Chapter II: Part 2

“Yes, my son, this is a job for men. Someday soon you will join us in hunting the swift salmon with spear and net. But for now, be happy to remain in the village with your friends. You were lucky that my brother had his net where he did, or we might have missed you and your body would have been carried away. Come, we will go back to the village to tell your mother of your swim this fine day.”

Then he laughed again. Little Twig laughed this time, too, and all the braves joined in the laughter. No one would speak harshly to him about his foolish act even though it had brought him near death. Indians believed that angry words make people sick. So Indian parents, like Little Twig’s father, always tried to speak happily.

Just then Running Turtle came out of hiding, and he started to laugh with the others.

LITTLE FIRE CLOUD’S DREAM

The Delawares were a peaceful tribe, hunting and fishing in their rich valley and not bothering their neighbors, for they had plenty and needed little more than they were able to obtain themselves with their strong bows and sharp arrows and their well-kept fishing gear.

It was late spring, and one day as Little Fire Cloud romped and played in the village his father called to him.

“Come, Little Fire Cloud, it is time we built a new canoe. Shortly we shall be needing a new canoe and if we do not start work now it will not be ready when the time comes to leave camp.”

So father and son started out to gather the materials to make a fine new canoe.

The Indians of the forest and lakes depended a great deal upon the canoe and were wise enough to construct them of material that was easy to obtain. Light cedar made the ribs and the planking of the canoe, and over this the Indians stretched a tight cover of birch bark. Then they took spruce roots and split them and these they used to sew the seams of the canoe together. They then would calk the spaces with a tarlike substance which was made from pine pitch and soot. When finished the product was firm and sturdy, but above all if the canoe should become injured in any way, the materials were always handy in the forest with which to make repairs.

Finally Little Fire Cloud and his father had gathered all the necessary equipment together and the work on the canoe was started. Father and son worked very hard at the job, and a few days later the canoe was completed. As the two finished their work they stood back to admire the job and Little Fire Cloud said,

“Is it not beautiful, father? It is the most beautiful canoe I have ever seen either in our own village or any of our neighbors.”

“Yes, Little Fire Cloud, it really is a beautiful canoe and one which we can be proud of.”

For the rest of that day that remained, Little Fire Cloud could talk of nothing else but the beautiful canoe that he helped his father to build. Finally supper was over, and it was time to retire.

That night as Little Fire Cloud fell asleep his head was all full of visions of canoes and rapids and great lakes and rivers. Soon the confusion of many things became one thing, and Little Fire Cloud found himself standing on the shore of a great lake. He did not know how he got there or what lake it was, but the water was a beautiful blue green and it was calm and smooth. It was daytime and, as Little Fire Cloud looked upon the lake, in the distance he saw a canoe coming toward him. In the bow of the canoe stood a great warrior, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes looking right at Little Fire Cloud.

In the stern of the canoe, a young warrior softly paddled the canoe forward toward the shore, directly to where Little Fire Cloud was standing. As the canoe drew closer, Little Fire Cloud saw that it was made of shimmering silver birch bark and it looked so clean and new.

As the bow scraped the shore, the warrior stepped from the canoe and walked to where Little Fire Cloud was standing.

“Come, Little Fire Cloud, step into the canoe, and we shall take a short trip.”

“I do not know if I should,” said Little Fire Cloud overcome by the great warrior who stood before him. “My father might wonder where I had gone.”

“Do not worry about your father for you will be gone only a short while and we shall return you to this point on the shore. I have something I want to show you.”

So Little Fire Cloud feeling a warmth toward this great warrior stepped in and seated himself in the middle of the canoe. Then the great warrior stepped in and pushed away from shore. The warrior in the stern turned the canoe toward the middle of the lake and began to paddle steadily, his blade cutting the water neatly and hardly making a ripple.

The canoe glided softly and smoothly across the water. Up ahead a mist had settled upon the water, and soon the canoe had entered this mist and was gliding softly through the water with nothing on any side but the cloudy white mist. All that Little Fire Cloud could see was water right next to the canoe.

Little Fire Cloud called to the warrior.

“Where are you taking me, O great warrior of the lake?”

“You shall see, little brave,” said the great warrior without turning in the canoe.

Soon the mist lifted, and there surrounding the canoe was a beautiful pool of water with many streams running off in different directions.

The Indian who was paddling guided the canoe into one of these streams, and as the canoe moved forward the warrior pointed toward the shore. There along the shore, Little Fire Cloud could see many beaver working diligently at gathering material for their homes. As the canoe continued along the stream, Little Fire Cloud saw many beautiful flowers and plants, and occasionally a deer could be seen drinking at the water’s edge. Little Fire Cloud was quick to notice that the animals seemed to pay no attention to the canoe when it sailed past where they stood except to lift their heads and look at this craft as it moved smoothly along the stream under the expert hands of the brave in the stern.

Little Fire Cloud noticed that there were no weapons in the canoe.

Soon they had reached a fork in the stream, and again the canoe was guided into one of the openings and the trip continued. Many more wild flowers and animals were observed by Little Fire Cloud until suddenly they were in the mist once again and all the beauty was behind them as they moved swiftly through the mist.

When they broke from the cloud, Little Fire Cloud could see the shore of the lake once again and he realized that they must have traveled in a circle. Soon the canoe scraped the shore and the warrior stepped out and assisted Little Fire Cloud. When the boy was safely ashore the warrior said, “Did you enjoy your trip?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Little Fire Cloud. “Everything was so beautiful. Thank you very much for the nice ride and for showing me all the beautiful things of nature.”

“Yes, Little Fire Cloud, there are many many beautiful things in nature that can be seen if one travels quietly and peacefully in a good canoe. Nature is our friend and, if we remember this, many pleasant hours will be spent seeing nature. Do not do anything to spoil this picture which will remain with you always. If you never raise your bow to kill unless you have need for food or clothing game will always be plentiful. But if you wasted this beauty which is given to the Indian you yourself and your people would soon die from hunger and cold. To kill for the sake of killing is cruel and wasteful. Now I must say good-bye, for I have many miles to travel. Good-bye, Little Fire Cloud, and remember your trip into the misty lake.”

With that the warrior stepped into the canoe, and soon the canoe turned and disappeared into the distance.

Suddenly Little Fire Cloud felt a hand upon his shoulder and someone was shaking him.

“My son, my son, wake up, you have been dreaming.”

When Little Fire Cloud opened his eyes he was lying on his bed, and his father was standing over him.

“Oh, father, I had the most beautiful dream. A great warrior came and took me for a ride in a beautiful canoe and showed me the wonders of nature in all their splendor.”

And Little Fire Cloud went on to tell his dream in all the beautiful detail that he could remember. His father was a good father and so he listened patiently to his son; and when Little Fire Cloud had finished telling about the dream, his father said, “Yes, my son, it was a beautiful dream, and in the dream you learned a great lesson concerning the creatures of the wild which I hope you will always remember.”

THE CRY OF THE HORNED OWL

Little Beaver was full of excitement, for soon the winter would be over and he and his friend Jumping Rabbit would once again be able to take their little canoe and go to the lake and streams to catch the fine fish that waited in the early spring for the bait to be cast.

The Cayuga village had weathered the winter well, and now the first signs of spring were beginning to show. With the bursting forth of the spring flowers and the green shoots of plants and grass and the green leaves the Cayuga village seemed to come alive.

One of the first tasks was the uncovering of the canoes. (When winter approached, the canoes were all hauled far above the lake water’s edge and covered completely with mounds of sand. This kept them from drying out and cracking during the cold winter.) Finally all the canoes had been uncovered, and the Indians took to the lakes and the streams again, fishing and hunting to replenish the food supply that had been used during the winter.

One morning Little Beaver searched for his friend Jumping Rabbit for a long time and when he could not find him, he decided to go off by himself. Walking to the edge of the lake he found that his father had uncovered his canoe for him.

Stepping into the canoe he paddled across the lake to the mouth of a stream which was new to him. This stream led to the Lake of the Rushes where the girls and women gathered the rushes each spring to make new mats for the platforms of the wigwam. Here he had not been before.

As Little Beaver paddled he saw many signs of spring, but he was searching for big game. He wanted to be the first young boy to bring a deer back to the village.

Soon he beached his canoe on the side of the Rush Lake and moved inland searching for signs of the deer. Suddenly he came upon the tracks of what seemed to be a fine big buck. Following carefully along the track of the deer he noticed that the deer was moving slowly. Then suddenly the spaces between the tracks became bigger and he knew that the deer had begun to move faster.

Suddenly the noises of the woods ceased and it was very quiet. Up ahead a shadow flitted across the trail. Little Beaver dropped upon his belly and then he heard it—the cry of the great horned owl. But still he knew that the owl would not cry at this time of day and from a short distance off the trail he heard an answering cry.

Through the fading light among the trees up ahead, he saw a small group of warriors gather. One of these warriors placed his hand alongside his mouth, and the cry of the horned owl once again was heard and from another direction an answer.

Then Little Beaver knew that these were unfriendly Indians from the north and they had invaded the land of the Cayugas. They could be here for one reason only, to raid his village.

“I must return at once to the village and warn my people of this danger.”

Little Beaver turned and retreated down the path to where he had left his canoe. Pushing it out into the lake he immediately began paddling as fast as his arms could go for the mouth of the stream that would lead into the next lake and to the shore of his village. He reached the mouth of the stream just as the dark storm clouds started to gather over the lake.

And then it was raining and raining hard. This would slow up the attackers, but it would not stop them and Little Beaver had to get to his village quickly to warn his people of the danger. He dipped his paddle deep into the waters of the lake and the canoe moved forward. But now the wind was getting stronger and his arms began to ache from the effort. He paddled harder and harder but soon his arms became weak and he was still a great distance from the shore. Besides the danger of the storm it was fast approaching nightfall, and ahead Little Beaver could see the friendly fires of his village being lit one at a time.

These would act as beacons of direction for the enemy.

He chanced a glance behind and then he heard it again. The cry of the horned owl. The cry was coming from almost directly behind and in the dusk he could see the canoes of the enemy slipping from the stream into the lake.

The storm passed and the waters became calm, and now Little Beaver’s job was easier, but so was that of the enemy. He paddled with all his might though he felt his arms would fall off.

Finally he reached the shore and he leaped out onto the sand. Without waiting to pull his canoe ashore he rushed for the village. He turned to glance at the lake once more and he could see the canoes of the enemy drawing along the shore, closer to the village with each stroke.

He rushed to his father and quickly told him what he had seen. His father dashed from the wigwam and glanced toward the lake. Just then they both heard it once again. The cry of the great horned owl. His father stopped and listened and then placing his own hand to the side of his mouth he answered the whistle. Then he turned to his son.

“It is all right my son. These are friends come to join in a great celebration. It is your uncle and his people from the north. Be not afraid, for they are friends.”

Little Beaver looked at his father. He smiled and taking his father’s hand they walked toward the lakeside. Stepping from the canoes were a number of Cayuga warriors and they came with many bundles.

The two groups greeted each other and then the leader of the visitors came forward.

“Your father has explained that you thought we were unfriendly Indians come to call. I, for one, am glad that you are not a grown warrior right now, for your arrow shaft might have found its place in my heart in the forest. We had hoped to surprise your people with our visit but when we saw your canoe glide away from the Lake of the Rushes we knew we had been seen. And so, my little brave, let me congratulate you on a fine job of paddling. You came across the lake in a storm without slowing your stroke. I have told my brother that if we had been the enemy you would have reached the village far ahead of us and we would now be walking the trail of the happy hunting ground.”

That night Little Beaver slept very soundly. He had a great adventure on his first trip to the Lake of the Rushes and it would be a long time to come before he would go alone again.

THE DREAM THAT LED TO VICTORY

Singing Fire, the young Apache brave, rode swiftly through the hills toward the village of his people. He had been hunting and now was returning to his tepee to join his family in a hearty evening meal. His hunger made him urge his pony to an even faster pace. Soon he could see the smoke of the fires in the village. It was only a few moments later that Singing Fire brought his pony to a quick stop on the very edge of the village. To ride his horse through the village this evening would have been unkind. The summer had been very dry, and his pony’s hoofs would have raised much dust that would settle in the cooking pots.

Walking through the village, the young brave waved and called to his friends. He laughed when they joked with him about his empty hands. He had been unable to find any game that he felt was worth bringing to the village. Soon he reached his father’s tepee and was welcomed warmly by the family.

When supper was finished, Singing Fire went to talk with his friend, Many Painted Ponies. The two braves had always been together since they were very young and just learning to walk. Now whenever they had time, they would sit and talk about their future together as great leaders of the Apache tribe. He found his friend working at making new arrow tips.

“Hello, my good friend, Many Painted Ponies, and how are you this fine evening?”

“My stomach is full and my heart is happy, Singing Fire. Could a brave ask much more of life? I have been very fortunate in having such a fine father and mother who have made my life such a pleasure. As I saw you ride in from the hunt, I noticed you carried no game. Was there no game where you rode? Usually you do not return empty-handed.”

“Today was bad for the hunt. The largest game knew that I was hunting and ran for cover, and I was not as quick as they to find the hiding places.”

The two young men laughed and then spent some time talking until darkness came. Each young man went back to his tepee for a well-earned sleep.

The next day there was great excitement in the village. As young Singing Fire stepped from his tepee, he saw that people were gathering in the center of the village to hear a tall Apache warrior who was talking loudly and rapidly to the chief of the village. As Singing Fire drew near, he was able to catch some of the words spoken by the warrior.

“It is true, my Chief, the Comanches have been seen in our land. If we are not careful they will raid our pony herds and make off with many of our best mounts. I have seen them to the east, and they skulk like the lowly wolf in the night.”

The great chief listened quietly until the young warrior had finished. Then he motioned to the older men of the tribe to gather in his tepee. When they were all inside, Singing Fire, Many Painted Ponies, and the other young braves stood outside waiting impatiently for what the elders of the tribe would decide. They could hear the young brave who had first reported to the chief repeating his story for those who had come late. He said that while trailing some ponies that had strayed from the herd he had come upon the coals of a recent fire. Because the marks in the sand were not Apache, he had followed the tracks made when the group broke camp. Traveling at a rapid pace, he soon had come upon the band of Comanches in a small gully. After watching them for a short while, the brave had mounted his pony and ridden as fast as he could to the village to tell the chief of this threat to their property and peace, within such a short distance of their camp.

Finally the Chief came out from his tepee and spoke to the young warriors.

“The Comanches have entered our hunting grounds. Not only have they broken the law, but they dare to ride within a short distance of our camp. We will gather a war party and go in search of these thieves of the night. We will give them a sound lesson by whipping those wild dogs so badly that they will return to their own land with their tails between their legs—if there are any left to return when we have met them upon the field of battle.”

With low shouts of agreement, everyone ran to prepare for the warpath.

Singing Fire and Many Painted Ponies returned to check their weapons and when preparations were completed returned to where the chief sat astride a great white horse. When everyone had assembled, the party left camp in search of the invading Comanches. For several days the party searched but no sign was found other than the old fire, that anyone had been in the vicinity. At last the chief turned to his men and said, “They have seen our strength and afraid have returned to their own land. They respect the might and fighting ability of the Apaches. Come, we will return to our village.”

The party started for home, but as Singing Fire and Many Painted Ponies rode along, Singing Fire was quiet.

“What is it, my friend, Singing Fire? You are so quiet.”

“I was just thinking, my friend, that the Comanches are not known as cowards; they surely would not turn from a fight. I do not believe they have left our land.”

“But, Singing Fire, for three days we have searched the land and no sign do we see of the Comanches. Certainly the earth did not open and swallow them up.”

“That is just the point, my friend. What has happened to the party? The brave reported seeing them and took us to where they had their fire. The tracks led away but suddenly stopped, and we have seen nothing to indicate that they returned to their own lands across the great river. I just am not satisfied that they have left.”

Nothing more was said for the remainder of the trip back to the village, and that evening after supper, Singing Fire went to sleep thinking about the hunt for the Comanches.

As he slept, he dreamed there were Comanche warriors mounted upon fast horses and they all seemed to be riding toward a solid wall. Singing Fire suddenly awoke recalling seeing that wall before.

About a day’s ride from their village was a small valley which they called the valley of the snake because it twisted and turned between the mountains. As the thundering riders neared the wall, it seemed to open up and they had disappeared within. Then the walls closed again and there was silence. Singing Fire leaped from his bed and rushed to his father’s side.

“My father, I must speak to our chief. It is of great importance that I see him now.”

“But it is late, my son, and certainly what you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”

“No, father, I must speak to him now.” With that, Singing Fire left his tepee and soon was standing before the tepee of the Great Chief. He made his presence known and was invited into the tepee.

The chief invited him to sit and then asked, “What brings you to my tepee so late, young Singing Fire?”

“Tonight, O Great Chief, in a dream I was drawn to the painted hill which stands guard over our village. Here I stood troubled in heart and mind because of what has been reported to our tribe.” Then Singing Fire proceeded to tell in complete detail of the dream he had had. When he finished, he waited for the chief to speak.

“What importance do you attach to this dream you have had, young Singing Fire?”

“I do not know, Great Chief, but I would like your permission to take Many Painted Ponies and ride to this place I have seen in the dream. I would like to see what can be found there and then I will return to my village.”

The Indians placed a great deal of faith in dreams, and so the chief gave his permission and early the next morning, Many Painted Ponies and Singing Fire set out for the valley that Singing Fire had seen not only in his dream, but many times on his hunting trips.

They traveled all day, and when the sun was setting in the west, they found themselves but a short distance from the entrance to the valley. They camped for the night, not lighting a fire, in case there should be any unfriendly Indians in the vicinity.

As dawn drew near, the two young men crawled to the mountainous heights overlooking the twisting valley. There they lay and watched the valley below. For almost an hour they sat until finally about noontime a small band of warriors could be seen riding into the valley. They rode straight up the middle of the valley twisting and turning as the valley turned but finally about midway up the valley they swung sharply to the left and seemed to disappear into the very walls surrounding the valley.

“Come,” said Singing Fire, “we must investigate this strange occurrence.”

It took them most of the afternoon to reach a vantage point overlooking where the warriors had disappeared. Crawling carefully to the very edge, the two young braves looked carefully over the edge. Below them lay a fantastic sight. A tremendous Comanche encampment was being formed in a small box canyon. The entrance to the box canyon was a mere crack in the wall which was just about wide enough for one horse and rider to enter at one time. Now Singing Fire could see why a rider going through the valley would not see the opening for it was actually hidden from view by a turn in the trail. If one were not looking for it, one would not find it except by accident.

“This is why we have not seen the Comanches except for that one small party. Under cover of night or early dawn they have been entering our land in small parties, gathering here until their force is large enough to make war upon our people.”

Singing Fire tapped his friend upon the shoulder, motioning him away from the edge.

“Many Painted Ponies, one of us must ride for all he is worth to reach our village and tell of this plan to our people. You must tell the chief to gather the Apaches together and we can trap the scheming Comanches in their own camp.”

Many Painted Ponies rose to leave. “Be careful, my friend, for if they should suspect that you are here your scalp will soon hang from their medicine lodge and they will break from their camp fearing the trap we will set for them. Now I will ride for our village and may your prayers go with me.” With that, Many Painted Ponies left and mounting his pony he rode off toward home.

Singing Fire kept careful watch for the next day and night and when dawn approached he saw the dust of many horses approaching. Riding forth to meet his people, a plan formed in his mind. In council with the chiefs a short time later the plan was outlined. The best marksmen of the Apaches were placed around the box canyon on the walls overlooking the unsuspecting camp of the Comanches. Other warriors would ride into the valley to stand guard at the only entrance or exit to the canyon to make sure none escaped.

Soon all was in readiness. The signal was given. Like an attacking horde of eagles, the Apaches began firing down upon the Comanche encampment. The battle was long and bloody. In confusion the Comanches mounted their ponies and headed for the exit. Here they were met with a hail of arrows which drove them back into the canyon.

When the Comanche forces were thoroughly disorganized, the chief signaled the Apaches to charge through the entrance and soon the two tribes were locked in hand to hand combat. The victory was complete and soon the last of the Comanches had fallen before the knives and war clubs of the attacking Apaches.

In triumph the tribe returned to the village where great celebrations marked the next few days and nights. The hero of the affair was praised before the council, and Singing Fire was honored for his part in the great victory.

2. HUNTING AND FISHING

GREY CALF LEARNS TO HUNT BUFFALO

Grey Calf opened his eyes to greet the warmth of the early spring day. There was a great deal of excitement in his Crow village as he rolled out from under his buffalo robe. At just that moment, his father entered the tepee.

“Come, my son,” he said. “We must dress and eat right away. The village is broken down, for we are going to move again. Your mother is waiting to take down our tepee. Come, you must prepare to help load the travois.”

Grey Calf learned as a very young Crow that whenever his tribe had to move to follow the buffalo herds, the whole village was packed and loaded upon travois drawn by the horse or horses of each family. Everything the family owned was made to be carried easily in rawhide containers that could be folded and put away when the family had settled in a new place. Furniture was made so that it could be folded, too.

Many times, Grey Calf had watched his mother make the travois. She would take two of the tepee poles and fasten them together with a rawhide thong, just a short way from one end. Then she would pull the poles apart at the opposite end and set them, at the point where they were crossed and tied, upon the shoulders of their horse. The longer ends of the crossed poles would stretch outward and rest on the ground behind their horse on each side. Then she would run a long strip of rawhide through the knot that joined the poles over the horse’s shoulders, and tie it around the horse’s chest like a light harness. Finally, she would stretch and tie strips of rawhide across the poles behind the horse, to make a frame on which their family goods were loaded.

Grey Calf’s father had told him once that many years ago, before the white man had brought horses to the Indians’ land, the travois had been fastened to their strong dogs. But the dogs were not so strong as horses, so the loads had to be much smaller and lighter. Even their tepees were smaller in those days because larger ones would have weighed too much for any one dog to pull on the travois.

These thoughts passed rapidly through Grey Calf’s mind as he listened to his father. Then he yawned and asked, “Must we move so soon again, father? It seems such a short while ago that our tribe set up its village here.”

“My son, the buffalo are on the move,” his father answered patiently. “You know that we would not have our tepees, our best food and clothing, and little of anything else without the great buffalo. When they decide to move, we must move with them. The scouts who have been watching the herd tell us that it has started to leave for new feeding grounds.”

Without another word, Grey Calf got up quickly and began helping his mother gather their belongings. He helped her take down the tepee. Then she built the travois rapidly, and he helped her pack and load their belongings onto it.

Soon, where once a proud village had stood, hardly anything was left standing. The men set out ahead on their horses, followed by the women and children on horses, the smaller children sometimes riding on the travois, their mothers and the older children riding astride the horses’ backs. Grey Calf, like many other of the older boys, was riding his own pony near his mother.

The scouts were far ahead of them, keeping close touch with the wandering buffalo herd, and signaling the tribe to tell the braves which way to lead their families. The scouts were also watching carefully for roving bands of the Crows’ enemies, for they were near Cheyenne territory, but they saw none.

Just as Grey Calf was ready to ask his mother if the buffalo herd would never stop roaming, a scout raced his horse back to tell the braves that the herd was circling around, ready to settle down near fresh water and food. The Chief gave the signal, and all the families went to work busily setting up their tepees. Before too long, smoke was rising lazily from the fires which circled their new village. The trek had taken most of the day, and the women were beginning to cook the evening meal.

The braves were watering their thirsty horses, and then would put them out to graze. Grey Calf did all he could to help his mother get their meal ready quickly because he was very hungry. When all the small chores had been completed, the families gathered at their tepees, to eat the food that smelled so good to all the children.

It wasn’t long after Grey Calf had eaten that he began to feel drowsy. Saying goodnight to his father and mother, he went into the tepee, rolled himself in his warm buffalo robe (because the prairie night would be cool), and was soon sound asleep.

The next day dawned as one of great excitement, for word came to the tepee of Grey Calf that today One Horn, the great buffalo hunter, was going to take the young braves on their first buffalo hunt.

Like other Crow boys, Grey Calf had spent many days preparing patiently for this great event. His father had taught him how to ride his pony and to shoot the bow and arrow. He had learned how to ride into a herd and to shoot from beneath his pony’s neck. And now that great day was here. One Horn, the greatest of buffalo hunters in the tribe, would give the young braves their last lesson before taking them out onto the prairie for the actual hunt.

When the young braves had gathered, One Horn stepped to the center of the circle and gave his final instructions, warning them not to be too eager but to take their time and make sure of their shot. And above all, he warned them, as soon as they had made their shot they must swerve away from the herd. In this way they would be out of danger if the herd should spread out to avoid trampling its fallen members.

When One Horn finished, he asked if there were any questions. The young braves had none. So One Horn told them that the time of the hunt would be midafternoon. The boys were told to return to their tepees and get everything ready.

Grey Calf sped back to his tepee to tell his family breathlessly all that had happened. For the rest of the morning he worked carefully over each of his arrows and his strong bow. In fact, he was so busy that his mother had to call him three times before he came to lunch.

The sun seemed to move very slowly for all the Crow boys. But soon a young brave on a frisky pony rode swiftly through the village to tell them to gather for the hunt.

Grey Calf leaped upon his pony’s back and sped to the edge of the village where the other young braves were gathering. When all had gathered and were seated on the ground, One Horn spoke.

“A small group of buffalo has wandered away from the main herd,” he said. “It is from this small group that we shall choose our targets. I will inspect each young brave’s weapons in turn. When all are satisfactory, we shall move out in the direction of the small herd. Do not ride hard but move your pony slowly. Buffalo will not go far in this heat. We shall have plenty of time to come near them, take our positions quietly, and then attack together without warning.”

When One Horn had finished examining each young brave’s weapons, the small band moved out in single file. Soon they sighted the buffalo. One Horn gave hand signals to the young braves to spread out and take their positions silently, but above all to wait for the signal from One Horn to attack.

As slowly and quietly as possible, each young brave moved into position. All eyes were on One Horn, and suddenly he gave the signal. The air was torn apart as wild yelps leaped from the throats of the eager young hunters. The buffalo were startled and began running about wildly. The boys dug their heels into their ponies’ sides and headed into the group of buffalo. Soon the dust clouds were so heavy that one could not tell the hunters from the hunted, but the young braves rode swiftly, each hunter picking out his buffalo carefully and with an eye to size. This was to be the first of many buffalo kills, and each young brave hoped that his would be the largest of the beasts brought down.

Buffalo after buffalo began to stumble and fall before the accurate shooting of the young hunters. The ponies were magnificent in their performance, for each had been carefully trained for this day.

As quickly as the hunt had started it was over. One by one the young braves returned to One Horn who had seen their great success. Soon they were once again at their starting point. They knew that the remaining buffalo would tire and, knowing they were no longer being chased, would begin to mill and settle down once again.

One Horn gazed proudly upon the field of battle. Twelve plump shaggy beasts lay dead upon the prairie. Every brave had made his kill. There would be much rejoicing in the village that evening. One Horn told the young braves how to prepare their kills for the return to the village, and they went to work immediately. Their adventure this afternoon would mean much food for the tribe and new clothing for the coming winter and horns and tails to decorate their costumes and tepees.

As One Horn rode from dead buffalo to dead buffalo, watching the young braves at work, he was quick to praise each lad for his part in the hunt that day. Soon all had completed their tasks and a triumphant band returned to the village.

That evening each young brave in turn told how he had made his kill and there was a great deal of celebrating. The honor of the biggest kill went to Grey Calf. As the last of the families were going into their tepees for the evening, Grey Calf’s father came to sit by his side.

“My son, your father is proud. Not only has my son killed his first buffalo but it was by far the largest of the beasts killed today. Today you had success and triumph, but life will not always be that simple. The trail ahead is hard. There will be many difficult times, but if you learn your lessons well you shall one day be a great and respected warrior of the tribe.”

When Grey Calf’s father had finished speaking, he looked down upon his son and smiled. The tired young brave had fallen asleep.

LITTLE FOX AND THE GOLDEN EAGLE

Little Fox, a member of the Apache Tribe, was a shy Indian lad who was rather small. When he was born he was a very tiny baby and his face was thin and pointed like that of a fox. For this reason he was given the name of Little Fox.

As Little Fox grew older, he dreamed of the day he would be able to wear the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle, the most respected bird of the American Indian. It was believed that there was great power in the thirteen tail feathers and in the pinion feathers on the wings of the Great Golden Eagle.

One day Little Fox was seated in his mother’s wickiup, when his father entered. Without a word Little Fox’s father went to a case made of deerskin and carefully removed the cover. Then with great care he removed from the case a most beautiful feather bonnet, at which Little Fox gazed with great longing. His father, Swift Deer, was an honored brave in the tribe and had become privileged to wear the bonnet of eagle feathers for his many brave deeds and the telling of these deeds before the Council of Chiefs. Swift Deer had been granted the right to place additional eagle feathers in his headdress. Suddenly, Swift Deer turned to Little Fox, and said, “Why do you look so sad, my son?”

Little Fox turned slowly to his father and said, “It is because I, Little Fox, have not been able to do anything that the Council would recognize as a deed worthy of the wearing of the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.”

“Little Fox,” said his father, “you seek too hard for a deed to compete for this honor. Tell me, do you have any eagle feathers that you could wear, in case you should do a deed which would be considered worthy?”

“No, my father,” said Little Fox, “but by the rising of the next new moon, I shall have many eagle feathers, for tomorrow I start in search of the Great Golden Eagle. It has been told by Great Moose that beyond the three hills many Golden Eagles have been seen.”

Swift Deer was proud. He knew that though his son was small he had in his breast a brave heart, for to go in search of the Great Golden Eagle took a great deal of courage. Once again Swift Deer took his son aside and told him the many dangers of eagle hunting, but praised him for his bravery in going to get the tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.

The following morning, Little Fox took some food. Then taking a long strong thong of deerskin, he looped it several times around his waist and tied the food pouch to it. Strapping a knife also to the thong, he started for the place where the Great Golden Eagles had been seen.

On the way he stopped just long enough to snare a plump young rabbit which he would use for bait. When he reached the place where the eagles were to be found, he started digging a deep hole, large enough for him to stand in. Then he placed branches over the hole to hide it, with a small space for him to reach through and grasp the tail feathers of the eagle. To the top of this cover he tied the plump young rabbit with a piece of thong. After all was in readiness, Little Fox lifted the edge of his cover and slid into the hole, resting his foot on a thick root which stuck out of the earth into the hole. Placing his back against the side of the hole, he waited patiently for the Golden Eagle.

An hour passed and then two and three, and Little Fox began to feel his muscles tighten up and his body start to grow stiff. He began to feel impatient. Suddenly, he heard the rabbit begin to move about uneasily, then tug in panic against the thong that held him. Surely the Golden Eagle must be close by. Little Fox felt relaxed; the stiffness in his body was gone. Now excitement rushed into his body as he waited for the Golden Eagle to come to rest on the top of his hiding place.

All at once, Little Fox felt the ground tremble and he heard what sounded like the low rumble of a waterfall. Then he knew that what he had heard was the low growl of a bear. He peered through a crack in the cover over the hole and saw the bear’s towering form. Fear gripped the heart of Little Fox. Many were the stories he had heard of Indians who had lost their lives while hunting for the prized feathers of the Golden Eagle.

The bear, with the swiftness of a fleeting arrow, made one sweep with his huge paw and the rabbit went sprawling. The bear paused as though he were thinking about the problem before him. Here was one of his enemies trapped beneath his feet. How would he reach his enemy? With an angry growl he ripped at the boughs which covered the hiding place of Little Fox until he had uncovered the top of the hole.

Holding his breath and his heart beating wildly, Little Fox crouched far down in the hole and waited for the final moment when he, instead of the Golden Eagle, would fall victim in his own trap. The bear lunged but missed his mark. Little Fox suddenly realized that the top of the hole was too small for the bear to get his paw and his head in at the same time. Again and again the bear lunged, but without success. The more he lunged and failed, the angrier he became. He thrust first his paw and then his head into the hole; but Little Fox, by pressing down against the bottom of the hole, was able to keep just out of reach of the flailing paws and gnashing teeth. All of a sudden, the bear pulled back away from the hole as if to consider his next move. In this instant, Little Fox thought of a way that might save his life. He quickly untied the long leather thong around his waist, made a loop of it, and as slowly and quietly as possible placed the loop just below the opening, holding it in place all around by pressing the thong into the earth. Little Fox tied the other end to the root on which he had been standing.

Now the bear was returning. Little Fox waited, holding tight to the leather thong. As the bear placed his head in the hole and so into the loop, Little Fox pulled hard on the thong, which immediately came loose from the earth and tightened around the throat of the bear.

In angry surprise, the bear pulled back from the hole only to be stopped short as the thong drew tight. Then he began a series of noises which Little Fox remembered for many moons. The bear’s growls gradually grew to roars, and then turned to cries of pain. The harder the bear pulled, the tighter the thong gripped his throat, until the cries became coughs and gasps. Then all was quiet. The bear’s thrashing around had ceased, but still Little Fox waited.

Little Fox slowly raised himself until he could see just over the edge. There, not two feet from the hole, lay a huge bear, quite still and dead. Little Fox quickly pulled himself from the hole and started at a run for the village.

He reached the village and, not stopping to answer any questions, ran straight to his father’s wickiup. He began telling his story, still panting and talking so fast that his father made him stop to get his breath and then speak slowly. When Little Fox had finished, Swift Deer gathered some of the other warriors and went to the place where this adventure had taken place. With great pride, Swift Deer helped to skin the bear and bring it back to the village. Not long after, Little Fox stood in the Council meeting before the elders of the tribe and recounted his tale of courage. And when all his words had been heard, the Council voted that Little Fox should wear in his headband not one, but two of the most treasured tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.

HOW LONG MOOSE BECAME A BRAVE

The Powhatan Indians were a great tribe whose hard work each year was rewarded with large supplies of food and clothing.

Long Moose was growing up among his people happily, doing his share of the tribe’s work. He had become very tall and awkward. He had great strength, too, which he hadn’t learned yet to use well. During games and contests, Long Moose often forgot how strong he was and, not meaning to, would hurt his friends, sometimes rather badly.

Long Moose was still trying over and over to learn how to make hunting tools when winter came. It was a bitter, cold, northern winter. Both his mother and father became very sick and died after only a few days, leaving his younger sister and himself alone without near relatives to help them.

Because Long Moose was not a skillful young brave, his sister had little respect for him. He spent many days thinking sadly about his parents, but doing nothing to get food and keep their shelter tight against the wind and snow. Soon their small supply of food and fuel was nearly gone, and Long Moose had brought no hides for making clothes or repairing their home. He had also failed to give his share of food and hides for all the tribe, as every warrior was expected to do. Not only his sister but all the tribe began to feel that Little Moose was not a good Powhatan.

His sister’s harsh looks at him and his own growing hunger and cold made Long Moose think about how and why he was not a good brother or a good brave. He had to admit to himself that there was only one real reason besides his poor hunting tools and bad marksmanship: he did not want to hunt or make good hunting tools because he did not want to kill any animals.

He thought about how often he had gone out to hunt and even when, without looking for them, he had run across deer near by, he would still come back without having shot a single arrow. Long Moose knew that he loved all wild animals as much as he had loved his parents, and loved his sister and his friends now.

Driven by his hunger, the cold, his shame, and his real love for his sister, Long Moose set out several times to hunt. Each time he made a kill, but he was nearly as sad when he had done so as he had been when his parents died. To add to his sorrow, his sister would scold him for his poor skill, and taunt him by saying that he would never grow to be a real brave.

All the tribe could see that Long Moose and his sister were hungry most of the time. Their clothes were shabby and their home now was beyond repair.

One day in early spring, Long Moose went down to the edge of the lake to be away from the unkind glances of his sister and his friends—and to think. As he sat on a cold rock, staring out at the ice on the lake, an old man of the tribe came up and stood quietly beside him, waiting for Long Moose to speak.

“Nantesi, my friend,” Long Moose said, wondering if he still were his friend, “what brings you here to me?”

“My friend, Long Moose, for nearly two moons now there has been hunger in your home. Your clothes are worn out, and your sister is afraid to leave your home, because she is ashamed of her clothes. She has told some of the women that you are afraid to hunt the wild game because of the bear that lurks in the woods. Some of the other families have given her food and skins from time to time. But they can give her no more. The next winter may be hard again and each family will need every bit of its food and skins. You must not fear the bear. Your arms are strong, your legs are swift, and surely you have the strength of three men. You should be able to bring back more than is needed in your own home. Will you continue to lose the respect of your tribe, or will you become a man and take your place with the other braves of the tribe?”

Long Moose thought carefully about each word the old brave had spoken.