SCAFFOLD BURIAL
A GRAVE ON A HILLTOP
In our valley camp, my days began and ended with the sun. When its first rays shone through the open door of my tepee, I took a plunge in the cold river; then lighted my fire and cooked breakfast. I watched the sunsets from a high ridge overlooking the prairie to the foot of the mountains. Near by were the graves of two young lovers. Water Bird, daughter of a prominent chief, loved Night Rider, a youth of her own age. But her parents made her marry an older man. The young lover killed the husband and fled with his sweetheart to the mountains. When the Indian police were about to capture them, Night Rider killed his sweetheart and then himself.
Our first night on the river, I stood beside these lonely graves and saw the sun go down in a sky of flaming red, and the evening star over the mountains. I heard the rhythmical beating of Indian drums from a camp in the valley, with the voices of men and women chanting in unison; and a young brave singing a love song to his sweetheart.
Then I returned to the tepee and lay on my comfortable couch of robes and blankets beside a small wood fire, watching the flickering flames and shadows dance on my tepee walls; listening to the last calls of the birds, the chirping of crickets, the rushing of the river, eddying and swirling in deep pools. There was something very cheerful and soothing in the rippling and surging of that mountain river.
Then my mind went back to a great modern city with its unrest and stress, its crowds of busy and hurrying people, leading indoor, artificial lives. I thought how good it was to be in the camp of my Indian father on the prairie; I loved the freedom and wildness, the quiet and peace. In me [[79]]was the instinct to live in the open, where the wind blows free and there is plenty of clear sunshine. My spirit was at home with this simple and primitive people. I felt as though I were one of them, as if I had known them ages ago; their thoughts and customs seemed in no way strange. [[80]]