"Wait until Kangee tells what he knows and then tell us your thought," interposed Hohay. "It is not fair to doubt the word of a fellow-hunter."
"I want to tell what I myself saw," resumed Kangee. "Near the Black Hills, in the early spring, we hunted the bison. My brother and I followed two cows with their small calves. They disappeared over a ridge into a deep valley.
"We hastened on and saw only one cow running on the other side without her calf. In the ravine we came upon the other, and saw her vigorously push the calf down two or three times, but each time it rose again."
"Ha, ha, ha! The calf refused to hide," they all laughed.
"When she saw us, she turned and ran on with her calf. Presently she entered another valley, and emerged on the other side without the little one. At the first ravine, one cow succeeded in cachêing her calf—the other failed. She had a disobedient child, but finally she got rid of it. After a time the calf understands its mother's wishes; then she always succeeds in cachêing her young when pursued."
"Tula, tula, kola! That is common knowledge of all hunters; surely Katola cannot doubt that," remarked Hohay.
"Not that—I only said that they do not teach them. They do these things without thought or deliberate planning," insisted Katola.
"But you must know that even a baby who has no mother after a while forgets to take the breast when one is offered to him. It is constant bringing to the young creature and continual practice—that is teaching," Hohay declared, and the other two nodded approval.
"Neither do I believe in a language of animals," Katola remarked.
"It may be there is none; but, even so, do we not convey the strongest meaning without a sound or a word? In all our speeches what is most important may be expressed by a silence, a look, or a gesture—even by the attitude of the body." Hohay continued rapidly in his argument: "Is it impossible that these people might have a simple language, and yet sufficient for their use?