Chapter V: Part 5

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.