Having filled the coffee cups and set the meat pot within easy reach of the guests, I went outside to get a chunk of cottonwood, for a chill had crept into the tepee. Under a dull sky the afternoon was waning fast, and already the edge of the still air was sharpening with the approach of night. While chopping, it occurred to me that we would soon be sitting in the dark, so I went to the little log house and borrowed an oil lamp—the only one, but freely given. The family would go to bed soon, the daughter explained, and it would not be needed. Also, if the old men did not want to go home, they could sleep on the floor by the stove, and go home in the morning.
When I re-entered the tepee, Eagle Voice was lying down, his knees drawn up, an arm across his face. Apparently he was asleep. No Water and Moves Walking were having a friendly argument between mouthfuls. No Water was convinced that it happened in the winter when the four Crows were killed, while Moves Walking held out for the winter when the tree fell on the old woman. When I had put the cottonwood chunk on the embers and placed the lighted lamp on the ground near the stove, it soon became clear to me that both contenders had the best of reasons, with a glaring eye to reinforce them on the one hand, and a deeply grieved look on the other.
What it was that had happened, whenever it had, was not revealed. Eagle Voice sat up, brushed the straggling gray hair from his eyes, grinned pleasantly, and said: “Kola, it was not the winter when the four Crows were killed; it was not the winter when the tree fell on the old woman. It was the winter when the Shoshonis were chased over the bank; and that is a story I could tell.”
“Ah-a-a-a!” agreed the erstwhile contenders in unison. Was not Eagle Voice much older than they?
When we had eaten in silence for a while, Eagle Voice fumbled in his long tobacco sack, charged his pipe and lighted it. “Dho,” he said, starting the pipe on its rounds; “I could tell the story about the time when the Shoshonis were chased over the bank, for I was there. Maybe I will tell it to my grandson here, but I will not tell it now.” He searched our faces with the amused, crinkled look about his eyes. “I do not want to kill any more people today. Too many dead husbands around here already.” No Water slapped his knee and bellowed with laughter. Moves Walking fixed us in turn with the glaring eye. “It is a true story!” he protested; the good eye belying its fellow with a gleam of amusement. “Wo-ya kapi! I can prove it!”
“Dho! It is a true story, kola,” resumed Eagle Voice soberly, “and it is a good story; but there were thirty Shoshonis, and I am full of good tender meat. I do not feel like killing so many more people today. It is getting dark, so I can tell an ohunka kapi [fairy tale the old people make up]. If I tell it in the daytime, maybe I get long hair all over my backside. That is what I heard my grandfather say. But it is getting dark now, so I am not afraid of that.” Having shared in the chuckling of his hearers over the hoary joke, he continued. “Maybe the story was true so long ago that we cannot believe it any more. I do not know. It is about Falling Star.”
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed No Water and Moves Walking together. “Washtay!” said the latter. “My grandmother told it to me when I was very little. There were two girls and they married stars.” “Dho,” No Water agreed, “they did that. I think it was my grandfather told me first. And the girls fell through the sky.”
“One girl,” corrected Moves Walking.
“You are in a hurry to tell my story for me, kola,” said Eagle Voice; “but I am going to tell it myself, and now I will tell it.
“This happened so long ago that I think the oldest person who ever told it had heard it from his grandfather. So I cannot prove it. In that time there was a big village, and I think the people were not even Lakotas yet.”