Star: The Story of an Indian Pony

by Forrestine C. Hooker

They had said that when the last winter had gone and it had been time for the green grass to show above the ground, all the Indians from long distances had gathered at Medicine Lodge to hold a great council of war.

Reports had been brought that Indian runners, or messengers, had found a big camp where a large number of buffalo hunters lived, and from it each day the white men went to kill buffaloes. They did not use the meat, but left it to spoil in the hot sun, after the hunters had skinned the dead animals and taken the hides away. As far as the Indians could travel, dead buffaloes that had been skinned lay in herds just as they had fallen when the hunters had shot them with fire-sticks.

On their fingers the Indians counted how many buffaloes had been found in one day of travel. Some of them had seen as many as two hundred, and other Indians who had come from different directions told the same tale. Soon there would be no buffaloes left. The grass was gone, the water was growing less each day, the ponies would become thinner and weaker, and when the hunters had killed the buffaloes, the Indians would die, and the white men would cover the land.

So the Indians from all the tribes of the Southwest gathered at Medicine Lodge and formed a war party to drive out the white hunters and save the buffaloes.

That had been six moons ago, when the grass was just starting above the ground. In a little while they had thought that the rains and warm sun would make plenty of feed for the ponies, antelopes, and buffaloes, and there would be pools of water in low places between hills, or in hollows of large rocks. Then it would be the time to begin fighting.

But the rains did not come, and Songbird, listening to the talk of the squaws, longed to speak to her father and ask him about it all, but she knew that such things were not for children's talk. Nor did she ask the squaws, for they would be angry that she had listened to them.

"If only Moko were here I could ask her," she said to herself sadly.

But Moko had heard the call of the Great Eagle six moons ago, and now it was nearing winter. Songbird greatly missed her old friend, the Picture Maker. Moko had always answered questions and explained things without being cross. The other women were too busy asking one another what they would do in the winter, when the dry summer had killed the berries and nuts and maize and the buffalo hunters had killed all the game.

So Songbird kept her thoughts to herself and watched her father's grave face as he talked with Karolo or the head chief.

Then one day a Kiowa runner dashed into the Quahada village and the warriors gathered quickly about him. His pony wandered over and joined the Quahada ponies and the two cavalry horses, where they were nosing at dry stubble and hoping to find a bit of green feed at the roots.