THE WINTER HUNT
The new home proved to be a good one. Each time the hunters went forth they returned with a load of game. The squaws were kept busy drying buffalo and bear meat, packing away the marrow and cleaning the bones and skins. Every part of the animals was put to some use.
The days of the long, cold winter were at hand, and all must work busily. Timid Hare had much to do, but sometimes she was allowed to play outside of the tepee with other children; they were kinder to her now that she lived in the chief's home. She had plenty to eat, and Sweet Grass and her mother treated her well, but she longed for something that was lacking here but was freely given in the old home: it was love.
The snow fell thick and fast. It covered the prairie for miles in every direction. In some places it was deeper than Timid Hare was tall. A thick crust formed over the top.
Young Antelope set to work to make himself new snowshoes. As he bent the hoops for the frames and crossed them with networks of leather strings. Timid Hare looked on with longing. She had had snowshoes of her own before, and she had enjoyed skimming over the snow fields on them, but they were far away--very far away.
"I will help you make some shoes," Young Antelope told her, when he caught the look. "You can do the easy part, and I will do the hard."
Timid Hare was pleased because Young Antelope did not notice her very often. The snowshoes were soon made and the little girl longed to try them.
The very next day Young Antelope went out with the men on a winter hunt. There were large stores of meat in the village, but the cold was bitter and more warm buffalo robes were needed for beds and coverlets. Moreover, at this time of the year the fur of the animals was heaviest.
"It will be easy to get our prey," Bent Horn said to his son the night before the hunt. "There is little snow on the south slopes of the hills, where the buffaloes will be feeding. We can take them by surprise and drive them down into the ice-crusted fields. They are so heavy that their feet will fall through. Then the hunter can draw near on his swift snowshoes, and will pierce the heart of his prey with his spear without trouble."
"I will be such a hunter on the morrow," the youth had replied. "My spear is already sharpened. It shall bring death to more than one of the creatures that provide us with comfort through the moon of difficulty," as he had been taught to call the month of January.
As Young Antelope skimmed along over the snow fields next morning, he thought more than once of the little captive at home.
"She behaves well," he said to himself, "and she will be a good homekeeper when she is older. It may be--it may be--that I will yet choose her for my wife."
Young Antelope was only sixteen years old, but he was already thinking of getting married! It was the way of his people. The girls married even younger than the boys--sometimes when only twelve or thirteen years had passed over their heads. It was therefore not strange that the chief's son should be considering what wife he would choose.
With many of the braves away on the hunt, the village was quiet, and the squaws took a little vacation from their work, as on the morrow they must be very busy caring for the supplies brought home by the hunters.
In the afternoon Sweet Grass said kindly: "Timid Hare, you have been a good girl and worked hard of late. You may have the rest of the day for play. Try your new snowshoes, if you like."
The rest of the day--two whole hours before sunset! It seemed too good to be true. Never had such a thing happened to the child since she left the home of the Mandans.
Without wasting a moment, Timid Hare got the snowshoes and left the tepee. For a moment she looked about her to see if any other little girl would like to join her in a skim over the fields. But all seemed busy at their games, and even now she was not enough at home with any one of them to ask them to leave their own play and go off with her, a captive.
So, binding on the shoes, she started off alone. What fun it was to move so fast and so smoothly! How clear was the air! How delightful it was to feel the blood rushing freely through every part of her body! Her cheeks tingled pleasantly; her heart beat with joy.
Mile after mile the child darted on in the opposite direction from that taken by the hunters in the morning. So happy, so free felt the child that she forgot how far she was travelling. Sometimes there were little rolls in the land. She would get up her speed as she approached them, so as to have force enough to reach the summit of a roll with ease. And then what fun it was to travel like the wind down the other side!
On, on, on! and then suddenly, Timid Hare came to herself. Where was the village? In what direction? Could she not see smoke rising somewhere behind her, telling of the fires burning in the homes of the people?
There was nothing, nothing, to guide her back--only some fields apparently untrodden in every direction. So light was the little girl's body that her shoes had rarely pressed through the crust. The short winter day was near its end. A bank of clouds was gathering about the setting sun, they told of an approaching storm; so also spoke the chill wind that blew in the child's face.
Fright clutched at Timid Hare's heart. She thought of the power of the storm-king. Here, in the snowy wilderness, it seemed that she must perish. Was there no one to turn to in this time of danger? Yes.
"Help me, Great Spirit," cried the child, lifting her hands towards the sky where she believed He dwelt.
With that cry came a feeling that somehow her prayer would be answered. And at the same time Timid Hare remembered the little sock which she always carried in her bosom. She pressed a hand against the place where it should rest. Yes, it was safe.
"White Mink had faith in it. So will I," Timid Hare said to herself. Many a time during the hard days with The Stone, she had repeated the same words. It had always helped her to do so.
And now she turned in the direction she hoped was the village of the Dahcotas, but her feet felt numb. It was hard to travel. Hark! what was that? It seemed as though men's voices could be heard shouting to each other in the distance. They came nearer. Could it be that Sweet Grass had sent some of the village boys out after her?
Nearer! Nearer! Timid Hare stood still, listening. If they would only hurry! She suddenly felt drowsy--the snow-chill was benumbing her whole body, and somehow she no longer cared whether she was found or not. She tottered, fell.
The next thing she knew, she was lying in the arms of a man with kind blue eyes. He was smiling at her, and he was white! Another man, white like himself, was rubbing her arms and legs.
"All right now," the first man was saying to the other. "Poor little thing! How did she ever get out here? That Dahcota village is a good dozen miles from here, and the child's moccasins tell that she is of that tribe."
"We must waste no time in getting farther away from them ourselves," replied the other. "Little time would be wasted in taking our scalps if they caught us alone."
"But we can't leave this helpless creature," said the first speaker. "Do you know, Ben, she must be about the age of my own little daughter if--" The man's voice broke suddenly.
"Poor fellow--yes, I understand. You never will get over that blow. But, really, Tom, we must not stay here. The savages may be upon us any moment. Here, use this. It may bring her to."
The speaker held out a bottle of cordial which the man who held Timid Hare held to her lips. She tried to swallow, but it choked her.
"There," she said with a gasp, "it is enough," and she lifted herself up.
"Good," said both men, who knew a little of the Indian tongue.
"Oh, but my shoe!" cried the little girl in fright. It had slipped a little from its usual resting place, and she now missed it. In spite of being alone on the snow-covered prairie, with two strangers, her first thought was of the little talisman White Mink had given into her keeping. Oh! she could feel it pressing against her waist, and she gave a happy sigh.
In the meantime, the men had decided that it would be best to take the child to their camp. The rest could be settled afterwards.
"Can you trust yourself to your snowshoes again?" the man whom his friend called Tom asked her gently.
She nodded, and with the help of one of her companions, they were bound on her feet. A biscuit was now given her--she had never tasted its like before--and she ate greedily. This was followed by another swallow of the cordial, and the little girl was ready for the start.
Many miles were before her, but the men often took hold of her hands to give her fresh courage. Besides, she was greatly excited. What was coming? Were these strangers bringing her back to the village of the Dahcotas, or guiding her to something far different? From time to time one of the men struck a match--such a wonderful thing it seemed to Timid Hare--and looked at a tiny instrument he carried in his pocket. It seemed to tell him if they were travelling in the right direction. "How wise," thought Timid Hare, "the white people must be! Perhaps they are as wise as the medicine men!"
And she--why, she was of their own race, though her stained skin did not show it! At the thought, she lifted her hand to her side. Yes, her treasure was safe!
When it seemed to the child as if she could not move her feet longer, a faint light shone out in the distance. The camp of the white men would soon be reached.
When the travellers at last arrived at the journey's end there was great excitement among the men who were anxiously watching for the return of their two companions. They had feared that their friends had lost their way and been overcome by cold; or more probable, that they had been killed or captured by the Indians. They were in the Dahcota country,--this they knew; also that these Dahcotas were fierce warriors and hated the white men.
How surprised they were to see what they thought was an Indian child with their companions! How did it happen? What was to be done with her?
But now, as Timid Hare almost fell to the floor of the warm, brightly lighted tent, all saw that she was quite exhausted. She must be fed, and afterwards sleep. There would be time enough to question her next morning.
Hot soup was brought, and never, it seemed, had anything ever tasted so delicious to Timid Hare. And the heat of the burning logs--how pleasant it was! Timid Hare was too tired to be afraid, or even to think, and even as she ate, she fell sound asleep.
She awoke next morning with her hand clutching the place where the sock lay hidden, and saw a kind face bending over her. It belonged to the same man who had held her when she roused from the snow-chill.
"What is it?" he asked gently. He pointed to her hand.
"It is--my charm. It is to bring me good."
"May I see it?" The man's voice was so kind that it filled Timid Hare with perfect trust.
"You will--help me?" The child's eyes were full of pleading.
"Yes, little one."
Slowly Timid Hare drew forth the sock. It was faded and soiled, yet the pattern in which the silk had been woven into the worsted was quite plain.
"How did--Why, tell me at once how you got this." The man's voice was half stern, half pleading.
"It was--so." With this beginning Timid Hare repeated the story as White Mink had told it to her. Many a time she had since told it to herself during her hard life with The Stone. It was such a strange story--so full of wonder to her still. The wonder of it was in her voice even now.
The man listened with half-closed eyes, but saying never a word till she finished. Then, as in a dream, he said in a low tone: "It is my baby's sock--the pattern is one planned by my dear wife Alice who died out on this lonely prairie. And then--the sudden attack of the Dahcotas--and I made prisoner, while my baby Alice was left behind to perish. Afterwards I was rescued, though I cared little to live."
"But child, child," he burst out, "though your eyes have the same color, the same expression as those of my dear wife, your skin is that of the red people."
"I stained it--The Stone made me--and when I saw Sweet Grass liked me best so, I put on the color again and yet again."
"God be praised! I have found my darling who, I thought, was lost forever." The man lifted Timid Hare and clasped her tenderly in his arms. And she--well, the little girl rested there content and happy.
The next minute the rest of the party who had been out exploring, entered the tent with word that the start must be made at once. The clouds of the night before had lifted; the snow might not begin falling for several hours, and the most must be made of the morning towards reaching a larger camp where sledges would carry them a long ways towards a fur station.
Great was the joy of the others when they learned the good fortune that had come to their friend, and merry was the whole party as it made its way onward. Yes, Timid Hare, or rather Alice, now more like the Swift Fawn she had been, was merry too. But as she went on her way to the new and beautiful life that would soon be hers, she begged her father to take her back by-and-by for a visit to her foster-parents and Big Moose in the Mandan village on the river. And he promised gladly.