It was a public ceremony. The great pipe was held up for him to take the smoke of high honor.
The happiest person present was the father of Antelope; but he himself remained calm and unmoved throughout the ceremony.
“He is a strange person,” was the whisper among a group of youths who were watching the proceedings with envious eyes.
The young man was strangely listless and depressed in spirit. His old grandmother knew why, but none of the others understood. He never joined in the village festivities, while the rest of his family were untiring in the dances, and old Wezee was at the height of his happiness.
It was a crisp October morning, and the family were eating their breakfast of broiled bison meat, when the large drum at the council lodge was struck three times. The old man set down his wooden basin.
“Ah, my son, the war-chiefs will make an announcement! It may be a call for the enlistment of warriors! I am sorry,” he said, and paused. “I am sorry, because I would rather no war-party went out at present. I am getting old. I have enjoyed your success, my son. I love to hear the people speak your name. If you go again upon the war-path, I shall no longer be able to join in the celebrations. Something tells me that you will not return!”
Young braves were already on their way to the council lodge. Tatoka looked, and the temptation was great.
“Father, it is not becoming for me to remain at home when others go,” he said, at last.
“Ho,” was the assent uttered by the father, with a deep sigh.
“Five hundred braves have enlisted to go with the great war prophet against the three confederated tribes,” he afterward reported at home, with an air of elation which he had not worn for some moons.