ROBIN REDBREAST
There was once a hunter who had only one son, and when his son grew up he said to him: “My son, I am growing old, and you must hunt for me.”
“Very well, father,” said his son, and he took his father’s bow and arrows and went out into the woods. But he was a dreamy boy, and forgot what he had come for, and spent the morning wondering at the beautiful flowers, and trees, and mosses, and hills, and valleys that he saw. When he saw a bird on a tree, he forgot that he had come to shoot it, and lay listening to its song; and when he saw a deer come down to drink at the stream he put down his bow and arrows and began to talk to the deer in the deer’s own language. At last he saw that the sun was setting. Then he looked round for his bow and arrows, and they were gone!
When he got home to the wigwam, his father met him at the door and said: “My son, you have had a long day’s hunting. Have you killed so much that you had to leave it in the woods? Let us go and fetch it together.”
The young man looked very much ashamed of himself, and said: “Father, I forgot all about the hunting. The woods, and the sky, and the flowers, and the birds, and the beasts were so interesting that I forgot all about what you had sent me to do.”
His father was in a terrible rage with him, and in the morning he sent him out again, with new bow and arrows, saying: “Take care that you don’t forget this time.”
The son went along saying to himself: “I mustn’t forget, I mustn’t forget, I mustn’t forget.” But as soon as a bird flew across the path he forgot all about what his father had said, and called to the bird in the bird’s own language, and the bird came and sat on the tree above him, and sang to him so beautifully all day that the young man sat as if he was dreaming till sunset.
“Oh dear!” said the young man, “what shall I do? My father will kill me if I go back without anything to eat.”
“Never mind,” said the bird; “if he kills you, we shall give you feathers and paint, and you can fly away and be a bird like ourselves.”
When the young man reached the village he scarcely dared to go near his father’s wigwam; but his father saw him coming, and ran to meet him, calling out in a hurry; “What have you brought? What have you brought?”
“I have brought nothing, father; nothing at all,” said the boy.
His father was angrier than ever, and in the morning he said: “Come with me. No more bow and arrows for you, and not a bite to eat, till I have taught you to be a hunter like any other good Indian.” So he took his son into the middle of the forest, and there built for him a little wigwam, with no door, only a little hole in the side.
“There!” said his father, when the young man was inside, and the wigwam was laced up tight. “When you have lived and fasted in this wigwam for twelve days, the spirit of a hunter will come into you.”
Every day the young man’s father came to see him, and every day the young man begged for food, till at last, on the tenth day, he could only beg in a whisper.
“No!” said his father. “In two days more you can both hunt and eat.”
On the eleventh day, when the father came and spoke to his son, he got no answer. Looking through the hole, he saw the lad lying as if he was dead on the ground; but when he called out aloud his son awoke, and whispered: “Father, bring me food! Give me some food!”
“No,” said his father. “You have only one day more to wait. To-morrow you will hunt and eat.” And he went away home to the village.
On the twelfth day the father came loaded with meal and meat. As he came near to the wigwam he heard a curious chirping sound, and when he looked through the hole in the wigwam he saw his son standing up inside, and painting his breast with bright red paint.
“What are you doing, my son? Come and eat! Here is meal and meat for you. Come and eat and hunt like a good Indian.”
But the son could only reply in a chirping little voice: “It is too late, father. You have killed me at last, and now I am becoming a bird.” And as he spoke he turned into the o-pe-che—the robin redbreast—and flew out of the hole and away to join the other birds; but he never flew very far from where men live.
The cruel father set out to go back to his wigwam; but he could never find the village again, and after he had wandered about a long time he lay down in the forest and died; and soon afterward the redbreast found him, and buried him under a heap of dry leaves. Every year after that, when the time of the hunter’s fast came round, the redbreast perched on his father’s empty wigwam and sang the song of the dead.
THE THREE WISHES
Once upon a time there were three brothers who set out on a visit to Goose-cap, the wise one, who said that any one might come and see him, and get a wish—just one wish, no more. The three brothers were seven years on the journey, climbing mountains that seemed to have no top, and scrambling through forests full of thorn-bushes, and wading through swamps where the mosquitoes tried to eat them up, and sailing down rivers where the rapids broke up their rafts and nearly drowned them.
At the end of seven years they heard Goose-cap’s dogs barking, so then they knew they were on the right road; and they went on for three months more, and the barking got a little louder every day, till at last they came to the edge of the great lake. Then Goose-cap saw them, and sailed over in his big stone canoe and took them to his island.
You never saw such a beautiful island as that was, it was so green and warm and bright; and Goose-cap feasted his visitors for three days and nights, with meats and fruits that they had never tasted before. Then he said: “Tell me what you want, and why you have taken so much trouble to find me.”
The youngest brother said: “I want to be always amusing, so that no one can listen to me without laughing.”
Then the great wise one stuck his finger in the ground, and pulled up a root of the laughing-plant and said: “When you have eaten this you will be the funniest man in the tribe, and people will laugh as soon as you open your lips. But see that you don’t eat it till you get home.”
The youngest brother thanked him, and hurried away; and going home was so easy that it only took seven days instead of seven years. Yet the young man was so impatient to try his wish that on the sixth morning he ate the root. All of a sudden he felt so light-headed that he began to dance and shout with fun: and the ducks that he was going to shoot for breakfast flew away laughing into the reeds over the river, and the deer ran away laughing into the woods, and he got nothing to eat all day.
Next morning he came to the village where he lived, and he wanted to tell his friends how hungry he was; but at the first word he spoke they all burst out laughing, and as he went on they laughed louder and louder—it seemed so funny, though they couldn’t hear a word he said, they made so much noise themselves. Then they got to laughing so hard that they rolled over and over on the ground, and squeezed their sides, and cried with laughing, till they had to run away into their houses and shut their doors, or they would have been killed with laughing. He called to them to come out and give him something to eat, but as soon as they heard him they began to laugh again; and at last they shouted that if he didn’t go away they would kill him. So he went away into the woods and lived by himself; and whenever he wanted to hunt he had to tie a strap over his mouth, or the mock-bird would hear him and begin to laugh, and all the other birds and beasts would hear the mock-bird and laugh and run away.
The second brother said to Goose-cap; “I want to be the greatest of hunters without the trouble of hunting. Why should I go after the animals if I could make them come to me?”
Goose-cap knew why; still, he gave the man a little flute, saying: “Be sure you don’t use it till after you have got home.”
Then the hunter set off; but on the sixth day he was getting so near home that he said to himself: “I’m sure Goose-cap couldn’t hear me now if I blew the flute very gently, just to try it.” So he pulled out the flute and breathed into it as gently as ever he could—but as soon as his lips touched it the flute whistled so long and loud that all the beasts in the country heard it and came rushing from north and south and east and west to see what the matter was. The deer got there first, and when they saw it was a man with bow and arrows they tried to run away again; but they couldn’t, for the bears were close behind, all round, and pushed and pushed till the deer were all jammed up together and the man was squeezed to death in the middle of them.
The eldest brother, when the other two had set off for home, said to Goose-cap: “Give me great wisdom, so that I can marry the Mohawk chief’s daughter without killing her father or getting killed myself.” You see, the eldest brother was an Algonquin, and the Mohawks always hated the Algonquins.
Goose-cap stooped down on the shore and picked up a hard clam-shell; and he ground it and ground it, all that day and all the next night, till he had made a beautiful wampum bead of it. “Hang this round your neck by a thread of flax,” he said, “and go and do whatever the chief asks you.”
The eldest brother thanked him, and left the beautiful island, and traveled seven days and seven nights till he came to the Mohawk town. He went straight to the chief’s house, and said to him, “I want to marry your daughter.”
“Very well,” said the chief, “you can marry my daughter if you bring me the head of the great dragon that lives in the pit outside the gate.”
The eldest brother promised he would, and went out and cut down a tree and laid it across the mouth of the pit. Then he danced round the pit, and sang as he danced a beautiful Algonquin song, something like this: “Come and eat me, dragon, for I am fat and my flesh is sweet and there is plenty of marrow in my bones.” The dragon was asleep, but the song gave him beautiful dreams, and he uncoiled himself and smacked his lips and stretched his head up into the air and laid his neck on the log. Then the eldest brother cut off the head; snick-snack, and carried it to the chief.
“That’s right,” said the chief; but he was angry in his heart, and next morning, when he should have given away his daughter, he said to the Algonquin: “I will let you marry her if I see that you can dive as well as the wild duck in the lake.”
When they got to the lake the wild duck dived and stayed under water for three minutes, but then it had to come up to breathe. Then the eldest brother dived, and turned into a frog, and stayed under water so long that they were sure he was drowned; but just as they were going home, singing for joy to be rid of him, he came running after them, and said: “Now I have had my bath and we can go and get married.”
“Wait till the evening,” said the chief, “and then you can get married.”
When the evening came, the Northern Lights were dancing and leaping in the sky, and the chief said: “The Northern Lights would be angry if you got married without running them a race. Run your best and win, and there will be no more delay.”
The Northern Lights darted away at once to the west, and the eldest brother ran after them; and the chief said to his daughter: “They will lead him right down to the other side of the world, and he will be an old man before he can get back, so he won’t trouble us any more.” But just as the chief finished speaking, here came the Algonquin running up from the east. He had turned himself into lightning and gone right round the world; and the night was nearly gone before the Northern Lights came up after him, panting and sputtering.
“Yes, my son,” said the chief; “you have won the race; so now we can go on with the wedding. The place where we have our weddings is down by the river at the bottom of the valley, and we will go there on our toboggans.”
Now the hillside was rough with rocks and trees, and the river flowed between steep precipices, so nobody could toboggan down there without being broken to pieces. But the eldest brother said he was ready, and asked the chief to come on the same toboggan.
“No,” said the chief, “but as soon as you have started I will.”
Then the Algonquin gave his toboggan a push, and jumped on, and didn’t even take the trouble to sit down. The chief waited to see him dashed to pieces; but the toboggan skimmed down the mountain side without touching a rock or a tree, and flew across the ravine at the bottom, and up the hillside opposite; and the Algonquin was standing straight up the whole time. When he got to the top of the mountain opposite he turned his toboggan round and coasted back as he had come. And when the chief saw him coming near and standing up on his toboggan, he lost his temper and let fly an arrow straight at the young man’s heart; but the arrow stuck in Goose-cap’s bead, and the Algonquin left it sticking there and took no notice. Only when he got to the top he said to the chief, “Now it’s your turn,” and put him on the toboggan and sent him spinning down into the valley. And whether the chief ever came up again we don’t know; but at any rate his daughter married the Algonquin without any more fuss, and went home with him.
THE JOKER
This story is about Lox. He called himself the joker, and he was very proud of his jokes; but nobody else could see anything in them to laugh at.
One day he came to a wigwam where two old Indians were taking a nap beside the fire. He picked out a burning stick, held it against their bare feet, and then ran out and hid behind the tent. The old men sprang up, and one of them shouted to the other:
“How dare you burn my feet?”
“How dare you burn my feet?” roared the other, and sprang at his throat.
When he heard them fighting Lox laughed out loud, and the old men ran out to catch the man who had tricked them. When they got round the tent they found nothing but a dead coon. They took off its skin, and put its body into the pot of soup that was boiling for dinner. As soon as they had sat down, out jumped Lox, kicking over the pot and putting out the fire with the soup. He jumped right into the coon’s skin and scurried away into the wood.
In the middle of the forest Lox came upon a camp where a party of women were sitting round a fire making pouches.
“Dear me,” said Lox, looking very kind. (He had put on his own skin by this time.) “That’s very slow work! Now, when I want to make a pouch I do it in two minutes, without sewing a stitch.”
“I should like to see you do it!” said one of the women.
“Very well,” said he. So he took a piece of skin, and a needle and twine, and a handful of beads, and stuffed them in among the burning sticks. In two minutes he stooped down again and pulled a handsome pouch out of the fire.
“Wonderful!” said the women; and they all stuffed their pieces of buckskin and handfuls of beads into the fire.
“Be sure you pull the bags out in two minutes,” said Lox. “I will go and hunt for some more buckskin.”
In two minutes the women raked out the fire, and found nothing but scraps of scorched leather and half-melted glass. Then they were very angry, and ran after the joker; but he had turned himself into a coon again and hidden in a hollow tree. When they had all gone back to their ruined work he came down and went on his mischievous way.
When he came out of the wood he saw a village by the side of a river. Outside one of the wigwams a woman was nursing a baby, and scolding it because it cried.
“What a lot of trouble children are,” said Lox. “What a pity that people don’t make men of them at once, instead of letting them take years to grow up.”
The woman stared. “How can a baby be turned into a man?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said he. So she lent him her baby, and he took it down to the river and held it under the water for a few minutes, saying magical words all the time; and then a full-grown Indian jumped out of the water, with a feather head-dress, and beaded blankets, and a bow and quiver slung over his back.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” said his mother, and she hurried back to the village to tell her friends the secret. The last thing Lox saw as he hurried away into the wood was a score of mothers drowning their children.
On the path in front of him Lox spied a couple of maidens, and they were trying to reach the fruit that grew on a wild plum-tree. The joker stepped on one side and broke a twig off another plum-tree and stuck it in his hair. The twig sprouted fast, and grew into a little plum-tree with big plums hanging from its twigs. He went along the path, picking and eating the plums as he walked, till he came up with the girls.
“Wonderful!” said they. “Do you think we could get plums like that?”
“Easily,” said he and he broke off two little twigs. “Stick these in your hair, and you will have head-dresses like mine.”
As soon as the twigs were stuck in their hair the little plum-trees began to grow, and the maidens danced with joy, and picked the juicy plums and ate them. But the trees went on growing, and the roots twisted in among the maidens’ hair and clutched their heads like iron fingers. The girls sat down, for they couldn’t carry all that weight standing. And still the trees grew, till the girls lay down on the ground and screamed for some one to come and rescue them. Presently their father came along, and he pulled his axe out of his belt and chopped off the trees, and tugged at the roots till they came off—but all the maidens’ hair came off too. By this time Lox took care to be scampering away through the wood in the shape of a coon.
When he came near the next village Lox put on a terrified face and began to run; and he rushed into the middle of the village, shouting: “The plague is coming! The plague is coming!”
All the people flocked out of their wigwams, crying: “Where is it coming from? Which way shall we fly?”
“Stay where you are and make your minds easy,” said Lox. “I have a charm that will keep off all the plagues under the sun. As soon as I have spoken the words, every man must kiss the girl nearest him.” Then he stretched up his hands toward the sun and said some gibberish; and when he stopped and let his arms fall, each man made a rush and kissed the girl who happened to be nearest.
But there were not quite as many girls as there were men, and one old bachelor was so slow and clumsy that every girl had been kissed before he could catch one.
“Never mind,” said Lox cheerfully. “You go to the next village and try again.”
So the old bachelor set out, plod, plod, plodding through the woods. But Lox turned himself into a coon again, and scampered from tree to tree, and got first to the village. When he told the people the plague was coming, and they asked how they could avoid it, he said: “When I have spoken my charm, all the girls must set upon any stranger that comes to the village, and beat him.” Then he flung his arms up and began talking his gibberish. Presently the old bachelor came up, hot and panting, and stood close to the handsomest girl he could see, all ready to kiss her as soon as the charm ended. But as soon as Lox finished, the maidens all set upon the stranger, and beat him till he ran away into the woods.
Then the people made a great feast for Lox; and when he had eaten his fill of deer-meat and honey, he marched off to play his tricks somewhere else. He had not gone very far when he came to the Kulloo’s nest. Now the Kulloo was the biggest of the birds, and when he spread his wings he made night come at noonday; and he built his nest of the biggest pine-trees he could find, instead of straws. The Kulloo was away, but his wife was at home trying to hatch her eggs. Lox was not hungry; but he turned himself into a serpent, and crept into the nest and under Mrs. Kulloo’s wing, and bit a hole in every egg and ate up the little Kulloos. When he had done this, he was so heavy and stupid that he couldn’t walk very far before he had to lie down and go to sleep.
Presently the Kulloo came home.
“How are you getting on, my dear?” he said.
“Not very well, I’m afraid,” she said. “The eggs seem to get cold, no matter how close I sit.”
“Let me take a turn while you go and stretch your wings,” said the Kulloo. But when he sat down on the empty eggs they all broke with a great crash.
The Kulloo flew off in a terrible rage to find the wretch who had eaten up the eggs, and very soon he spied Lox snoring on the grass.
“Now I’ve caught him,” said the Kulloo; “it’s Lox, the mischief-maker.”
He pounced down, and caught hold of Lox by the hair and carried him a mile up into the sky, and then let go. Of course, Lox was broken into pieces when he struck the earth, but he just had time as he fell to say his strongest magic:
“Backbone! Backbone!
Save my backbone!”
So as soon as the Kulloo was out of sight the arms and legs and head began to wriggle together round the backbone, and then in a twinkling Lox was whole again.
“I shouldn’t like that to happen very often,” he said, looking himself over to see if every piece had joined in the right place. “I think I’ll go home and take a rest.”
But he had traveled so far that he was six months’ journey from his home; and he had made so many enemies, and done so much mischief, that whenever he came into a village and asked food and shelter the people hooted and pelted him out again. The birds and the beasts got to know when he was coming, and kept so far out of his way that he couldn’t get enough to eat, not even by his magic. Besides, he had wasted his magic so much that scarcely any was left. The winter came on, and he was cold as well as hungry, when at last he reached a solitary wigwam by a frozen river. The master of the wigwam didn’t know him, so he treated him kindly, and said, when they parted next morning:
“You have only three days more to go; but the frost-wind is blowing colder and colder, and if you don’t do as I say you will never get home. When night comes, break seven twigs from a maple-tree and stand them up against each other, like the poles of a wigwam, and jump over them. Do the same the next night, and the night after that if you are not quite home; but you can only do it thrice.”
Away went the joker, swaggering through the woods as if nothing had happened to him, for now he was warm and full. But soon the wind began to rise, and it blew sharper and sharper, and bit his face, and pricked in through his blanket.
“I’m not going to be cold while I know how to be warm,” said he; and he built a little wigwam of sticks, and jumped over it. The sticks blazed up, and went on burning furiously for an hour. Then they died out suddenly. Lox groaned and went on his way. In the afternoon he stopped again, and lit another fire to warm himself by; but again the fire went out. When night came on he made his third fire wigwam; and that one burned all night long, and only went out when it was time for him to begin the day’s march.
All day he tramped over the snow, never daring to stop for more than a few minutes at a time for fear of being frozen to death. At night he built another little wigwam; but the twigs wouldn’t light, however often he jumped over them. On he tramped, getting more and more tired and drowsy, till at last he fell in his tracks and froze. And that was the end of Lox and his jokes.
LITTLE MOCCASIN’S
RIDE ON THE THUNDER-HORSE
BY COLONEL GUIDO ILGES
“Little Moccasin” was, at the time we speak of, fourteen years old, and about as mischievous a boy as could be found anywhere in the Big Horn mountains. Unlike his comrades of the same age, who had already killed buffaloes and stolen horses from the white men and the Crow Indians, with whom Moccasin’s tribe, the Uncapapas, were at war, he preferred to lie under a shady tree in the summer, or around the camp-fire in winter, listening to the conversation of the old men and women, instead of going upon expeditions with the warriors and the hunters.
The Uncapapas were a very powerful and numerous tribe of the great Sioux Nation, and before Uncle Sam’s soldiers captured and removed them, and before the Northern Pacific Railroad entered the territory of Montana, they occupied the beautiful valleys of the Rosebud, Big and Little Horn, Powder and Redstone rivers, all of which empty into the grand Yellowstone Valley. In those days, before the white man had set foot upon these grounds, there was plenty of game, such as buffalo, elk, antelope, deer, and bear; and, as the Uncapapas were great hunters and good shots, the camp of Indians to which Little Moccasin belonged always had plenty of meat to eat and plenty of robes and hides to sell and trade for horses and guns, for powder and ball, for sugar and coffee, and for paint and flour. Little Moccasin showed more appetite than any other Indian in camp. In fact, he was always hungry, and used to eat at all hours, day and night. Buffalo meat he liked the best, particularly the part taken from the hump, which is so tender that it almost melts in the mouth.
When Indian boys have had a hearty dinner of good meat, they generally feel very happy and very lively. When hungry, they are sad and dull.
This was probably the reason why Little Moccasin was always so full of mischief, and always inventing tricks to play upon the other boys. He was a precocious and observing youngster, full of quaint and original ideas—never at a loss for expedients.
But he was once made to feel very sorry for having played a trick, and I must tell my young readers how it happened.
“Running Antelope,” one of the great warriors and the most noted orator of the tribe, had returned from a hunt, and Mrs. Antelope was frying for him a nice buffalo steak—about as large as two big fists—over the coals. Little Moccasin, who lived in the next street of tents, smelled the feast, and concluded that he would have some of it. In the darkness of the night he slowly and carefully crawled toward the spot, where Mistress Antelope sat holding in one hand a long stick, at the end of which the steak was frying. Little Moccasin watched her closely, and seeing that she frequently placed her other hand upon the ground beside her and leaned upon it for support, he soon formed a plan for making her drop the steak.
He had once or twice in his life seen a pin, but he had never owned one, and he could not have known what use is sometimes made of them by bad white boys. He had noticed, however, that some of the leaves of the larger varieties of the prickly-pear cactus-plant are covered with many thorns, as long and as sharp as an ordinary pin.
So when Mrs. Antelope again sat down and looked at the meat to see if it was done, he slyly placed half-a-dozen of the cactus leaves upon the very spot of ground upon which Mrs. Antelope had before rested her left hand.
Then the young mischief crawled noiselessly into the shade and waited for his opportunity, which came immediately.
When the unsuspecting Mrs. Antelope again leaned upon the ground, and felt the sharp points of the cactus leaves, she uttered a scream, and dropped from her other hand the stick and the steak, thinking only of relief from the sharp pain.
Then, on the instant, the young rascal seized the stick and tried to run away with it. But Running Antelope caught him by his long hair, and gave him a severe whipping, declaring that he was a good-for-nothing boy, and calling him a “coffee-cooler” and a “squaw.”
The other boys, hearing the rumpus, came running up to see the fun, and they laughed and danced over poor Little Moccasin’s distress. Often afterward they called him “coffee-cooler”; which meant that he was cowardly and faint-hearted, and that he preferred staying in camp around the fire, drinking coffee, to taking part in the manly sports of hunting and stealing expeditions.
The night after the whipping, Little Moccasin could not sleep. The disgrace of the whipping and the name applied to him were too much for his vanity. He even lost his appetite, and refused some very nice prairie-dog stew which his mother offered him.
He was thinking of something else. He must do something brave—perform some great deed which no other Indian had ever performed—in order to remove this stain upon his character.
But what should it be? Should he go out alone and kill a bear? He had never fired a gun, and was afraid that the bear might eat him. Should he attack the Crow camp single-handed? No, no—not he; they would catch him and scalp him alive.
All night long he was thinking and planning; but when daylight came, he had reached no conclusion. He must wait for the Great Spirit to give him some ideas.
During the following day he refused all food and kept drawing his belt tighter and tighter around his waist every hour, till, by evening, he had reached the last notch. This method of appeasing the pangs of hunger, adopted by the Indians when they have nothing to eat, is said to be very effective.
In a week’s time Little Moccasin had grown almost as thin as a bean-pole, but no inspiration had yet revealed what he could do to redeem himself.
About this time a roving band of Cheyennes, who had been down to the mouth of the Little Missouri, and beyond, entered the camp upon a friendly visit. Feasting and dancing were kept up day and night, in honor of the guests; but Little Moccasin lay hidden in the woods nearly all the time.
During the night of the second day of their stay, he quietly stole to the rear of the great council-tepee, to listen to the pow-wow then going on. Perhaps he would there learn some words of wisdom which would give him an idea how to carry out his great undertaking.
After “Black Catfish,” the great Cheyenne warrior, had related in the flowery language of his tribe some reminiscences of his many fights and brave deeds, “Strong Heart” spoke. Then there was silence for many minutes, during which the pipe of peace made the rounds, each warrior taking two or three puffs, blowing the smoke through the nose, pointing toward heaven and then handing the pipe to his left-hand neighbor.
“Strong Heart,” “Crazy Dog,” “Bow-String,” “Dog-Fox,” and “Smooth Elkhorn” spoke of the country they had just passed through.
Then again the pipe of peace was handed round, amid profound silence.
“Black Pipe,” who was bent and withered with the wear and exposure of seventy-nine winters, and who trembled like some leafless tree shaken by the wind, but who was sound in mind and memory, then told the Uncapapas, for the first time, of the approach of a great number of white men, who were measuring the ground with long chains, and who were being followed by “Thundering Horses,” and “Houses on Wheels.” (He was referring to the surveying parties of the Northern Pacific Railway Company, who were just then at work on the crossing of the Little Missouri.)
With heart beating wildly, Little Moccasin listened to this strange story and then retired to his own blankets in his father’s tepee.
Now he had found the opportunity he so long had sought! He would go across the mountains, all by himself, look at the thundering horses and the houses on wheels. He then would know more than any one in the tribe, and return to the camp,—a hero!
At early morn, having provided himself with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, without informing any one of his plan he stole out of camp, and, running at full speed, crossed the nearest mountain to the East.
Allowing himself little time for rest, pushing forward by day and night, and after fording many of the smaller mountain-streams, on the evening of the third day of his travel he came upon what he believed to be a well-traveled road. But—how strange!—there were two endless iron rails lying side by side upon the ground. Such a curious sight he had never beheld. There were also large poles, with glass caps, and connected by wire, standing along the roadside. What could all this mean?
Poor Little Moccasin’s brain became so bewildered that he hardly noticed the approach of a freight-train drawn by the “Thundering Horse.”
There was a shrill, long-drawn whistle, and immense clouds of black smoke; and the Thundering Horse was sniffing and snorting at a great rate, emitting from its nostrils large streams of steaming vapor. Besides all this, the earth, in the neighborhood of where Little Moccasin stood, shook and trembled as if in great fear; and to him the terrible noises the horse made were perfectly appalling.
Gradually the snorts, and the puffing, and the terrible noise lessened, until, all at once, they entirely ceased. The train had come to a stand-still at a watering tank, where the Thundering Horse was given its drink.
The rear car, or “House on Wheels,” as old Black Pipe had called it, stood in close proximity to Little Moccasin,—who, in his bewilderment and fright at the sight of these strange moving houses, had been unable to move a step.
But as no harm had come to him from the terrible monster, Moccasin’s heart, which had sunk down to the region of his toes, began to rise again; and the curiosity inherent in every Indian boy mastered fear.
He moved up, and down, and around the great House on Wheels; then he touched it in many places, first with the tip-end of one finger, and finally with both hands. If he could only detach a small piece from the house to take back to camp with him as a trophy and as a proof of his daring achievement! But it was too solid, and all made of heavy wood and iron.
At the rear end of the train there was a ladder, which the now brave Little Moccasin ascended with the quickness of a squirrel to see what there was on top.
It was gradually growing dark, and suddenly he saw (as he really believed) the full moon approaching him. He did not know that it was the headlight of a locomotive coming from the opposite direction.
Absorbed in this new and glorious sight, he did not notice the starting of his own car, until it was too late, for, while the car moved, he dared not let go his hold upon the brake-wheel.
There he was, being carried with lightning speed into a far-off, unknown country, over bridges, by the sides of deep ravines, and along the slopes of steep mountains.
But the Thundering Horse never tired nor grew thirsty again during the entire night.
At last, soon after the break of day, there came the same shrill whistle which had frightened him so much on the previous day; and, soon after, the train stopped at Miles City.
But, unfortunately for our little hero, there were a great many white people in sight; and he was compelled to lie flat upon the roof of his car, in order to escape notice. He had heard so much of the cruelty of the white men that he dared not trust himself among them.
Soon they started again, and Little Moccasin was compelled to proceed on his involuntary journey, which took him away from home and into unknown dangers.
At noon, the cars stopped on the open prairie to let Thundering Horse drink again. Quickly, and without being detected by any of the trainmen, he dropped to the ground from his high and perilous position. Then the train left him—all alone in an unknown country.
Alone? Not exactly; for, within a few minutes, half-a-dozen Crow Indians, mounted on swift ponies, are by his side, and are lashing him with whips and lassoes.
He has fallen into the hands of the deadliest enemies of his tribe, and has been recognized by the cut of his hair and the shape of his moccasins.
When they tired of their sport in beating poor Little Moccasin so cruelly, they dismounted and tied his hands behind his back.
Then they sat down upon the ground to have a smoke and to deliberate about the treatment of the captive.
During the very severe whipping, and while they were tying his hands, though it gave him great pain, Little Moccasin never uttered a groan. Indian-like, he had made up his mind to “die game,” and not to give his enemies the satisfaction of gloating over his sufferings. This, as will be seen, saved his life.
The leader of the Crows, “Iron Bull,” was in favor of burning the hated Uncapapa at a stake, then and there; but “Spotted Eagle,” “Blind Owl,” and “Hungry Wolf” called attention to the youth and bravery of the captive, who had endured the lashing without any sign of fear. Then the two other Crows took the same view. This decided poor Moccasin’s fate; and he understood it all, although he did not speak the Crow language, for he was a great sign-talker, and had watched them very closely during their council.
“when they had gone about five miles from camp, they came upon a pretty little mouse-colored pony”
Blind Owl, who seemed the most kind-hearted of the party, lifted the boy upon his pony, Blind Owl himself getting up in front, and they rode at full speed westward to their large encampment, where they arrived after sunset.
Little Moccasin was then relieved of his bonds, which had benumbed his hands during the long ride, and a large dish of boiled meat was given to him. This, in his famished condition, he relished very much. An old squaw, one of the wives of Blind Owl, and a Sioux captive, took pity on him, and gave him a warm place with plenty of blankets in her own tepee, where he enjoyed a good rest.
During his stay with the Crows, Little Moccasin was made to do the work which usually falls to the lot of the squaws; and which was imposed upon him as a punishment upon a brave enemy, designed to break his proud spirit. He was treated as a slave, made to haul wood and draw water, do the cooking, and clean game. Many of the Crow boys wanted to kill him, but his foster-mother, “Old Looking-Glass,” protected him; and, besides, they feared that the soldiers of Fort Custer might hear of it, if he was killed, and punish them.
Many weeks thus passed, and the poor little captive grew more despondent and weaker in body every day. Often his foster-mother would talk to him in his own language, and tell him to be of good cheer; but he was terribly homesick and longed to get back to the mountains on the Rosebud, to tell the story of his daring and become the hero which he had started out to be.
One night, after everybody had gone to sleep in camp, and the fires had gone out, Old Looking-Glass, who had seemed to be soundly sleeping, approached his bed and gently touched his face. Looking up, he saw that she held a forefinger pressed against her lips, intimating that he must keep silence, and that she was beckoning him to go outside.
There she soon joined him; then, putting her arm around his neck, she hastened out of the camp and across the nearest hills.
When they had gone about five miles away from camp, they came upon a pretty little mouse-colored pony, which Old Looking-Glass had hidden there for Little Moccasin on the previous day.
She made him mount the pony, which she called “Blue Wing,” and bade him fly toward the rising sun, where he would find white people who would protect and take care of him.
Old Looking-Glass then kissed Little Moccasin upon both cheeks and the forehead, while the tears ran down her wrinkled face; she also folded her hands upon her breast and looking up to the heavens, said a prayer, in which she asked the Great Spirit to protect and save the poor boy in his flight.
After she had whispered some indistinct words into the ear of Blue Wing (who seemed to understand her, for he nodded his head approvingly), she bade Little Moccasin be off, and advised him not to rest this side of the white man’s settlement, as the Crows would soon discover his absence, and would follow him on their fleetest ponies.
“But Blue Wing will save you! He can outrun them all!”
These were her parting words, as he galloped away.
In a short time the sun rose over the nearest hill, and Little Moccasin then knew that he was going in the right direction. He felt very happy to be free again, although sorry to leave behind his kind-hearted foster-mother, Looking-Glass. He made up his mind that after a few years, when he had grown big and become a warrior, he would go and capture her from the hated Crows and take her to his own tepee.
He was so happy in this thought that he had not noticed how swiftly time passed, and that already the sun stood over his head; neither had he urged Blue Wing to run his swiftest; but that good little animal kept up a steady dog-trot, without, as yet, showing the least sign of being tired.
But what was the sudden noise which was heard behind him? Quickly he turned his head, and, to his horror, he beheld about fifty mounted Crows coming toward him at a run, and swinging in their hands guns, pistols, clubs, and knives!
His old enemy, Iron Bull, was in advance, and under his right arm he carried a long lance, with which he intended to spear Little Moccasin, as a cruel boy spears a bug with a pin.
Moccasin’s heart stood still for a moment with fear; he knew that this time they would surely kill him if caught. He seemed to have lost all power of action.
Nearer and nearer came Iron Bull, shouting at the top of his voice.
But Blue Wing now seemed to understand the danger of Moccasin’s situation; he pricked up his ears, snorted a few times, made several short jumps, to fully arouse Moccasin, who remained paralyzed with fear, and then, like a bird, fairly flew over the prairie, as if his little hoofs were not touching the ground.
Little Moccasin, too, was now awakened to his peril, and he patted and encouraged Blue Wing; while, from time to time, he looked back over his shoulder to watch the approach of Iron Bull.
Thus they went, on and on; over ditches and streams, rocks and hills, through gulches and valleys. Blue Wing was doing nobly, but the pace could not last forever.
Iron Bull was now only about five hundred yards behind and gaining on him.
Little Moccasin felt the cold sweat pouring down his face. He had no fire-arm, or he would have stopped to shoot at Iron Bull.
Blue Wing’s whole body seemed to tremble beneath his young rider, as if the pony was making a last desperate effort, before giving up from exhaustion.
Unfortunately, Little Moccasin did not know how to pray, or he might have found some comfort and help thereby; but in those moments, when a terrible death was so near to him, he did the next best thing: he thought of his mother and his father, of his little sisters and brothers, and also of Looking-Glass, his kind old foster-mother.
Then he felt better and was imbued with fresh courage. He again looked back, gave one loud, defiant yell at Iron Bull, and then went out of sight over some high ground.
Ki-yi-yi-yi! There is the railroad station just in front, only about three hundred yards away. He sees white men around the buildings, who will protect him.
At this moment Blue Wing utters one deep groan, stumbles, and falls to the ground. Fortunately, though, Little Moccasin has received no hurt. He jumps up, and runs toward the station as fast as his weary legs can carry him.
At this very moment Iron Bull with several of his braves came in sight again, and, realizing the helpless condition of the boy, they all gave a shout of joy, thinking that in a few minutes they would capture and kill him. But their shouting had been heard by some of the white men, who at once concluded to protect the boy, if he deserved aid.
Little Moccasin and Iron Bull reached the door of the station-building at nearly the same moment; but the former had time enough to dart inside and hide under the table of the telegraph operator.
When Iron Bull and several other Crows rushed in to pull the boy from underneath the table, the operator quickly took from the table-drawer a revolver, and with it drove the murderous Crows from the premises.
Then the boy had to tell his story, and he was believed. All took pity upon his forlorn condition, and his brave flight made them his friends.
In the evening Blue Wing came up to where Little Moccasin was resting and awaiting the arrival of the next train, which was to take him back to his own home.
Little Moccasin threw his arms affectionately around Blue Wing’s neck, vowing that they never would part again in life.
Then they both were put aboard a lightning express train, which look them to within a short distance of the old camp on the Rosebud.
When Little Moccasin arrived at his father’s tepee, riding beautiful Blue Wing, now rested and frisky, the whole camp flocked around him; and when he told them of his great daring, of his capture and his escape, Running Antelope, the big warrior of the Uncapapas and the most noted orator of the tribe, proclaimed him a true hero, and then and there begged his pardon for having called him a “coffee-cooler.” In the evening Little Moccasin was honored by a great feast and the name of “Rushing Lightning,” Wakee-watakeepee, was bestowed upon him—and by that name he is known to this day.
a young agassiz
