very well,” said his wife, “while you are fixing the place, I will go
around the point and into the old camp and will see if I can find
anything there that has been left behind.” For often something may be
forgotten and left in the camp.
That day the Snakes had left this camp, and had moved over to another
creek. The head chief of the Snakes had but one son, a fine-looking
young man—the handsomest in all the Snake camp. That morning, before
they moved, he had painted himself and had dressed himself finely, and
after he had finished he handed his mother his sack of paints to pack.
While his mother was packing, she put down the paints in a little patch
of brush, near the lodge, and then went away and forgot them.
When the young man came into camp that evening he said to his mother,
“Mother, where are my paints?” Then his mother remembered that she had
left them in the camp they had just come from. She said, “Oh, my son, I
forgot the sack, and left it in a little patch of brush just back of
where the lodge stood.” The young man caught up a horse and went back
to get it that same evening.
When he rode into the old camp, and came to where the lodge had been,
he saw there on her knees a woman with an elk robe over her head, and
in her hands his paints, which she was looking at. When he rode up to
her, and when she looked up at him, he saw that she was very pretty,
and he liked her as soon as he looked at her; and she, when she saw
him, so handsome and finely dressed and painted, liked him.
He made signs to her, saying, “Who are you, and what tribe do you
belong to?” She signed back to him that she was a Blackfoot. Then she
asked him, “Who and what are you?” He answered, “A Snake.” He asked her
by signs, “Where is the party that you are with?” She said, “There are
only two of us.” He said, “Come, get on my horse behind me here, and
let us go to my camp.” She answered: “No, there are some things that I
have here that I want to get. Then I will go with you.” Then she
thought a little and said: “The only other person here is my husband.
Why do you not kill him? I will help you.” The Snake said: “It is good.
I will do it.” The girl said to him: “I will go to him, and do you
creep through the brush, and as soon as I see you I will throw my robe
around him and hold him, and you can kill him with your lance.”
She went back to the camping-place, and when she got there her husband
was stooping down hobbling the horses. The Snake was right behind her,
creeping through the brush. She walked up to her husband and threw
herself down over him, and kissed him while he was hobbling the horses.
He looked up at her and laughed. He thought she was only playing with
him. In a minute he heard the footsteps of some one coming, running,
and he said, “Look out! here comes somebody,” and he tried to throw her
off, but he could not. He raised himself up while she clung to him, and
the Snake made a pass at him with the lance, but he was afraid of
killing the woman, and he missed the man, and Shield Quiver caught hold
of the lance. He kept calling to his wife: “Let go of me. This man is
trying to kill me. He will kill us both. Let us try to save ourselves.”
Shield Quiver and the Snake wrestled and tugged backward and forward to
see who should get the lance. They were both strong men, and at length
the shaft broke, and Shield Quiver held the piece on which was the
head. Then he jumped back and shook off his wife, and rushed at the
Snake and thrust the lance into his breast, and so killed him with his
own lance.
Then he turned to his wife and said: “Now, woman, I have killed this
man that you have tried to help, and I would like to have you tell me
what is the reason that you acted as you did, and tried to help him to
kill me.”
Then the woman explained her reasons, and said: “When I left you I went
into the camp and found this sack of paint, and while I was looking at
it he came up and asked me to go to his camp with him, and I liked him,
and thought that I would go with him. So we laid a plan to kill you
before we went to camp.”
Shield Quiver said to her: “Now, woman, listen. Bearhead wanted you. He
has had a good many women, and he has killed all that he had. Through
pity I took you. I never expected to take a wife. I will not do
anything to you for what you have done to me, but will take good care
of you and will give you back to your father.”
He scalped the Snake and took everything that he had. The woman was
crying hard. He asked her what she was crying about, and she answered:
“I am crying for my lover, who is dead.” He said: “Saddle up your
horse. We will go home.”
They started, and after many days’ travel reached the Blackfoot camp.
It was in the night. The next morning Shield Quiver said to his wife:
“Put on your best clothing. I told you I was going to give you back to
your father, and I am going to take you there this morning. So get
ready to go.”
The woman put on her best clothes, and painted herself up nicely, and
they started off to the old chief’s lodge. The old chief was glad to
see his son-in-law and his daughter back again. No one knew that Shield
Quiver had killed a Snake. He had not spoken of it to any one. After
they had sat down the young man reached down into his belt and drew out
the scalp and said: “Here, old man, here is all I have done on this
journey. I have taken no horses, but I have killed a Snake. I have
killed your daughter’s lover. It is only by the help and the power of
the Sun that you see me here to-day. Your daughter tried to kill me on
this trip, while I was fighting with this Snake Indian. I am afraid to
live with her, and have brought her back to you again. This is the best
I can do, to give you this scalp and your daughter back again.” When
Shield Quiver had said this he got up and walked out of the lodge, and
went back to his own home. The old man said nothing.
The girl had two brothers, and both were sitting in the lodge while
Shield Quiver was speaking; and when they had heard the story told, and
had thought about it, they got up, and each took hold of one of the
girl’s arms, and they led her out of the lodge. Then they said to her:
“You cannot live here with us. You had better go and join your dead
Snake lover.”
So they killed her there.
THE BEAVER STICK
In ancient times, long before the people had found horses and used them
instead of dogs to bear burdens and drag lodge poles, there lived
Man-yan—New Robe—an orphan.
New Robe’s parents had died when he was a little child, and he was
brought up by an old woman who also died before he grew up to be a man.
His parents, hopeful for his future, had given their son a good name,
but in all his life up to the time he was seventeen or eighteen years
old, he had never worn a new robe or any other new article of clothing.
The cast-off garments of the well-to-do were thought good enough for
him. He was always dirty and ragged, and his matted and tangled hair
hung low over his forehead, and almost hid his sore red eyes. Somewhere
he had picked up an old bow, but it had no strength; and even if it had
been strong and full of quick spring, the broken-pointed flint heads of
his arrows would not have pierced the flesh of any large animal. He had
an old flint knife, but its edge was so ragged and blunted that it
would scarcely cut a piece of boiled meat.
Yet New Robe lived along contentedly enough, for he knew nothing better
than all this. He never thought that he was different from other young
men, until one day he chanced to overhear the conversation of some
young women. He was lying half asleep in a patch of willows when the
girls came along, and, stopping near him, sat down and kept on talking.
“Well,” said one, “you have each told your choice, but you have not
spoken of the very handsomest and nicest of all the young men. Why have
you forgotten New Robe?”
They all shrieked with laughter—she who had spoken most of all—and then
began to jest about him, and New Robe’s face grew hot as he heard the
many unkind things they said about his appearance and his poverty. One
of the girls, however, had a better heart.
“It is wrong,” she said, “for us to talk in this way about the young
man. He cannot help being poor, and I am sorry for him. I must say,
though, that he might be cleaner and neater than he is. I wish I could
talk to him; I would like to tell him some things that would be for his
good.”
“Why, you must be in love with him,” one of the girls exclaimed,
laughing.
“Well,” replied the other, “I pity the poor young man, and, if my
father would allow me, I would marry him and make a man of him. All he
needs to change his ways is kindness and teaching.”
In the evening New Robe met this girl, Mas-tah ki—Raven Woman—as she
was coming from the river with a skin of water. Already he had combed
out his hair and washed himself, and she stared at him in surprise.
“Ah,” he said, stopping her in the path. “To-day I heard your kind
words, and have taken them to my heart. I am going away to try to earn
a name, to try to become a chief. Pray for me; ask the Sun to help me.”
“I will pray for you every day,” said the girl.
“And if I return such a man that no one need be ashamed of me,” he
asked, “will you be my wife?”
“Yes, gladly,” she replied. “And now go; people are looking at us.”
The next morning New Robe left the camp. He did not know where to go,
nor what he was going to do. Something seemed to tell him to push
forward, and that somehow, in some way, he would be fortunate. He had
but little food, only some tough, dried meat, and his weapons were poor
and of little use; yet he did not fear that he would starve, or suffer
any harm from the animals or from the enemy.
It was late in the fall, and the nights were very cold. One evening,
after a long day’s tramp, he came to the edge of a broad beaver pond.
Tall, thick grass grew on the dam, and he pulled armfuls of this and
heaped it up, and then crawled under the pile to pass the night. It was
a warm, soft nest, and he was already almost asleep when some one
called his name. He lifted his head and looked out from under the
grass, and saw standing near by a handsome young man, very beautifully
dressed.
“Come,” said the stranger, “this is a cold and cheerless place. My
father’s lodge is close by, and he asks you to be his guest.”
New Robe arose and shook the grass from his robe. “It is strange,” he
said, “that I did not see your camp. Before I descended into the valley
from the prairie I looked carefully over it, up and down.”
“It is very near here,” the stranger replied. “Come, let us go in. My
father waits for us, and the night is cold.”
He started, and led the way out over the ice, which had frozen from the
shore for some distance out into the pond. New Robe followed, wondering
why they should take that course. Presently they reached the edge of
the ice; just beyond, a large beaver house rose above the water.
“That is our home,” said the stranger. “Now, I am going to dive, and
you must follow me. Just shut your eyes, and do not be afraid.”
With a great splash he disappeared in the water, and New Robe, after
hesitating a little and praying to the Sun for aid in this strange
adventure, closed his eyes and pitched headlong into the place where
his companion had disappeared. After swimming a few strokes, he felt
the pressure of the water suddenly give way, and, opening his eyes,
found that he was in a great circular lodge. From the doorway a pool of
water extended into the centre of it, and between its edge and the
walls were beds of soft and beautiful robes. On the one at the back sat
a kind-looking old man, who spoke pleasantly to him and bade him take a
seat by his side; and as New Robe stepped out of the pool he found that
he was perfectly dry—no part of his clothing or person had been wet by
the water he had passed through. Near the old man sat his wife, a
handsome old woman, and on other beds reclined their two sons, one of
whom had guided New Robe to the place. They all wore clothing of
beautiful material and fashion, but he now noticed that the skin of
each of these persons, wherever it could be seen—even their faces—was
covered with fine fur, that of the two sons being pure white.
“You are welcome, my son,” said the old man—“welcome to the lodge of
the Beaver Chief. One of my sons saw you creeping into your nest of
grass, and I bade him invite you in. These nights are cold for one to
be without shelter.”
“Yes,” added his wife, “and no doubt the poor young man is hungry; he
seems to be lean and pinched.”
“Oh! Ai! To be sure,” said the old man; “of course he is hungry: just
give me a dish, and I will prepare some food for him.”
New Robe looked in astonishment at what the Beaver Chief was doing. He
took a large buffalo chip and placed it in the dish, and began to break
it up into fine pieces, singing, as he did so, a strange song. The
hard, dry stuff turned into rich pemmican, and when the last bit of the
chip had been broken up the bowl was passed to him. His wonder
increased when he found that the food tasted as good as it looked.
“Our only food,” said the old man, “is the bark of the trees; for,
after all, you know, we are actually beavers, although we have the
power to change our bodies into the form of any living thing. But there
are many secret and wonderful things that we have learned through much
prayer and through the search for different medicines. Stay with us for
a time, and perhaps you may learn something of them. Just look about
you and see how many we have gathered in our time.”
Indeed, there were more than one could count. They hung on the walls
and from the roof, enclosed in beautiful pouches and sacks of strange
shape. New Robe wondered what they were, and wished he could open each
one and examine it.
The pool in the centre of the lodge was never still; the current coming
in from the door whirled slowly around and around. On its surface
floated a short piece of beaver cutting which seemed very old and quite
water-soaked; yet it did not sink, nor, like other pieces of wood,
finally float out on the current constantly entering and going out of
the doorway. Night and day it whirled slowly around the circumference
of the pool. Although there was no fire in the lodge, it was warm
enough, and not colder at night than in the daytime: thus little
covering was needed when its occupants went to bed.
New Robe was awakened from his first night’s rest in the strange place
by the old man calling him to arise and eat. He had scarcely begun to
taste a fresh dish of the strangely made pemmican, when the water in
the pool began to heave and rise, and then again sank to its level as
one of the sons arose from its depths and stepped over to his couch,
not a drop of water clinging to him or his garments. “Our pond is
frozen over,” he said. “Not even an air-hole remains open.”
“Hai!” the old man exclaimed. “Is it so? Well, winter has come, and,”
turning to New Robe, “now you cannot leave us until spring comes and
melts the ice. But do not be uneasy; we will treat you well, and try to
make your life here pleasant.”
So New Robe spent the winter in the beaver’s lodge. The days came and
went, one after another, and easy contentment marked their flight. Most
of the waking hours were passed by the beavers in praying to their
medicines and in singing their sacred songs, and the young man,
listening, learned much of their secret wisdom.
The months passed, and one morning the water in the whirling pool was
seen to be a little muddy. The next day, one of the sons reported that
in places the ice had melted. The old man and the two sons went out to
look about and inspect the dam, leaving New Robe and the old woman
inside.
“Kyi,” she said, “summer is now come, and you will soon leave us.
Before you go the old man will make you a present; he will give you
your choice of all his medicines. Choose that stick whirling about
there in the pool, for it is the strongest of them all. He will try to
make you believe it is worthless, but insist on having it, and finally
he will give it to you.”
Presently the others returned. “Well,” said the old man to New Robe,
“spring has really come, and I know that you wish to return to your
people. I am going to give you something to take back with you. Look
about you, my son. See all these beautiful medicines hanging on the
walls. Choose the one you fancy, and it is yours.”
“Give me that,” said New Robe, pointing to the floating stick.
“O-e-ai!” the old man exclaimed, in a surprised and pained tone.
“O-e-ai! What? That old stick? Surely, my son, you must be crazy. Look
about you; open your eyes and choose one of these beautiful medicines.”
“Give me the stick,” New Robe repeated.
“Come, come. Surely you do not know what you ask for. Now let me
explain to you,” and the old man began to point out the different
medicines and to tell what they were, explaining the wonderful and
mysterious power of each. “There, you see,” he concluded, “how
unreasonable was your choice. Now I have explained them all, tell me
which will you have?”
New Robe considered; he wondered if the old woman had not been mistaken
in advising him to choose the old beaver cutting, but he caught her
eye, and, assured by her meaning glance, replied as before, “Give me
the stick.”
Once more the old man tried with all his power to persuade him to make
a different choice, and the sweat rolled from his brow as he entreated
the young man to select something else, and once more New Robe said, “I
want the stick.”
“O-e-ai!” cried the old man in despair. “Four times you have asked for
the old cutting, and when that sacred number is reached I cannot
refuse. Take the cutting, my son. It is the most valuable and powerful
of all my medicines. It is really a beaver which, at will, you can
change to the simple cutting as it appears to be.”
New Robe was pleased, and when he learned how powerful the medicine was
that he had chosen he knew that he had not left the home of his people
in vain. He was now obliged to put off his departure, for he had to
learn the hundred songs and the many prayers that went with his gift.
But at last he knew them all by heart, and the old man gave him some
parting advice.
“You must not look back,” he said, “when you leave us, not even once,
or the medicine will leave you and return to me. Also, you must always
carry it concealed beneath your shirt, hanging by the string I have
tied to it. Never let any one see it, or your power will be broken.”
Then they all bade him good-bye, and he dived into the pool, and
presently rose to the surface of the pond. When he reached the shore he
knelt down in the grass and cried, cried long and bitterly, for he felt
very sad to leave the kind beavers. It was all he could do to keep from
looking back for one last glimpse of them. But after a time he rose and
walked on, out of the valley, up over the dry, wide plain. After a
little he came to a river, swollen and swift with the melted snows. He
placed a little cutting in the water, and it changed at once into a
large, pure white beaver.
“Little brother,” said New Robe, “the stream is high and dangerous. Cut
me some logs so that I may make a raft on which to cross it safely.”
At once the beaver began to fell some trees, and, as fast as he cut
them into lengths, New Robe bound them together. In a little while
there were enough to bear his weight, and he crossed to the other side
in safety. Then, lifting the beaver up, it changed into the stick
again, and, putting it safely in his bosom, he journeyed on.
One morning he came in sight of the camp, and sat down on a neighboring
hill, prepared to do just as the old man had instructed him.
Pretty soon two or three young men approached, looking with wonder at
the strange and beautiful robe he wore. When they had come near enough
to hear his voice—for he kept his face covered—he told them to stand
where they were, and asked them to go and tell the father of Raven
Woman that he was New Robe, returned from strange adventures, and with
a powerful medicine. “Ask him,” he said, “to have four sweat lodges
built for me, in a row from east to west, and when the stones are
heated to let me know.”
The young men returned to the camp, and in a little while came back to
say that all was ready. New Robe told them to walk ahead and warn the
people to keep away from him, and, as they all stood in a big crowd on
each side of his path, he came to the first sweat lodge and entered it.
Sprinkling the water on the hot stones, he began the sacred songs that
the old man beaver had taught him, and, as he sang, some of the fur
with which his body had been gradually covered during the winter fell
to the ground. Soon he left this sweat lodge and went into the next
one, and the people crowded around the one he had left, looking with
wonder at the little heap of shed fur. So he went into the four sweat
lodges, one after the other.
When he came out of the fourth sweat lodge, New Robe had shed the last
of his beaver fur, and was so changed that no one recognized him. He
was a beautiful, clear-eyed, long-haired young man. He went straight to
Raven Woman, who was standing near, and took her hand. They were both
so happy they could not speak. The girl’s father pointed to his lodge.
“It is yours,” he said, “and everything it contains. Go and live
happily, my children.”
New Robe became a great chief. By the aid of his medicine he was able
not only to cure sickness, but he became a great warrior. No river or
lake could stop his way, and he was able to kill many of the enemy who
were encamped by the shores of any water, for, whenever he asked it of
his medicine, it took him safely down under the surface of the water,
wherever he wished to go.
LITTLE FRIEND COYOTE
It was in the summer, when the Blackfoot and Piegan tribes were camped
together, that the Blackfoot Front Wolf first noticed Su-yé-sai-pi, a
Piegan girl, and liked her, and determined to make her his wife. She
was young and handsome and of good family, and her parents were
well-to-do, for her father was a leading warrior of his tribe. Front
Wolf was himself a noted warrior, and had grown rich from his forays on
the camps of the enemy, so when he asked for the young woman her
parents were pleased—pleased to give their daughter to such a strong
young man, and pleased to accept the thirty horses he sent them with
the request.
In those days, in the long ago, such inter-tribal marriages were
common, for the two great camps often travelled together in quest of
the buffalo, sometimes for a whole winter and summer, and thus the
young people became acquainted with each other. Again they would be
separated by hundreds of miles of rolling plain.
After their marriage the young couple continued to live in the Piegan
camp, for Front Wolf had many friends there of his own age, who begged
him to remain with them. They liked to go on raids under his leadership
better than with any one else. It seemed to his wife as if he were
always away on some expedition, so seldom was he at home, and as she
had learned to respect and love him, she was very lonely during these
long absences. One summer, only two or three days after his return from
a successful war-journey against the Crows, he said to his wife: “It is
a long time since I have seen my parents. Now I think it time for me to
visit them and give them some horses. If you have any little things you
wish to send them, hurry and make them ready, so that I may take them.”
“I have some pretty moccasins for your father,” said Su-yé-sai-pi, “and
a fine buckskin dress for your mother; but I am not going to send them.
I want to go with you and present them myself. It seems as if you do
not care at all for me. Here you are just home from a long journey, and
yet you would start right out again, without thinking about me at all.”
“No,” Front Wolf replied, “it is not that I do not love you; you may go
with me if you insist on it. I did not like to ask you to make the
trip, for the distance is great, and there is danger on the way.”
Su-yé-sai-pi was happy. She began her preparations at once, and only
laughed at her parents when they urged her to remain with them, telling
her that the plains swarmed with war parties in search of scalps and
plunder, and that she would surely be killed.
At this time the Piegans were hunting on the Lower Milk River, but the
morning that Front Wolf and his wife started away the whole camp moved
too, for the chiefs wished to pass the hot season along the foot-hills
of the great mountains. At the last moment five young Blackfeet,
visitors in the camp, decided that they too would return home, so they
set forth with the couple, and helped drive the little herd of horses
that Front Wolf intended to give his relatives. The northern tribe was
thought to be summering on the Red Deer River, and a course was roughly
taken for the place where it joins the Saskatchewan. This brought the
little party, after three or four days’ travel, to the Cypress Hills,
or, as they were named by the Indians, the Gap-in-the-Middle Hills.
They reached the southern slopes of the low buttes one morning, after
being without water all the preceding day, and prepared to camp and
rest at the edge of a little grove, close to which a large, clear
spring bubbled up from a pile of sunken bowlders. They did not know
that a large camp of Kutenais was just behind the hills where they
stopped, and that one of their hunters, seeing them coming, had hurried
home and spread the news. Su-yé-sai-pi had scarcely started a fire when
the warriors from the camp were seen to be approaching the little party
from all directions, completely hemming them in. Although these two
tribes, the Blackfeet and Kutenais, had once been very friendly to each
other, they were now at war. When the strangers approached, one of
them, the chief, who had learned Blackfoot in other days, called out,
“Don’t fire; we are friends; we will not harm you.”
Front Wolf and his friends had drawn the covers from their guns,
prepared to fight and to sell their lives dearly, but when Front Wolf
heard this, and saw that the strangers made no motions to shoot, he
lowered his rifle and said: “They intend to make peace with us; I guess
they are tired of being at war with our people. Do not be afraid; they
will not harm us.”
The chief came up first, and shook hands with Front Wolf and the rest,
saying: “I am glad to meet you. Our camp is near. Come over to my
lodge, and we will feast and smoke.”
These were kind words. The little party of Blackfeet did not doubt that
they were sincere. They packed up again, mounted their horses, and rode
around the hill to the lodges. The chief invited them to stop with him,
and they rode towards the big lodge in the centre of the village, where
many people were gathered. There they dismounted, when suddenly their
arms were taken from them by the surrounding crowd, and they were
pushed into the big lodge. It was a very hot day, and all around the
skin lodge-covering had been raised to allow the cool breeze to pass
beneath it, so the prisoners could see all that was happening without.
Their little band of horses was quickly divided and led away; and then
the chief and all the men had a long talk.
Presently the chief came inside and sat down in his accustomed place at
the back of the lodge. Following him four warriors entered, and seizing
the young Blackfoot who sat nearest the door, led him out some little
distance from the lodge, where one of them brained him with a war-club,
and then every one tried to get a piece of his scalp or to plunge a
knife into his body. In a moment his hands, feet, and head were
severed, and women were pushing and kicking and pounding the mutilated
parts here and there, singing as they did so the shrill song of
revenge. The Blackfeet looked on at this terrible butchery of their
friend with horror, but in stolid silence, all save Su-yé-sai-pi, who
gave a frightened cry when she saw the poor fellow struck down, and,
clasping her husband by the arm, buried her face in his breast. The
chief smiled, but did not speak. Presently another one of the young
Blackfeet was led out, and met the fate of the first one. One after
another, when his turn came, each arose and accompanied his captors
without struggle or cry, and met his death as a warrior should.
At last all had been killed except Front Wolf and his wife, and
presently they came for him. Su-yé-sai-pi clung to him and cried and
begged, but her husband himself put her from him and went out, saying
to her a last kind word. “Do not cry,” he said. “Take courage. Take
courage.” As he neared the place of butchery he began to sing his
war-song, and the poor wife, looking on, saw him smile as the great
stone club descended, and he fell forward lifeless to the ground. The
woman now thought that her turn had come, but the executioners did not
return. She wished that they would not delay; she wished to have the
dreadful ordeal over with, so that her shadow might overtake her
husband’s as it travelled along on the road to the Sandhills—home of
the departed Blackfeet. All the Kutenais, even the women and children,
had now painted their faces black, and were dancing the scalp-dance,
carrying before them the scalps, stretched on long, forked willows.
“Come,” said the chief to Su-yé-sai-pi, offering her the scalp from
Front Wolf’s head—“come, join us in this dance and be happy.”
“You may kill me,” the woman replied, “but you cannot make me dance. I
beg you to kill me, so I may join my husband.”
The Kutenai laughed. “You are too young to die yet,” he said; “and,
besides, we do not kill women. Before long we are going to make peace
with the Blackfeet and Piegans, and when that time comes we will give
you back to your people.”
Of course it was a lie, for he had no thought of making peace, but
intended to keep the woman.
Su-yé-sai-pi was very sad. If she sat in the lodge, the scalp-song rang
in her ears; if she stepped outside, the bodies of her husband and
friends greeted her eyes. She could do nothing but cry and wish for
death to take her.
Several days passed, and the rejoicings of the camp still continued.
One afternoon an old widow woman called her into a poor little lodge
and said: “I have great pity for you, and will do what I can to help
you. I do not know what the chief has decided to do with you, but,
whatever it is, I would save you from it. Your only chance is to try to
get away from here in the night and seek your people. I will fill a
good big pouch with dried meat and pemmican, and some moccasins, and as
soon as it is dark I will place it behind my lodge. When the people are
all asleep, and the evening fire has died out, leave your bed as
quietly as you can, pick up the pouch, and hurry away in the direction
from which you came.”
Su-yé-sai-pi burst out crying. No one had been kind to her before, and
kindness made her cry. She kissed her new friend, and when she could
speak she said that she would try to get away that night. It seemed as
if night would never come, and then as if the people would never stop
talking and feasting and go to bed. But at last everything was quiet in
the camp, and in the chief’s lodge the fire of small willows had died
down, and the deep breathing of the occupants showed that they were
asleep. The captive cautiously arose from her couch near the door and
stole outside. She stood and listened a moment, and then coughed once
or twice. No one moved inside; so, feeling sure that no one was
watching her, or had noticed her come out, she went to the widow’s
lodge, and found the pouch behind it, and quickly but noiselessly left
the camp.
The sky was overcast, and presently heavy rain, with thunder and
lightning, came up, but she walked swiftly, steadily on, not knowing
nor caring whither, so long as it was away from her enemies. The shower
passed, and the moon came out, and then the poor woman heard shouts and
calls, and the rushing tread of horses; the whole camp was aroused, and
they were searching for her. She crouched in the shadow of a bowlder,
and heard horsemen go by on either side. Once two or three of them rode
by in plain sight. She remained there a long time, until everything was
still again, and then hurried on. In a little while she approached a
small lake, and saw three horses by its edge.
“Here,” she said to herself, “would be a good chance if I only had a
rope. Perhaps they are hobbled; if so, the thongs will do for a
bridle.” She walked carefully nearer, when suddenly she saw three dim
figures on the ground and heard a loud snore. She almost fainted with
fright, knowing that these were some of her pursuers waiting for
daylight to resume their search. Quick as a flash she stooped among the
low brush, crawled slowly back, and then, rising, hurried away in
another direction.
In a little while day began to break, and she found herself on a wide
plain south of the hills. In a little ravine near by there was an old
wolf den; she crawled down into it, feet foremost, first carefully
obliterating her footsteps in the soft, loose earth about it. There she
remained all day, eating none of her little store of food, for she was
so thirsty it choked her. Several times during the day she heard the
distant tramp of horses, but she did not look out, much as she wished
to see what was going on.
When darkness came once more, she climbed out and started in search of
water, not knowing which way to look for it, or whether she would ever
find any. She travelled on, and on, and on, and, when daylight again
brightened the sky, found herself at the place where her husband lay.
Yes, there were the bodies of him and his friends, now shapeless and
terrible objects. And the Kutenais were gone. Fearing that she might
find her people, dreading the awful vengeance that would overtake them
if she did, they were no doubt already fleeing towards the pine-covered
slopes of the great mountains. Worn out from her long tramp, and nearly
crazed from thirst, the poor woman had barely strength to go on to the
spring, where she drank long of the cool water, and then fell asleep.
The sun was hot, but Su-yé-sai-pi slept on. Well on in the afternoon
she was awakened by something nudging her side. “They have found me,”
she said to herself, shivering with terror, “and when I move a knife
will be thrust in my side.” She lay motionless a little while, and then
could bear the suspense no longer; slowly rising up and turning back
her robe, what should she find lying by her side but a coyote, looking
up into her face and wagging his tail!
“Oh, little wolf!” she cried. “Oh, little brother! Have pity on me. You
know the wide plains; lead me to my people, for my husband is killed,
and I am lost.”
The little animal kept wagging his tail, and when she arose and went
again to the spring, he followed her. She drank, and then ate a little
dried meat, not forgetting to give him some, which he hastily devoured.
She talked to him all the time, telling him what had happened, and what
she wished to do; and he seemed to understand, for when she started to
leave the spring he bounded on ahead, often stopping and looking back,
as much as to say, “Come on; this is the way.”
They were passing through the broken hills, and the coyote, quite a
long way ahead, had climbed to the top of a low butte and looked
cautiously over it, when he turned, ran back part way, and then circled
off to the right. Su-yé-sai-pi was frightened, thinking he had sighted
the Kutenais, and she ran after him as fast as she could go. He led her
to the top of another hill, and then, looking away along the ridge, she
saw that he had led her around a band of grizzly bears, feeding and
playing on the steep slope. Then she knew for certain that he was to be
trusted, and she told him to keep a long way ahead, to look over the
country from every rise of ground, and to warn her if he saw anything
suspicious. This he did. He would wait for her at the top of a ridge,
where they would sit and rest awhile, and as soon as she was ready to
go on he would run to the top of the next rise before she had taken
fifty steps. If thirsty, she would tell him, and in a little while he
would always take her to some water. Sometimes it would be a small
trickling stream in a coulée; sometimes a soft, damp gravel-bed, where
she was obliged to scoop out a hole; sometimes it was a muddy
buffalo-wallow—and it was always strong with alkali—but it was the best
there was.
In this way, after many days, they came to the Little (Milk) River. The
pouch had long been empty, and Su-yé-sai-pi was weak from hunger, and
her weary feet were swollen and blistered, for the last pair of
moccasins had been worn out. Here by the river were plenty of berries
and some roots that are often eaten—good to fill the belly, but not
strength-making food. Of them she ate all she could, and frequently
bathed her feet, and kept on up the valley; but every day she went more
slowly. The stops for rest were more frequent now, and the coyote
showed that he was beginning to feel uneasy. When he thought she had
sat still too long, he would whine and paw at her dress, and look away
up the stream, urging her to go on. He himself fared well on the
ground-squirrels and prairie-dogs he managed to catch, and often he
brought one to her; but she could not bring herself to eat it raw, and
she had no way of building a fire to roast it.
One day, while the sun was hottest, the two stopped to rest in a thick
patch of brush. They were near the mountains now, and the valley was
wide, with low, sloping hills on either side. The woman had been
telling her companion—she talked to him now as she would have talked to
a person—that her feet were swollen so badly she could go no farther,
and then she fell asleep. She was awakened by the coyote jerking her
gown and whining, and she sat up and listened. Pretty soon she heard
people talking; they were some distance away, but the murmur of their
voices seemed familiar; they came nearer, and she heard one say, in her
own language, “Let’s cross the river here.”
She hobbled out to the edge of the brush and called to them, and when
they rode up to where she stood, at first they did not know her, she
was so worn and thin. She told them her story, and pointed to the
coyote by her side, telling them how it had helped her, and begging
them not to kill it. They told her that the camp was only a little way
above on the river, and offered her a horse to ride, but she asked them
to go on and tell her mother to come after her with a travois, for she
felt too sore to ride. Presently her mother came, and her father, and a
great throng of the people, and when she saw them approaching she put
her arms around the coyote and kissed him.
“You have saved my life,” she said; “and much as I grieve to, we must
part now, for, while I might prevent the people from harming you, I
could not stop the camp dogs from tearing you to pieces. But do not go
far away. Every time we move camp my father’s lodge shall be the last
to go; and when the rest and the dogs have all left, we will leave food
for you where our lodge stood. We will always do that.”
The coyote seemed to understand. He licked her face and whined, and as
her mother and father approached he slowly moved away, looking back
many, many times.
Su-yé-sai-pi cried—cried at parting with her faithful guide, and
because at sight of her mother all her trials and sufferings came back
to her mind. They placed her on the travois and drew her to camp, where
all the people came to sympathize with her, bringing something from
their store of choice food as presents.
The coyote was not forgotten; food was always left at the camp site, as
she had promised, and often, as Su-yé-sai-pi and her people started on
after the others, they saw him standing on a near hill, watching them
out of sight.
THE END
NOTES
[1] Of all the games played by men among the Pawnee Indians, none was
so popular as the stick game. This was an athletic contest between
pairs of young men, and tested their fleetness, their eyesight, and
their skill in throwing the stick. The implements used were a ring six
inches in diameter, made of buffalo rawhide, and two elaborate and
highly ornamented slender sticks, one for each player. One of the two
contestants rolled the ring over a smooth prepared course, and when it
had been set in motion the players ran after it side by side, each one
trying to throw his stick through the ring. This was not often done,
but the players constantly hit the ring with their sticks and knocked
it down, so that it ceased to roll. The system of counting was by
points, and was somewhat complicated, but in general terms it may be
said that the player whose stick lay nearest the ring gained one or
more points. In this story, the Buffalo by their mysterious power
transformed the girl into a ring, which they used in playing the stick
game.
[2] Cf. The Story of the Indian, p. 194, and The Indians of To-day, p.
43.
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