CONTENTS
[ I. White Otter’s Own Shadow ]
[ II. The Brown Bat Proves Itself ]
[ III. The Bat Devises Mischief Among the Yellow-Eyes ]
[ V. “The Kites and the Crows” ]
[ VI. The Fire Eater’s Bad Medicine ]
[ VII. Among the Pony-Soldiers ]
[ VIII. The Medicine-Fight of the Chis-chis-chash. ]
ILLUSTRATIONS
[ 01 Pretty Mother of the Night—white Otter is No Longer ]
[ 03 He Looked on the Land of his People And he Hated All Vehemently ]
[ 04 The Wolves Sniffed Along on The Trail, But Came No Nearer ]
[ 05 O Gray Wolf of My Clan—shall We Have Fortune? ]
[ 06 The Interpreter Waved at The Naked Youth ]
[ 07 I Will Tell the White Man How he Can Have his Ponies Back ]
[ 08 Nothing But Cheerful Looks Followed the Bat ]
[ 09 The Ceremony of The Fastest Horse ]
[ 10 He Rushed the Pony Right to The Barricade ]
[ 11 The Fire Eater Slung his Victim Across His Pony, Taking His Scalp ]
[ 12 The Fire Eater Raised his Arms to The Thunder Bird ]
[ 13 The Rushing Red Lodges Passed Through The Line of The Blue Soldiers ]
[ 14 He Made his Magazine Gun Blaze Until Empty ]
[ 15 He Shouted his Harsh Pathos at a Wild and Lonely Wind ]
I. White Otter’s Own Shadow
White Otter’s heart was bad. He sat alone on the rim-rocks of the bluffs overlooking the sunlit valley. To an unaccustomed eye from below he might have been a part of nature’s freaks among the sand rocks. The yellow grass sloped away from his feet mile after mile to the timber, and beyond that to the prismatic mountains. The variegated lodges of the Chis-chis-chash village dotted the plain near the sparse woods of the creek-bottom; pony herds stood quietly waving their tails against the flies or were driven hither and yon by the herdboys—giving variety to the tremendous sweep of the Western landscape.
This was a day of peace—such as comes only to the Indians in contrast to the fierce troubles which nature stores up for the other intervals. The enemy, the pinch of the shivering famine, and the Bad Gods were absent, for none of these things care to show themselves in the white light of a midsummer’s day. There was peace with all the world except with him. He was in a fierce dejection over the things which had come to him, or those which had passed him by. He was a boy—a fine-looking, skillfully modeled youth—as beautiful a thing, doubtless, as God ever created in His sense of form; better than his sisters, better than the four-foots, or the fishes, or the birds, and he meant so much more than the inanimate things, in so far as we can see. He had the body given to him and he wanted to keep it, but there were the mysterious demons of the darkness, the wind and the flames; there were the monsters from the shadows, and from under the waters; there were the machinations of his enemies, which he was not proof against alone, and there was yet the strong hand of the Good God, which had not been offered as yet to help him on with the simple things of life; the women, the beasts of the fields, the ponies and the war-bands. He could not even protect his own shadow, which was his other and higher self.
His eyes dropped on the grass in front of his moccasins—tiny dried blades of yellow grass, and underneath them he saw the dark traceries of their shadows. Each had its own little shadow—its soul—its changeable thing—its other life—just as he himself was cut blue-black beside himself on the sandstone. There were millions of these grass-blades, and each one shivered in the wind, maundering to itself in the chorus, which made the prairie sigh, and all for fear of a big brown buffalo wandering by, which would bite them from the earth and destroy them.
White Otter’s people had been strong warriors in the Chis-chis-chash; his father’s shirt and leggins were black at the seams with the hair of other tribes. He, too, had stolen ponies, but had done no better than that thus far, while he burned to keep the wolf-totem red with honor. Only last night, a few of his boy companions, some even younger than himself, had gone away to the Absaroke for glory and scalps, and ponies and women—a war-party—the one thing to which an Indian pulsed with his last drop. He had thought to go also, but his father had discouraged him, and yesterday presented him with charcoal ashes in his right hand, and two juicy buffalo ribs with his left. He had taken the charcoal. His father said it was good—that it was not well for a young man to go to the enemy with his shadow uncovered before the Bad Gods.
Now his spirits raged within his tightened belly, and the fierce Indian brooding had driven him to the rim-rock, where his soul rocked and pounced within him. He looked at the land of his people, and he hated all vehemently, with a rage that nothing stayed but his physical strength.