Red Hunters And The Animal People Part 13

"Waugh, waugh!" the old man grunted, with an air of disgust, for there came to his nose a strong human scent mingled with the savory odor of the life-giving meat.

Zechah distinctly heard the snort of a bear. He seized his bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Can it be that Hootay is near?" he muttered to himself. "He may perhaps add my scalp to the many that he has taken of my people, but I will first send an arrow of mine into his body!"

He rested his bow upon the s.h.a.ggy head of the dead bull, and went on skinning it with a large knife, working rapidly. Presently the gray wolf approached from another direction.

"Ho, kola, you have guided me to game! It is yours and mine. You, too, shall have meat," he said.

As soon as he had skinned one side, Zechah cut off a generous piece and walked toward Shunkmanitoo, who was sitting upon his haunches, watching him work in that wonderful way with a single sharp thing in his hand.

But he did not think it best to trust the wild man too far, for he still carried that sharp thing in his hand as he approached him with the meat.

He arose and moved backward a few paces.

"Do not fear, kola! Warriors and hunters like ourselves must have faith in each other when they work together for a good cause," the Red man said, again. He placed the meat upon the snow where Shunkmanitoo had been sitting, and returned to his work.

After a time, and with apparent reluctance, the big, burly wolf came back to his meat and examined it. At last he ate of it. It was good. He no longer feared the wild man. From time to time Zechah would throw him a piece of meat until he was satisfied.

The hunter had cleared away the snow around the buffalo, which was now cut up in convenient pieces for carrying. He was exceedingly hungry. He had, indeed, eaten a piece of the liver, which the Sioux always eats raw, but this only served to sharpen his appet.i.te. He had heavy work before him, for he must take some of the meat home to his starving wife, and then bring as many of the people as were able to walk to carry the rest to camp. There were plenty of dry boughs of the pine. He made a fire by rubbing together the pieces of dry cedar-wood which every Indian hunter of that day carried with him, and, broiling strips of the savory meat upon live coals, he ate of it heartily.

Suddenly a fearful growl was heard. Zechah had dismissed the idea of a bear from his mind as soon as his friend Shunkmanitoo appeared. He was taken by surprise. When he looked up, Hootay was almost upon him. He came forward with his immense jaws wide open, his s.h.a.ggy hair making him look as big as a buffalo bull against the clear whiteness of the landscape.

Shunkmanitoo's chance was small. He occupied the only road to Zechah's position, and there were perpendicular walls of snow on either side of him. His only hope lay in his quickness and agility. As Hootay rushed madly upon him with uplifted paw, the wolf sprang nimbly to one side and well up on the snow-bank. His a.s.sailant had to content himself with raking down the snow, and in the effort he plunged into a heavy drift from which he was unable to drag himself.

Hootay was in sad trouble, for he had tumbled right into a deep gully filled to the brim with soft snow, and the more he struggled the deeper he was sinking. Zechah perceived the situation, and made ready to send the fatal arrow.

Hootay waved his right paw pitifully. There was something human-like about him. The Indian's heart beat fast with excitement. Weakened by his long fast, he scarcely saw or heard clearly, but, according to the traditions of his people, the old bear addressed him in these words:

"No, Zechah, spare an old warrior's life! My spirit shall live again in you. You shall be henceforth the war prophet and medicine-man of your tribe. I will remain here, so that your people may know that you have conquered Hootay, the chief of the Little Rosebud country."

It is not certain that he really said this, but such was the belief of the hunter. He put his arrow back in the quiver, and immediately, according to custom, he took his pipe from his belt and smoked the pipe of peace.

A huge piece of meat was suspended from his shoulders above the quiver, and, with his bow firmly grasped in the right hand, Zechah addressed his friend Shunkmanitoo:

"Ho, kola, you have eaten what is yours; leave mine for my starving people!"

The wolf got up and trotted away as if he understood, while Zechah hurried back on his own trail with tidings of life and happiness.

He ran as often as he came to open ground, and in a short time stood upon the top of the hill with the little group of teepees just below him. The smoke from each arose sadly in a straight column, tapering upward until lost in the blue. Not a soul stirred and all was quiet as the dead.

"Ho, he ya hay!" the hunter chanted aloud, and ended with a war-whoop.

Out of the sleepy-looking teepees there came a rush of men and women.

Old High Head appeared with outstretched hands, singing and pouring forth praises. "Hi, hi, hi, hi!" he uttered his thanks, in a powerful voice, still stretching his arms to heaven.

Hintola was the quietest and most composed of them all. She went first to meet her husband, for it was the custom that, when the son-in-law returns with game, his wife must meet him outside the camp and bring back food to her parents.

Having distributed the meat in small pieces, High Head announced his son-in-law's success as a hunter, and solicited all who were able to join him in going after the remainder. He ended with a guttural song of cheer and gladness.

It was then Zechah told of his meeting with the other wild hunters, and how Hootay was conquered and imprisoned in the snow.

"Ugh, ugh!" grunted High Head, with much satisfaction. "This means a war-bonnet for my son-in-law--a story for coming generations!"

But the hunter did not repeat the bear's words to himself until he had become a famous war prophet. When the people went after the meat, they found the old warrior lying dead without a wound, and with one accord they made a proper offering in his honor.

The River People

Away up the Pipestone Creek, within sight of the Great Pipestone Quarry, lived old Chapawee and her old man Hezee, of the beaver tribe. Unlike some of their neighbors, they had emigrated from a great distance. They had, therefore, much valuable experience; and this experience was not theirs alone--it was shared with their immediate family. Hence their children and their children's children were uncommonly wise.

They had come to this country many years before, and had established their home in this ancient and much-prized resort of the two-legged tribe. Around the Pipestone Quarry the wild Red men would camp in large numbers every summer, and it seemed that the oldest beaver could not remember a time when they were not there. Their noisy ways were terrible indeed to the river people, who are a quiet folk.

It was the custom with this simple and hard-working pair to build a very warm house for themselves. In fact, they had both summer and winter homes, besides many supply and store houses. Their dam was always in perfect order, and their part of the creek was the deepest and clearest, therefore their robe of furs was of the finest. If any of the Hezee band was ever killed by the two-legs, their fur was highly valued.

Chapawee always insisted upon two rooms in her house: one for herself and the old man, and one for her yearling children who chose to remain with them for the first winter. She always built one very large house, running deep into the bank, so that in case of overflow or freshet they would still be safe. Besides the usual supply-houses, she and her old man excavated several dining-rooms. These are simply pockets underground at the edge of the stream. In case of any danger on the surface, they could take some food from a store-house and carry it to one of these dining-rooms, where it was eaten in peace.

It was the rule with the old folks to eat apart from their year-old children. The yearlings, on the other hand, eat all together, and have as much fun and freedom as they please. Their merriest frolics, however, are in the night, in and upon their swimming and diving pond. Here they coast rapidly head-first down a steep bank slippery with mud, lying upon their chests or sitting upon their haunches, and at times they even turn somersaults and perform other acrobatic feats. This coasting has a threefold object. It is for play and also for practice; to learn the art of sliding into deep water without unnecessary noise; and, more than all, according to the Red people, it is done for the purpose of polis.h.i.+ng and beautifying their long, silky fur.

The beaver tribe are considered wisest of the smaller four-legged tribes, and they are a people of great common-sense. Even man gains wisdom and philosophy from a study of their customs and manners. It is in the long winter nights, as is believed and insisted upon by the wild Indians, that the beaver old folks recite their legends to their children and grandchildren. In this case it was usually Chapawee who related the traditions of her people and her own experiences, gathering about her all the yearlings and the newly married couples, who might take a notion to go off in search of a new claim, just as she and Hezee did. So it was well that they should thoroughly understand the ways and wisdom of their people.

To be sure, she had breathed it into them and fed them with it since before they could swim; yet she knew that some things do not remain in the blood. There are certain traits and instincts that are very strong in family and tribe, because they refer to conditions that never change; but other matters outside of these are likewise very useful in an emergency.

Old Chapawee could never sleep after the sun reaches the middle of the western sky in summer. In winter they all sleep pretty much all of the day. Having finished her supper with Hezee one night under the large elm-tree on the east side of the dam, she dove down with a somersault, glided along close to the bottom of the pond, inspecting every pebble and stray chip from their work-room, until she reached the a.s.sembly-room, which might almost be called a school-house in the manner of the paleface.

She came scrambling up the slippery bank to the middle entrance. No sooner had she shaken off the extra water from her long hair than Hezee's gray mustache emerged from the water, without exposing his head.

He was teasing the old lady, trying to make her believe there was a crab in the landing. Quick as a flash she flopped over in the air and slapped the side of her broad tail upon the water where her spouse was lurking to deceive her. Down he dove to the bottom and lay there motionless as if he expected her to hunt him up; but after a while he went off and notified all the young people that it was time for their gathering at the old meeting-house.

Here Chapawee occupied the place of honor, while Hezee filled the undignified position of errand-boy. All the young beavers came in, some still carrying a bit of sapling in their mouths, but, on realizing their mistake, each dove back to place it where it belonged. They arranged themselves in a circle, sitting upright on their flat tails for cus.h.i.+ons, their hands folded under their chins.

"A long time ago," began Chapawee, the old beaver grandmother, "we lived on the other side of the Muddy Water (the Missouri), upon a stream called Wakpala Shecha (Bad River). Father and mother, with my older brothers and sisters, built a fine dam and had a great pond there. But we led a hard life. There are not many ponds on Bad River and the stream dries up every summer, therefore thousands of buffalo came to our place to drink. They were very bad people. It seems that they do not respect the laws and customs of any other nation. They used to come by the hundred into our pond and trample down our houses and wear holes in the banking of our dam. They are so large and clumsy that they would put their feet right through the walls, and we had to hide in our deepest holes until we were very hungry, waiting for them to go away.

"Then there were the shunktokechas and shungelas (wolves and foxes), who follow the buffalo. They, too, are a bad and dangerous sort, so that mother and father had to be continually on the watch. We little beaver children played upon the dam only when mother thought it safe. In the night we used to enjoy our swimming, diving, and coasting school. We practised gnawing sticks, and the art of making mud cement that will hold water, how to go to the bottom silently, without effort, and to spank the water for a signal or danger-call with our tails.

"There were many other bad people in that country. There was the ugly old grizzly. He would sometimes come to our place to swim and cool off.

We would not mind, only he is so treacherous. He was ready to kill one of us at any moment if we gave him the chance.

"Mother played a trick on him once, because he was such a nuisance. He was wont to crawl out upon one of the logs which projected from the dam and over the deep water. This log was braced by posts in the water.

Mother lay on the bottom and loosened the soil and then quickly pulled one of the posts away, and the old grizzly fell in headlong. She dove to one side, and, as the old man struggled to get out, crawled up behind him and gashed one of his hind paws with her sharp wood-choppers. Oh, how the old fellow howled and how he scrambled for the dam! He groaned long as he sat on the bank and doctored his wounded foot. After that he was never again seen to sit upon one of our logs, but when he came to the river to drink and cool off his hot paws he always took the farthest point from our houses, and then he only put one foot in the water at a time.

"Mother was dreadfully afraid of one wicked animal. That was Igmu, the mountain lion. He does not live in this part of the country, and it is such a relief," said the old beaver woman. "Whenever one of the Igmus comes to our place, we all hurry to deep water and lie there, for they have been known to dig through the walls of our houses.

"There was still another danger that our people had to contend with.

Wakpala Shecha has a swift current and a narrow bed, and we had terrible freshets two or three times in a season.

"At last there came a great flood. It was after I was two years old and had learned everything--how to chop wood, which way to fell the trees, and what to store up for the winter; how to mix mud cement and drive posts in the creek bottom, and all of the other lessons. Early in the spring, while there was still snow on the ground, a heavy rain came.

Every dry gulch was a torrent. We had never known such a flood. It carried away all our dams and made our strongest houses cave in. We did not dare to go to sh.o.r.e, for we could hear the wolves calling all along the banks.

"At last mother and father bound two drift-logs together with willow withes. We all helped, as none of us ever think of being idle. Upon the logs we made a rude nest, and here we all slept and ate as we floated down the stream.