THIRD CHAPTER
THE BUFFALO-SKIN CAP
The winter I was six years old my mother, Weahtee, died.
The Black Mouths, a men’s society, had brought gifts to One Buffalo and asked him to be winter chief. “We know you own sacred objects, and have power with the gods,” they said. “We want you to pray for us and choose the place for our camp.”
One Buffalo chose a place in the woods at the mouth of Many-Frogs Brook, three miles from Like-a-Fishhook village. I remember our journey thither. There was a round, open place in the trees by Many-Frogs Brook, where young men fasted and made offerings to the gods. It was a holy place; and One Buffalo thought, if we pitched our winter camp near-by, the gods would remember us and give us a good winter.
But it was a hard winter from its start. Cold weather set in before we had our lodges well under cover; and, with the first snow, smallpox broke out in camp. Had it been in summer, my tribe could have broken up into small bands and scattered; and the smallpox would have died out. This they could not do in winter, and many died. My brother, my mother Weahtee, and her sister Stalk-of-Corn, died, of my father’s family.
