Chapter IV: Part 4

Such a contest would surely test the strength and courage of any young brave. But young Indians were brought up to fear little and to welcome a test like this. For this reason it was no surprise to the great chieftains when a rather large group of young braves gathered at the starting point the next morning. Each boy sat astride a fine looking pony, usually the gift of his father or some other leading member of the tribe. Each boy had his bow, his quiver, and four very special arrows which had been worked over and cared for like a pet or one of the family.

Final instructions were given to the young braves, and the riding contest was on! There was a great cheer from all who were watching as each rider left the starting point. This was a friendly match among boys from many tribes that often fought each other the rest of the year. Down the steep slope a lone warrior could be seen stationed at each buffalo hide. Here he could not only retrieve arrows but help to judge the young braves as they rode by and fired at the target.

Soon it was Swift Hawk’s turn. Remembering all that his father had taught him, he dug his heels into his pony’s sides and started his fast and dangerous ride. Carefully he drew an arrow from the quiver; then bending under the pony’s neck, he placed the arrow to the bow, and as the target came into view, Swift Hawk let his arrow fly! He heard the plunk as the arrow struck the hide. With his head still under the pony’s neck and riding so hard, he could hardly have seen where it had landed. But a loud cheer told him that he had made a good shot. Down the steep, winding course, Swift Hawk swiftly shot his arrows at the three other targets, and went back toward the starting point.

As he reached the hilltop he heard a great shout go up. Looking down the course he saw a young Crow brave just turning his pony to return to the starting point. The loud cheer meant that he had ridden well and made many good hits.

One by one each of the other young braves made his attempt but none could equal the riding and skill of the young Crow Indian. And so it was when the last contestant had made his ride and fired no better than the rest that the Crow brave was announced as the winner. Swift Hawk was one of the first to reach his side and congratulate him on his victory. Deep in his heart, Swift Hawk was sad. But he was also very happy for this young brave. Surely the young man had deserved to win; and, above all, Swift Hawk realized how happy the young brave and his family must be that he had won.

The contest over, Swift Hawk returned to his home and his father, disappointed but not unhappy now. There would be other contests, and this was a time of celebration and joy. His father found him sitting beside a tree stump.

“You did very well, my son,” Slow Tongue said, placing his hands upon Swift Hawk’s shoulders. “The Crow boy who won did just a little bit better, but all the Cree are proud of you. There will be other contests and many games. Soon your turn will come. But even if it should not, remember what I have told you. As long as you play fair with your fellow braves and obey the rules, there is nothing to be ashamed of when you lose to someone who plays fair and has great skill.”

“Thank you, father, I shall always remember that.”

Games and new contests were beginning. Just as Swift Hawk’s father had told him, his time would come and sooner than he expected. In the foot race he ran much faster than any of his fellow braves, winning easily. Swift Hawk was as good a winner as he had been a good loser, boasting to no one about his victory.

SINGING EAGLE’S FIRST CLOTHES

The Huron tribe were a rather typical tribe of the Eastern woodlands. They were a hunting and fishing tribe, and when their villages were built they were built to last for a long time.

In this particular village of the Hurons, there lived a young boy by the name of Singing Eagle. Now as was the custom among most of the tribes of that area, a young Indian child did not own any clothes at all until he reached the age of ten.

This particular day was to be a great one for Singing Eagle, but when he woke that late summer morning, it was just another day for him.

After eating his breakfast, he dashed away to play with the other children. Meanwhile back at the wigwam, Singing Eagle’s mother, Early Dawn, was very busy indeed. For many days and nights she had been working quite hard making Singing Eagle his first real set of clothing.

Singing Eagle’s father had hunted the big brown buck early last spring and his long chase had finally been rewarded, when he was able to shoot and kill a very fine large buck. Carefully skinning the buck, he had returned both the skin and the meat to his wigwam, where his wife immediately set to work tanning the skin in preparation for making it into a winter outfit for young Singing Eagle.

When the skin had been carefully tanned, Singing Eagle’s mother had fashioned from it a pair of leggings. The leggings of the woodland Indian were made in matched pairs. They covered the whole leg and fitted rather snugly and were held up with a thong fastened to the waistbelt. The buckskin was sewn together with threads of sinew.

The shirt, which Singing Eagle’s mother was so proud of, had long sleeves and would reach to Singing Eagle’s knees, but above all the shirt was beautifully decorated with painted pictures. When Singing Eagle grew up, the paintings would be upon his future shirts and beadwork would also be added. The shirt was of buckskin.

Finally Singing Eagle’s mother proudly held up, for her husband to see, the beautiful moccasins. The moccasins of the woodland Indian were fashioned from one piece of skin and were soft-soled and often these too were decorated with beadwork. Here Singing Eagle’s mother had decided not to wait until her son grew any more, but had put a beautiful beaded design on the toe of each moccasin. This was to be a truly wonderful day.

After lunch, Singing Eagle lay down to rest, for he had been playing very hard that morning with the other children. When he awoke, he looked around and his eyes fairly jumped from his head. There at the foot of his bed was his first suit of clothing. Quickly he grasped them to him and hugged them, feeling how soft and pliable they were, following the many days of work.

Quickly he slipped into the clothes and when he was completely dressed, ran from the wigwam to find his father and show him his beautiful clothes. Soon he found his father at the edge of the village talking with two other braves of the tribe. All excited, he pulled at his father’s sleeve until his father turned and noticing the clothes, quickly changed his expression from anger to one of surprise.

“How handsome you look, my son. Your mother has done a fine job on your clothes. I wish that my shirts were as beautiful as the one you now wear upon your back. You look very much like a man now, my son.”

Singing Eagle was very proud that his father had noticed his clothes and given him such fine compliments. But time was wasting. As was customary when a young Indian boy received his first full set of clothing to wear, the rest of the day was spent in showing off his new clothes to his many friends. And so that day, in a matter of a couple of hours, the whole Huron village knew that Singing Eagle had his first real Indian suit, made from a fine buck that his father had shot just for him.

THE NEW TEPEE

The Blackfoot village was all astir to greet the new day. It was late in the springtime, and the great hunters of the tribe had been off to hunt the buffalo. Word had just reached the village that the hunt was over and the hunting party was on the way home.

This made Little Bird very happy, for she knew that her husband, Big Red Bear, would be returning to the tepee and that there would be much celebrating in the tribe. Everything must be made ready to greet the hunters.

The women of the village began dashing around preparing for the arrival of the hunting party. There was much to be done and much work lay ahead, now that the buffalo had been killed. The meat must be stored and some of it smoked, and the hides must be turned into new tepee covers and robes. All this would take place after the celebration, but still the women of the tribe knew they had a long job ahead.

The news was good. The hunt had been successful, and many buffalo had fallen before the weapons of the hunters. The buffalo had a good winter and were not thin or ragged. The grass had been full-grown and rich. Enough rain had fallen to provide the food and water necessary to make the buffalo fat and a good target for expert bowmen.

Soon all was in readiness and everyone waited impatiently for the first signs of the returning hunters. And then the signal came! A young brave on a shaggy brown pony came dashing through the village, announcing the arrival of the hunters.

Everyone was out to greet them and shout thanks and praise. Husbands and wives, fathers and children greeted each other warmly. The tribe was filled with joy.

Night came swiftly. Before long the beating drums told the people that the dancing and feasting was to begin. This celebration often lasted all night and sometimes into the next day; then as dancers tired, they would wander off to their tepees for the first really peaceful sleep since the hunting party had left the village.

Little Bird and her husband enjoyed the great feast and celebration. The next day Little Bird set to work on the buffalo skins for her family tepee. It had been a hard winter and the weather had damaged many Blackfoot homes. There were more than enough skins brought back by the hunters, so that those tepee coverings that had become worn and tattered could be replaced. So Little Bird set to work with the women of the tribe who were busy preparing and sewing together the buffalo hides to make new covers for the tepees.

One day Little Bird learned that a new tepee was to be built in the village. The old tepee of the chief had been damaged so badly by the winter snow and ice, and the poles had become so rotted, that the tribe agreed to build him a new tepee. The building of a new tepee was important because everybody in the tribe helped to make it. All the friends and neighbors would be invited to attend a great feast and when the feast was over, the women would begin sewing the skins together.

Little Bird and her husband went to the feast. When it was over, Little Bird sat down with the rest of the women and, taking up her bone needle, began to sew two buffalo hides together. The cutting of the skins had been entrusted to Slow Water, the wife of Black Fox, the tribe’s best hunter, since she had great skill in judging the number of skins needed by their size and shape. They used no patterns, so only a woman with this kind of skill was asked to do the cutting.

As the sewing continued and the tepee walls began to take shape, even more whispering went on around Little Bird. When Little Bird asked one of her friends what it was all about, her friend would only say, “Be patient, Little Bird, for soon we shall all know what they have been whispering about.”

The next day the women who had been working on the skins came to the tepee of Little Bird. Because her husband was away, Little Bird invited the women to sit and talk. There was a great deal of laughter as the women sat down. Slow Water, the skillful cutter, had been chosen to speak to Little Bird for all of them.

“Little Bird,” she began, “we are here to ask you to do something for our tribe. You always have a smile for everyone wherever you go in the village. As you know, we must choose someone who is always cheerful to work on the smoke flaps for the new tepee. We are here to ask you, Little Bird, to work on the smoke flaps of the new tepee, so that your happy spirit will be woven into the flap and the smoke will depart from the tepee evenly and smoothly.”

Little Bird smiled. Her heart was happy. This was truly a great honor. Now she understood why all the whispering had been going on the last couple of days.

“I will be happy to help sew the smoke flaps of the new tepee. It is a great honor for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

And some say that as long as that tepee stood, the chief never had to worry about the smoke rising out of the tepee easily, even on stormy, windy nights. The Indians believed that the happy spirit of Little Bird really lived in that flap.

LITTLE DOVE LEARNS TO WEAVE

When Little Dove, a Winnebago baby girl, was born she had everything a new-born baby could ask for. First of all, her father was chief of the Winnebagos, and her mother was considered one of the most beautiful women in the tribe.

There were many relatives who came to view the new child and left many precious gifts for her.

When she was born, Little Dove was strapped to a cradle board and carried by her mother in this fashion. Each day her mother would unwrap her and clean her body all over and massage her little limbs. Then she was wrapped once again on the board, and life continued this way until the baby was able to walk.

She was always fed when she was hungry and was never but a few feet from her mother’s side. But soon Little Dove began to walk and so she left the cradle board and began to run and play with the other children in the out of doors.

Everyone was affectionate and indulgent toward the girl as Indians always were toward their children. Soon, however, they realized that Little Dove was beginning to grow up. Little Dove was already ten summers old, when her mother called her to the side of their home to talk with her.

“Little Dove,” she commenced, “you must start to prepare for your life later on as a wife and a mother. If you are to be a good wife, you must learn the work that all Indian women must do.”

Most Indian girls welcomed this advice from their mothers, but Little Dove was different. Because she was the chief’s daughter some people had given her the idea that she would be waited upon for the rest of her life—if not by her mother or other women of the tribe, then eventually by her husband. When she told this to her mother, her mother tried to explain, but Little Dove did not want to listen and simply walked away.

Soft Feather, her mother, was very much concerned and went to talk to her husband. But just as many fathers do even today, the chief said,

“Be patient, she is young and she will learn.”

Soft Feather was quite disturbed and each day she would ask Little Dove to come and begin to learn, but each day Little Dove would run off to play with the younger children while the older children were busy learning the work that goes with adult life.

One day young Little Dove noticed an Indian boy that she had seen several times sitting by himself shaping a bow.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I am shaping a bow so that when I marry I will have a fine weapon with which to bring down the running deer.”

For a long while Little Dove sat with the young boy, and nothing more was said. Finally the young brave rose and, bidding good-bye to Little Dove, started for his home.

Little Dove was now twelve and each day she would see the young boy at work or play. Finally she went to her mother.

“Mother, the young boy who has the pretty belt and bone-handled knife, who is he?”

“That, my daughter, is your father’s best friend’s son, Straight Arrow. Why, do you like him especially?”

“I like him a lot.”

Several weeks passed, and one day as Little Dove was idling her time away dangling her feet in a stream, young Straight Arrow came to the water’s edge to wash some dirt from his arms and legs. He had been working in the garden with his father and now was going to clean up. Little Dove looked directly at him and said,

“Are you planning on taking a wife very soon, Straight Arrow?”

“I suppose so, Little Dove, for I am almost sixteen and my father said that I should be married now.”

“I too am planning to be married soon,” said Little Dove.

“Can you cook, or sew, or weave baskets?”

“No, I cannot do those things. Will I have to?”

“Well, I do not know about you but any girl that I marry must be able to do that and lots more. Well, I must be going now. It is time for lunch and I am very hungry and my sister is a very good cook.”

With that, Straight Arrow left the side of the stream and he left behind a very angry Little Dove.

Little Dove rushed home and told her mother what had happened. When she had finished blurting out her story, her mother said,

“And now what do you want me to do about it, my Little Dove?”

“Mother, will you teach me to weave baskets and sew and cook?”

So the lessons began that very afternoon. The cooking was easy but when it came to the weaving, that was a little more difficult and it was a long time before Little Dove could weave a basket that looked like a basket.

First, she and her mother would gather some thin ash and linden trees. These had to be straight and free of knots. They they would strip them of the bark. These they pounded until they came apart in long splints. Then these were dyed and woven into baskets. Also Little Dove learned how to make shredded basswood fibers. These were made almost the same way except that they were made into a strong thread by twisting them and rolling them against the thigh of one’s leg. These threads were used to weave belts and tump lines and square bags.

Soon Little Dove had become quite expert at cooking and sewing and weaving, and once again she looked for Straight Arrow. She found him one day seated by a small stream that ran near the village. She sat down and began throwing pebbles into the stream.

“I have learned to cook and to weave and to sew, Straight Arrow,” she said rather quickly.

“That is good,” he answered, “for now you will make someone a good wife.” With that he rose and walked slowly back to the village. Little Dove sat and cried. When she could cry no longer she sat and looked into the water until it was dark, and then she returned to the village. Her mother was waiting for her.

“Your father wishes to speak with you, Little Dove.”

“Yes, my father, you sent for me?”

“Little Dove, today a young brave came to see me. He wants you for his wife and he has offered me many fine horses. I think he will make you a good husband, so in four moons’ time you will be married, my daughter.”

Little Dove felt her heart sink.

“Who is it that has asked to marry me, father?”

“Straight Arrow, son of Big Bow, my daughter, for today you told him you could weave.”

Father and daughter smiled at each other, and then Little Dove left to talk with her mother and tell her how wrong a foolish young Indian girl could be.

RED CLOUD’S DREAM

Red Cloud was a young Algonquin lad who played and romped in his village along with the other young Indian braves and girls. He was a tall Indian for his age and quite good looking.

As was the custom among the Algonquins, however, no child, boy or girl, would be considered mature until he or she had a dream in which the powers of nature promised success and courage in his or her adult life.

Red Cloud entered adolescence and he knew that the time was fast approaching when he would be required to spend many lonely nights in the forest, fasting and waiting, until the Thunderbird, the Sun, or other powers of nature had spoken to him.

Each day Red Cloud would awake and expect his father to call him to inform him that today was the day. But many days passed, and still Great Cloud did not call for his son. Soon with the excitement of the games and the learning of lessons from his father concerning the use of weapons and tracking, the problem of coming into maturity left the mind of Red Cloud and going off alone into the forest was the farthest thing from his mind.

Each day in the beginning as he had padded along the trail with his father he had expected to be told of the ordeal he must go through, but as each day passed and nothing was said, Red Cloud began to look forward to his lessons and to forget even the possibility of anything else on these daily walks.

Several months passed, and Red Cloud became quite a good hunter and tracker and his ability with the bow was unchallenged. His father was very proud of him and each day as they returned along the trail, Great Cloud walked with his arm lovingly across the shoulders of his son.

One afternoon when they had returned from tracking a deer, Great Cloud summoned Red Cloud to his wigwam. Red Cloud thought that he might have done something on the hunt which displeased his father, but he entered the wigwam walking straight and proud as his father had taught him. Great Cloud motioned for his son to be seated and when he had done so, Great Cloud began to speak.

“My son, in your dreams have any of the powers of nature appeared to you promising success and courage in your adult life? Now think hard, for this is very important.”

Then and only then did Red Cloud realize that the time had come for him to be put to the test. Now he realized that his father was asking him whether he was a mature Indian brave or whether he was still a child.

“No, father, I have had no dream in which the powers of nature appeared.”

“Then you know, my son, what you have to do,” answered Great Cloud. “These many weeks you have probably wondered why I have not called you to me before. It was because I felt that you were not ready to bear the ordeal of spending many lonely nights in the forest alone. When one retires to the deep green of the forest to await the voice of the Thunderbird or the Sun or other powers of nature, one must go alone with just his weapons. Your education has been such that you would not have been able to survive in the forest very long before now, and that is why I have so carefully trained you in the many ways of nature and the forest these past few weeks. As you know, before you may be considered a mature Indian in the Algonquin tribe you must first hear the voice of one of the powers of nature promising you courage and success in your adult life. Are you now prepared to go into the great forest and endure this ordeal?”

Red Cloud hesitated, for he knew that his answer must be a straightforward one and honest, for truth was a sacred thing to the Indians.

“O my father, I must be truthful, for so you have taught me in my younger days. I have listened and watched patiently each day as I trotted at your heels along the trail and I have locked away in my heart and in my mind all the careful little bits of information you have given to me which would make me a boy worthy to be called the son of Great Cloud. The forest has been a friendly place to me, for I have spent many happy hours there with you. Now I am faced with a decision which I must make here and now, and all I can say to you, father, is that I, Red Cloud, your son, am ready to go into the great forest to await the word from the powers of nature.”

Great Cloud placed his hands upon the shoulders of his son and smiling at him said, “You have spoken well, my son. Tomorrow you shall leave for the forest and look for a place where you will not be disturbed. Take with you your weapons and your blanket, but no other goods such as food, for you must fast while you await the dream.”

With that Red Cloud departed from the wigwam to prepare for his journey the following morning.

There was no sleep for the young Red Cloud that evening, as he thought of his coming trip into the big forest. Finally the early light of dawn peeked through the door of the wigwam and before most of the village was even astir, Red Cloud was up from his bed and had gathered his precious weapons and his blanket for the trip.

He bade good-bye to his mother, Morning Star, and his father, Great Cloud, and started for the forest.

It was a beautiful morning. The bright sun shone down through the leaves of the great green trees of the forest and the spring flowers were all in gay bloom, dressed in their finest colors of reds, blues, yellows, purples, and oranges. As he trotted along the trail Red Cloud could hear overhead the many different calls and songs of the forest birds. Occasionally there was a rustle along the side of the trail or a rabbit would scamper across the path of Red Cloud.

Once through the branch of a low-hanging birch tree, Red Cloud saw the magnificent body of a full-grown buck with six points. Oh, how he regretted that he was not upon a hunting trip, for wouldn’t that buck have made a beautiful trophy to bring back to the village?

The buck, too, seemed to be aware of the reason for Red Cloud’s journey, for though the boy moved carefully he did stir the leaves as he walked and though the buck turned his majestic head he did not move from his spot in the glen of the forest.

Red Cloud smiled to himself, recalling words of his father, “Sometimes the wild animals seem to sense the reason for your journey and fear not the approach of a warrior who is not on a hunt.” At the time Red Cloud had not thought much about the statement but here beside the trail it had been proved to him by the actions of the majestic buck.

Soon Red Cloud felt that he had journeyed deep enough into the forest along the well-known trails, so he turned from the path to go into the forest where no trail was known to him. It was not easy going, for he had to cut small brush from his path. Occasionally he would take a small piece of bark from the side of a tree to mark the direction he had taken in order to find his way back to the main trail.

Soon he came to a stream and stooped to drink of the cool refreshing water. As he stood up once again he gazed up through the opening in the trees and noticed that evening was fast approaching and soon it would be dark. So he moved on more rapidly and he noticed that his direction was taking him up the side of a small ridge. Finally, tired and realizing that darkness would soon be upon him, Red Cloud decided to stop and make his camp. He found that where he had chosen to stop, there was a small formation of rocks which provided a natural shelter from the cool evening breezes.

Within the shelter of these rocks he built himself a small fire and then, wrapping his blanket around him, settled down to sleep through the comforting night, hoping as all boys do that the dream would come to him on this, his first night and that he could return to the warmth and shelter of his friendly wigwam and his family on the following day. But also Red Cloud was prepared to spend many days, if the need arose and many nights, for he had been taught endurance by his father.

The night passed quickly, and suddenly Red Cloud opened his eyes to the rays of the sun and a new day. Climbing from under the folds of his blanket he realized that he was quite thirsty and hungry. Water he could seek and drink, but he realized that until he had the dream he was to partake of no food regardless of how long he must wait. Unless, of course, he desired to return to the village and report that the spirits had not spoken to him in a dream and then as was the custom of his tribe he would be considered a poor unfortunate person with little hope of success in life. So Red Cloud put the thoughts of food from his mind and started in search of water.

In the great forest one did not have to look too far for water because all through the great forest there ran many streams of clear cool water. So it was not long before Red Cloud found such a stream and, after splashing the icy cold water in his face to chase the sleep from his eyes, he drank deeply until his thirst was satisfied. Then turning from the stream he started back toward his camp.

When he arrived back at his blanket, he spread it on the ground and then lay down to gaze up into the sky through the openings in the trees. He passed an hour or more making wonderful pictures in his mind from the formation of clouds that floated overhead across the heavens. Billowy white puffs of smoke they seemed to be, and Red Cloud marveled at how soft and pure they looked. But soon his restless heart made him rise from the blanket and he decided to explore. He started for the top of the ridge many miles away and when he had reached there he knelt, turning his head toward the heavens and raising his arms. And so as if reaching for the sun he made his prayers to the great Wakanda.

When he had knelt in this position for an hour or more he rose to start down the ridge toward his campsite again, planning to go in another direction from the campsite and eventually explore the whole surrounding area. It was then that he noticed a slight stirring in the brush. Quickly Red Cloud dropped behind a shelter of rock and watched the spot in the brush. He did not know what to expect, for this part of the forest was strange to him and he did not know what might be hidden in the brush. Then as he watched the brush he realized that the slight breeze that was blowing would be carrying his scent right toward whatever was concealed in the patch of brush.

Then he saw it was a tremendous brown bear which was six feet tall on its hind feet. Evidently the bear had been eating blueberries from the bushes which covered the side of the ridge and had suddenly become aware of the presence of someone or something which was foreign to him. The bear was now raised up on his hind paws in order to look over the tops of the bushes and see if he could discover this thing which had invaded his feeding grounds.

Red Cloud crouched even lower behind the rock, for he knew that a brown bear could be very mean, especially when he was hungry. Then Red Cloud thought of his weapons. In seeking water he had left his weapons at the campsite and had nothing with him but his hunting knife, which he felt would do him little good against a mad full-grown brown bear. So the best thing he could do was to attempt to circle the bear and get downwind from him so that the bear could no longer smell him. But he must do it by keeping out of sight.

Slowly Red Cloud edged himself out from behind the rock, keeping his body pressed close to the ground. Before he started to move he noticed that the bear had settled down to feeding once again. The breeze had died down but there was always the danger of a quick gust again and Red Cloud realized he was still in a dangerous position. He hugged the ground as hard as he could and continued to squirm away from and around this dangerous bear.

Then Red Cloud was aware of another danger. Having gone without food for almost two whole days, he was not the strong lad that he would have been when eating two hearty meals a day. He wondered, if the bear did see him, whether he would be able to run fast enough to get away from the bear. But getting downwind was the most important thing at this time, so Red Cloud continued to crawl and the rough stones on the forest floor cut through his shirt and into his skin, scraping it raw; but the more it hurt the harder Red Cloud pressed his body against the friendly earth.

He slowly raised his head and realized that he was now almost completely downwind from the bear and that the big fellow had gone back to munching the berries. For what seemed like hours, Red Cloud lay quietly in hiding behind a great oak tree, not daring to look out for fear the bear would be looking around just at the time he peeked out from behind the tree.

And then it happened. Red Cloud had been lying so still, afraid to move, that suddenly he felt his leg go numb and he realized that his leg had gone to sleep. He moved it slightly to bring circulation and life back into it and in so doing he dislodged a fairly large stone which began its noisy fall down the side of the ridge and as it rolled it would click against other stones and they too would join the miniature landslide. Red Cloud huddled behind the tree and then he heard a low growl. He decided he had better take a chance and glance from behind the tree, and as he did his heart leapt, for the bear was looking almost right at him. The bear let out another terrible growl, and then from above where Red Cloud lay in hiding, the young brave heard another growl.

Slowly turning his head so that he could look up the ridge, he saw the reason for the bear’s sudden anger. His berry patch had been invaded by another large brown bear who was now growling out a challenge. If either bear had spotted Red Cloud, he was forgotten now, for they had eyes only for each other and possession of the berry patch was the prize which they both sought.

With mighty growls they dropped to all fours and charged at each other. Red Cloud, at first fascinated by this battle between two creatures of the forest, stood rooted to his hiding place, but then thought more wisely of it and taking the chance offered him by the two bears being involved in a battle to the death, ran as swiftly as he could down the ridge and away from the danger that threatened his very life.

He did not stop running until he had reached his campsite miles away and then, throwing himself flat on the ground, thanked the great Wakanda for sparing him from this danger which had threatened and for bringing him safely to his campsite.

Once again he offered his prayers to the powers of nature and then, wrapping himself in his blanket and building up the fire, he settled down for the night.

It was during the warm sleep of that evening brought on by the fatigue of his day’s adventure that Red Cloud had his dream. In his dream the great Thunderbird appeared to him telling him that he would have much courage added to the courage already in his heart and that as an adult in the tribe he would have a great deal of success in all he attempted. Upon awakening at the first rays of the dawn, Red Cloud felt suddenly refreshed. He had been visited in his dreams and now could return to the village.

Gathering his weapons he put out the embers of the fire he had made and scattered the dead ashes. Then with a light heart and a quick step he started back upon the path he had blazed until he reached the main trail. There he quickened his step and just as dusk was beginning to fall, entered the village, being welcomed warmly by his many friends. His father and several of the lesser chiefs were at the door of his father’s wigwam and that evening a council was held at the central lodge.

There Red Cloud rose before the male members of his tribe and recounted his adventures in the great forest, closing by repeating his dream. As he finished there were many grunts of approval and words of praise.

But Great Cloud said nothing, and Red Cloud wondered about this until he looked into the eyes of his great father; and there he saw the fire of pride burning brightly and in his heart he was very happy. Together father and son left the central lodge that evening, and true to the dream, Red Cloud grew in the tribe to become one of its greatest warriors.

This story is based upon an incident in the life of Red Cloud, an
Algonquin warrior, as told to the author by John Fitch, a farmer from
Vermont.

BROKEN TOOTH AND THE WAR BONNET

The Apache warriors had been waiting a long time for this revenge upon the maurauding Kiowas and now the time had come. The leader of the Apache band raised his hand and the attack was on. The Apache war party swept down the hillside into the midst of the Kiowa camp. The camp had been caught off guard and the raiding Apaches were making short work of the few Kiowa braves who would stand and fight.

Broken Tooth, one of the most honored warriors of the Apache tribe, rode down to a Kiowa brave and touched him with his coup stick. Then he rode on a short ways, turned abruptly and sent an arrow into the Kiowa’s chest.

The battle was short and furious. The Apache raiders withdrew from the village and slowly returned home to count their coup and to sing of their victory at the great council. As they rode, Broken Tooth was thinking ahead to the great council that night. After this raid today a great event would take place in his tepee on the morrow.

The party entered the camp and there was much rejoicing. Finally, the evening meal was eaten and the word was sent out that the council would meet to hear the deeds of the day.

When all the men of the tribe had gathered in the council lodge, they rose one by one to recount their deeds of the day. Finally, Broken Tooth rose and told of his riding down upon the Kiowa warrior and touching him with his coup stick. He then related his other exploits of the day. The great chief rose from his place and then he spoke, “Broken Tooth, you have been a brave warrior and you have earned many honors. Today you have added even more honors for your brave deeds.”

The council then broke up, but the following day word was passed that Broken Tooth was on that day going to make a new headdress. As was the custom, the men of the tribe gathered that afternoon in the tepee of Broken Tooth and all his feathers were spread upon the ground. They were then sorted according to size, and the making of the headdress began. As each feather was being prepared for the headdress, Broken Tooth recounted for the men the story of the deed that had won him that feather. The men would listen and smoke and grunt approval after each story. Finally, the bonnet was finished and there was no more beautiful piece of handiwork in the whole village.

The following day there were reports from the scouts that the Arapaho were banding together and would be attacking in force. The Apaches gathered their warriors and rode forth to meet the enemy. A large plain between the two villages was picked as the place of battle and the tribes met in both hand-to-hand and long-range battle. It was a hard-fought battle and soon both tribes withdrew, bearing their dead and wounded.

Among the dead was Broken Tooth. As his body was borne back to the Apache village many praised the beauty of the war bonnet which had been worn so proudly by its owner for a single day.

GREY SQUIRREL HEARS HIS NAME

The Oneidas were a tribe of the Iroquois Nation which had swept north to invade the lands of the Algonquins, spreading death and destruction. After having beaten all the surrounding Algonquin tribes badly, the Iroquois tribes fell to fighting among themselves—the Onondagas, Mohawks, Cayugas, and Senecas, as well as the Oneidas. This constant bloodshed in the Mohawk valley in time weakened the tribes so that they were always in danger of attack from the revenge-seeking Algonquins.

It was during this unhappy time that a young brave, Grey Squirrel, lived among the Oneida people. He was not an unusual Indian. He was of average build with average good looks and average abilities. He took part in only the things the average young man in his tribe enjoyed—hunting, fishing, trapping, and doing all the things they did. However, there was one difference that set Grey Squirrel aside from his brothers of the tribe: Grey Squirrel had never heard his name spoken by the chiefs of the tribe. All the other braves of his age had either heard the chiefs call their names while on the hunt, at a tribal ceremony, or while walking in the woods or swimming in the stream.

So Grey Squirrel began to wonder whether he had ever done anything which, in the eyes of the chiefs, made him unworthy. He had fought in great battles, but he had never been cowardly. So cowardice could not be the reason. He had never failed to hunt well, to keep his wigwam warm and sturdy, and to see that there was enough food for all the family. He could see no way in which he had been unworthy of the chiefs’ notice. Often Grey Squirrel would walk by the quiet stream and ponder the reason for his being a brave forgotten by the chiefs.

As Grey Squirrel’s heart grew troubled, he sought the wise advice of his father, Grey Owl. One evening, he approached his father’s wigwam and asked if he might speak with him about something which tormented his mind. Grey Owl invited him into his home and they both sat cross-legged around the small fire in the center of the wigwam. There was a long period of silence and then Grey Owl spoke.

“What is it that troubles you so deeply, my son? I have often watched you wander from the village to the near-by stream and sit and ponder. I have watched you return with a downcast look from the hunt or battle when you should have been joyful that your bow had proven straight and true in whatever task you set for it.” His father paused. “Speak, my son, unburden your heart to your father who has loved you and guided you from babyhood to fine young manhood.”

Grey Squirrel looked long at his father and as he watched his father’s eyes, his face softened and he said, “O wise and kind father, many years I walked the forest trails at your heels carefully watching every move, imitating all that you taught me to the best of my ability. Many, many hours we spent together beneath the sheltering branches of the towering oak trees, listening with our ears to the voices of the forest. You taught me how to listen and what to listen for, so that my ears have grown very keen. Today the deer may not tread the forest floor that I do not hear, nor the rabbit scurry for cover that I cannot uncover the entrance to his home, nor the bluebird set his wings for flight that I cannot immediately see his starting place. And yet, dear father, there is one sound I have listened for and have not heard.”

Grey Owl had been listening calmly to all that his young son had to say. Surprise crossed his face with his son’s last words, and then a gentle smile came upon his lips. “Tell me, Grey Squirrel, what is this sound you listen so hard for but cannot hear?”

“O father,” Grey Squirrel said, “I have listened for the voices of our great chiefs calling my name, but to this day I have not heard them. Am I not in favor with those who watch over our tribe and guide our feet along the safe paths? Tell me, father, why do I not hear my name spoken by them? I have listened along the forest trails or in the din of battle. I have lain awake in the quiet of my wigwam listening for just a whisper. All the other braves of our village are proud that they have heard their names repeated by the chiefs. I alone have not. What is wrong, father? I have come to you to seek your wise answer.”

Grey Owl lowered his eyes to the ground as he searched his thoughts for the right reply. Then he lifted his head slowly and studied his son’s face. He began to speak slowly and kindly. “My son, you have made one very great mistake. Without having meant to do so, you have done the one thing which could have prevented you from hearing the chiefs call your name.”

“Tell me, father,” Grey Squirrel said impatiently, “tell me what it is!”

Grey Owl rose and walked behind his son. Placing his hands upon the young man’s shoulders, he said, “Because you have walked in search of their praise you have spent many hours expecting to hear them praise you. Do not listen so hard, my son. Live your life the best you know how. One day you shall be rewarded by hearing the voices of the chiefs who watch over our tribe. Do not be troubled any longer. Return to your wigwam and your family and continue to be a good husband and father. If you allow it to worry you greatly, it will soon hurt your whole life. You are young, my son. You have not been forgotten.”

Grey Squirrel rose then, and faced his father. “Father,” he said, “your words are of little comfort. But I will follow your advice, for it has been wise and good through the years of my youth.” With that, Grey Squirrel turned and left his father’s wigwam.

He returned to his own home and was greeted warmly by his good wife, Morning Star, who had prepared a fine meal for him. All through his dinner, Grey Squirrel thought carefully about his father’s words. But when he went to bed that evening, he decided that he should drive these troubled thoughts from his mind. The weeks that followed were very pleasant for Grey Squirrel. The hunting and fishing were good. Everything was going well. The people of the village saw the sudden change in Grey Squirrel and the fact that he no longer appeared worried. Grey Squirrel felt better, greeting each new day happily.

One day Grey Squirrel shouldered his bow and chose his best arrows. Bidding his family good-bye, he started toward the forest to hunt for fresh meat for his family. He trotted easily along the forest trail, stopping now and then to study the ground and look for signs of moving game.

He had been on the trail for a while when he came to a narrow stream. Stooping to drink of the fresh, cool water, he stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth. He blinked his eyes and looked again into the stream, not moving a muscle. There, in a quiet pool next to his reflection was that of the head and antlers of a beautiful deer. Slowly the brave lifted his head until he was looking straight into the eyes of a magnificent buck standing directly across the stream, almost within reach. As Grey Squirrel straightened up slowly, the buck shied a little and backed off. Many thoughts passed through Grey Squirrel’s head, but the one which puzzled him most was why the buck shied only a little and then stood and watched him without any sign of fear after that.

Grey Squirrel lowered a hand slowly to reach for his bow which he had placed upon the ground as he was kneeling to drink. Grasping the bow firmly, he fitted an arrow onto the bow string and took careful aim. The great buck’s eyes stayed his hand from releasing the arrow and made him lower the bow. His mind told Grey Squirrel that this buck would provide good food, but his heart told him to stop. Then he noticed that the deer was favoring his right hoof and realized that the buck had an injury. The leg just above the hoof was swollen to almost twice its normal size. Grey Squirrel dropped his bow and arrow to the ground, and with careful and even steps, waded across the stream toward the buck.

The animal suddenly turned as if to spring into the forest, but his leg collapsed under him and he fell to the ground. Grey Squirrel guessed that the deer must have already used up his strength in escaping from whatever had caused the injury, had come to the stream to bathe the injured leg, and could go no further. Now the buck was struggling to rise and Grey Squirrel jumped quickly to his side. Firmly but gently, the Indian placed one knee against the buck’s side, one hand on the animal’s chest, the other on the buck’s neck to hold him steady. The animal was frightened and trembled. Grey Squirrel spoke softly to the buck and began to stroke its side, each time managing to bring his hand a little closer to the injured hoof. Finally the buck seemed to sigh and relaxed as though he understood that this man wanted to help him.

Grey Squirrel leaned over to look at the injured leg more closely. The buck apparently had run into some heavy brambles and a large thorn had lodged in the soft part of the leg just above the hoof, which had become infected and had begun to fester. Grey Squirrel took his knife from his belt and pressed the point of the blade into the flesh beside the thorn. The buck’s leg quivered slightly. Then the thorn and a misty fluid spurted from the wound. Grey Squirrel took wet leaves and mud from the bed of the stream and laid them over the wound. All through this operation the buck lay still, allowing Grey Squirrel to do as he pleased. The animal continued to lie there quietly as though waiting for any more help the Indian might gave him.