Chapter III: Part 3

“Nantesi,” he said after a long silence, “let them think what they will. I do not fear the wagging tongues of my neighbors, and I do not fear the great bear of the forest. There is a good reason why I do not bring more home for my sister and myself with some left over for the tribe. Never have I feared the creatures of the forest. Instead, I have loved them much as I love my own people. That is why, when on the hunt, my arrows do not bring death. I cannot shoot these creatures who live so happily among the trees and streams. Is it wrong to love these creatures so much? Nantesi, do you not know the feeling I have when a deer licks my hand, or a rabbit plays at my feet while I rest in the shade of a great oak tree? These things have happened to me. The wild creatures trust me and come right to my hand. I cannot bring death upon those who trust me.”

Nantesi said nothing. He understood now the feelings within this strange young man. He rose to leave.

“Wait, Nantesi, my friend. My heart is heavy. What can I do? I know that what I believe is wrong in the eyes of many, for ours is a tribe of great hunters. What am I do? I must live among my people, but I cannot be happy unless I live my life the way I honestly believe I should.”

“Long Moose, I am an old man. Some of our tribe think I am wise. But this time they might not believe that what I say is wise. Go into the hills with your troubled thoughts. Think calmly in the quiet woods, far away from us. Only in this way can your heart give you the true answer that all of nature has been given to man that he may give food and shelter to those he loves and to himself.” Then Nantesi left as quickly as he had come.

The following morning, many in the tribe watched the lonely figure of Long Moose leaving the village, as he headed toward the distant hills. At last, after three weeks had passed, all eyes were turned toward the far end of the village. Entering the camp, a fine buck upon his shoulders, was Long Moose standing taller than ever before. His clothes were tattered and torn, but there was a proud smile on his face.

Going straight to his sister’s house, Long Moose set the fat buck at his sister’s feet without a word. Smiling, he put one hand on her shoulder as she stared at him in surprise. Many of the villagers crowded around asking questions, but Long Moose said nothing and looked over their heads for Nantesi. Then he saw the old man sitting contentedly before his home, looking kindly in his direction. Walking over to where the old brave sat, Long Moose asked if he could talk with him. Nantesi rose slowly, and greeting Long Moose warmly, invited the young man into his home. When both were seated, Nantesi, as before, waited for Long Moose to speak.

“Nantesi, my friend, for a long time I have been away from my tribe. As you said would happen, my mind is no longer troubled. Up in the hills I made a campsite for myself. I lived on nuts and berries and plants and the cool water of the mountain streams. Each night I wrapped myself in my blanket and slept a troubled sleep.

“But three nights ago, when I had finished my evening prayer, I rolled myself in my blanket and rested my head upon a soft bed of pine needles. Sleep came suddenly, and for the first time in three weeks I slept peacefully until the moon had risen high in the sky. I awoke with a start knowing I had the answer that you had said I would find in the forest.

“Suddenly, I knew that I had watched the very creatures that I love struggle with each other for life here in the forests and in the fields and the streams. I had never thought that this was wrong. Right at this very moment, the struggle for life is going on in many parts of the forest. Before the sun brings the dawn of a new day, many of our forest creatures will have died because others must live. The strongest or the wisest live. Now I knew what I had hidden from myself that if some wild creatures did not die to provide food for others, many of the same animals that I love so much would die. I knew that I should not kill just for the sake of killing. The animals themselves kill only when they are hungry or their lives are in danger. I, too, could follow their example and be a good brave.

“The truth had come to me from life itself. I sat up and gazed into the fire trying to decide whether I had been dreaming. Suddenly my heart was happy once again. I went back to sleep and in the morning started my trip back to the village. Halfway here I came upon a buck. My aim was good. I have brought fresh meat for my sister to cook and store away, and a hide for her to make into a new dress. I shall go out again tomorrow and bring back my share for the tribe.

“I have found the answer I had been searching for. Now I can return to my tribe with pride. That is my story, Nantesi, and I wanted to tell you first about it. It is good to be back. It is good to be a Powhatan.”

Nantesi smiled across at his young friend. “It is good to have you back. Welcome, brave!”

HOW A FISHING TRIP TAUGHT LOYALTY TO A BOY

It was a bright morning in the village of the Iroquois. Maseca, the little Indian brave, awoke to the sound of the birds of the woodland. Today Maseca and Chincho were going fishing and that was always a great adventure, for they never knew exactly what would happen as they strode through the forest or out along the wild streams.

Maseca gathered up his fishing gear and he carefully went over it all to see that it was in good shape. Then he sat down to eat some food his mother had prepared for him. But he was impatient to get under way. So he arose and, stuffing some dry deer meat into his pouch, started off in search of Chincho.

Because Chincho was a little older than the other children with whom he and Maseca played, he would sometimes be the bully in the group. But only on rare occasions did he bully Maseca. Such an occasion occurred when he boasted to everyone that he could beat Maseca in a foot race. Maseca had accepted the challenge and had beaten the older boy quite badly. Since then, even though Chincho and Maseca had been close friends, Chincho would let jealousy get the best of him and thought of ways to teach Maseca a lesson for having beaten him in a foot race.

Sometimes Chincho even found himself wishing that Maseca would break his leg or suffer some other injury which would make him a cripple. But whenever these thoughts entered his mind, Chincho would drive them out, and dream about the many wonderful times he and Maseca had had together, wandering through the forests and fishing in the streams.

On this bright morning Chincho bolted the last of his breakfast as he heard the hurrying footsteps of Maseca approaching his father’s wigwam. Placing his deer meat in a leather pouch which his mother had made for him and gathering up his fishing gear, Chincho quickly left the wigwam to join Maseca and together they swiftly trotted off through the forest. They wanted to be the first ones to the stream and get the best spots for fishing. They did not speak as they trotted, for they knew that that would only shorten their wind and their speed, and that the other boys of the village might get there before them. Finally, they reached the stream and settled down to catch the lazy fish that swam unaware of the presence of the two boys.

Early in the afternoon, having caught several good-sized fish, they decided to hang their catch in a tree and do a little exploring upstream. So they started out in a direction they had never gone before, remembering the warnings of the elders to walk softly and not too far from familiar ground, because one could get lost very easily in the green forest. This was especially true in the summer when the leaves often hid landmarks that would be easy to remember.

As they traveled farther and farther upstream, gazing at all the beauties of nature around them, Chincho suddenly stopped and threw himself flat on the ground behind a big birch tree. Maseca, not knowing the reason, but realizing that Chincho was not playing a game, did the same thing. Maseca started to speak but Chincho motioned for him to remain silent. Then Chincho pointed up ahead. About a hundred paces ahead standing in a little clearing taking a drink from the stream was a tremendous buck deer. Maseca had never seen so large a deer and he could not help gasping in surprise. Chincho turned and frowned at him and Maseca quickly stifled all other exclamations. Then Chincho crawled close to Maseca.

“Maseca,” he whispered, “do you think we could get near enough to that deer to kill him? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to bring that buck back to the village?”

Maseca nodded that he thought it a wonderful idea and they agreed quickly that they would try to take the big deer as a prize. After making sure that the wind was blowing toward them, carrying their scent away from the deer, they began to move quietly and slowly on their stomachs toward the unsuspecting deer. Chincho rose to his knees and, fitting a new arrow to his bow, stopped some thirty paces short of the deer, drew back on the bowstring, and let the arrow fly. The boys heard the arrow whistle as it flew and the thud as it struck its target. But Chincho’s aim had not been accurate. The deer bounded away, the arrow sticking in his side but not in a vital place.

Chincho knew that he must obey the law of his tribe regarding any animal a brave has wounded. He must track the wounded deer until he either came upon him dead or could get close enough to make the kill. Long ago the tribe had ruled wisely that it was cruel to let a wounded animal wander the forest in pain, possibly suffering so much that it would injure other animals, and possibly dying from loss of blood or from a sickness from the wound. Chincho was tempted not to follow the deer into the unknown woods, when he felt Maseca’s gaze upon him.

“Chincho, you do not plan to leave without finding the wounded deer. It is the law of our tribe.”

Chincho looked guilty and said, “It is not a bad wound. The arrow barely scratched him. He will be all right. Come, let us return to the village before it is dark.”

“No,” Maseca insisted, “we must follow the deer until we bring him down. You must not leave a wounded animal to suffer. It is the law.”

Chincho knew that Maseca was right, and yet in his heart he was afraid. So he tried to excuse his cowardice by saying, “But it is also the law of our tribe that we shall not wander too far from the familiar parts of our land. We could become lost here in the green forest. We should turn back.” As he started to turn, Chincho saw a challenging look in Maseca’s eyes and he waited as Maseca spoke.

“You may return to the village claiming that the law says one should not wander too far, but I will follow the deer and make sure of his death. I will mark my trail plainly so that by night or by day I can follow it back to my starting place. Go, Chincho. Return to your father’s home and see if you can sleep peacefully when you think of the deer you have wounded.”

Even while he was speaking, Maseca realized that his friend’s fear was very great, and that it would be a mistake to force Chincho to follow the buck. Maseca would have to worry as much about calming Chincho’s fear as he would have to worry about finding the way back for both of them.

Chincho thought that Maseca would laugh at him and insisted now on going with Maseca to trail the deer. So they started to follow the drops of blood they found on the plants as they went through the forest. Maseca broke branches and cut slices of bark from the sides of trees to mark the path they were taking.

For awhile the big buck had run straight ahead as fast as he could in spite of the wound. Then the crushed grass showed where he had lain down to rest for a moment. But the grass was rising up straight again, which told the boys that the deer had not rested long, sensing the danger close by. Soon they saw fewer blood spots, and they knew that the blood was starting to clot. Now, Maseca knew the deer could live for some time yet.

“It grows late,” he warned Chincho. “We must hurry if we are to catch up with the deer and claim our kill. We have only a short while left before the sun will sink.”

Just at that moment Chincho saw something off to the side of the trail, lying half-hidden in the brush. It was brown. As Chincho looked more closely, he saw it moving rhythmically as an animal does in breathing. He touched Maseca lightly on the shoulder and pointed toward the brush. They both realized that this must be the wounded buck. Just as they were trying to decide what to do, the deer made up their minds for them. With a bellow, he leaped from his hiding place and headed straight for Chincho. Chincho stood rooted to the spot with fright. His eyes bulged as he saw the huge beast, his antlers held low in attack, bearing down upon him. Maseca raised his bow, and with all the courage and calmness he could muster, drew back and let go the string. As his arrow whished straight toward the onrushing buck, Maseca knew that his aim had been straight. As the arrow struck, the deer leaped into the air toward Chincho. The buck’s action was so quick that Chincho failed to move in time. As it fell, one of its antlers cut deeply into Chincho’s leg. The boy gasped in pain and slumped to the ground, next to the dead buck.

Maseca ran quickly to his side and held his head in his arms. Then he looked down at the nasty wound in Chincho’s leg and saw the blood pouring out. Hurriedly, he gathered some large leaves, wet them in a nearby stream, and placed them against the wound. Then he pulled a leather thong from his leggings and used it to bind the leaves in place. When he saw that the wound had nearly stopped bleeding, he spoke quietly to Chincho.

“I must go for help, Chincho. You must lie still and quiet until I return.” With that Maseca pulled up all the strength that was left in his tired body and started running at top speed along the trail he had marked.

As the sun sank behind the hills of the quiet valley, Chincho prayed that Maseca would hurry. The pain was getting worse and, though the blood had stopped flowing from the wound, Chincho was beginning to lose strength. Suddenly, from down the trail, the boy heard the voices of many braves. Then he heard his father shouting his name.

“Over here! Over here!” Chincho called weakly. His father ran to him and knelt at his son’s side. Soon Chincho was surrounded by many of the older braves who looked first at him and then at the dead buck. He searched among the faces for that of his friend.

“Where is Maseca?” he asked his father.

“Back in the village resting, my son,” his father said softly. “You see, Maseca ran so fast through the forest to seek help for you that he caught his foot in a root and twisted his leg badly. He wouldn’t stop even though he was barely able to hobble into camp. He had just enough strength left to tell us where you were before he fainted.”

Chincho began to feel very guilty about the many times he had hoped that Maseca would be injured some day just because Maseca had beaten him in the foot race.

“He will be well again soon, won’t he, father? He will be able to run as fast as before?” His father smiled down at Chincho.

“Is that what you want, my son?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, father. He must be well again. Because he won the foot race fairly, I have often wished that he would be hurt. Now that it has really happened, I am sorry. I will never wish harm for any friend again. Only then will I be a true son to my father and a true Iroquois brave.”

While Chincho and his father were talking, the other braves cut two saplings and tied branches across them to make a stretcher to carry the boy. Chincho’s father held his son’s hand as the other braves lifted the boy onto the stretcher.

“You have spoken wisely, my son. Do not worry. Maseca will soon be well enough to race and hunt and fish again with you.”

Chincho smiled up at his father and turned his head to look proudly at the large buck that two braves were carrying, hung by its feet from a sapling stretched across their shoulders.

The next night there was a special council fire. Two young braves were lying on stretchers, side by side, at the place of honor. At their sides, stood their fathers. Then the Chief told the tribe about the bravery and hunting skill and strength of these two boys. “They will be great braves, worthy of the Iroquois nation,” he said solemnly.

Chincho’s and Maseca’s fathers glanced proudly down at their sons.

LITTLE BEAR’S FIRST HUNT

Little Bear opened his eyes and looked around his wickiup home. As the sleep left his eyes, he noticed that his father’s bed was empty and that he was alone. Quickly he threw off his buffalo robe and ran to the door of the wickiup. Pushing aside the deerskin he looked out into the small Apache camp.

There was quite a bit of activity. Everyone was hurrying about. Although it was still very early, the cooking fires were burning brightly, and the women of the tribe were busy preparing a hot meal. Then he remembered that today was the day of the big hunt.

Little Bear ran quickly through the village searching for his father, Swift Eagle. Finally after asking several of his friends, he was told that his father could probably be found at the corral. Soon he saw his father looking over the horses. Swift Eagle was telling young braves which horses to select for his use on the hunt.

“Father,” called Little Bear, “why did you not waken me when the dawn came? There has been much excitement since the sun first broke through the night, but you did not wake me.”

“My son, I wanted you to rest, for today is the day of the big hunt. Soon the warriors will be gathering and we will be ready to leave for the feeding grounds of the great buffalo. Now I must check the horses, for we must take only the young and the strong. This will be a long and hard Journey.”

Little Bear suddenly realized that this was to be a real test for him. When a young Apache is considered a young brave, he is taken on his first big buffalo hunt along with the older warriors of the tribe. He must prove himself worthy of being called a hunter. Little Bear had waited a long time for this great day. He felt his heart beating a little faster than usual and he was filled with excitement and a little fear. Little Bear’s fear left when his father placed his hand upon his son’s shoulder and said, “Be not afraid, my son, for you were born an Apache and Apaches fear nothing. You will make a great hunter, and a true Apache.”

Together they walked back to their wickiup where Little Bear’s mother had prepared a fine breakfast. When they had all eaten, they heard that the hunting party was beginning to form. Soon all was in readiness, and the great hunting party rode out from the village. The scouts had reported that a rather large herd of buffalo had stopped to graze only half a day’s ride from their camp. So it was for this herd that the hunting party had made its plans.

As they rode along, Little Bear began to think of how he would make his first kill of buffalo, the largest of the wild game hunted by the Apaches. Little Bear had hunted before but only for rabbits and other small game. This was to be his day of triumph, and he was excited. Soon the caravan of hunters halted to rest and replenish their water supply from a spring near by. The scouts were sent ahead once again to see if the herd had shifted position.

As Swift Eagle and his son sat by the cool spring, Little Bear stared toward the horizon hoping to be the first of the party to see the returning scouts. His father had been watching him with a kindly eye, and said, “Do not be too eager, my son. When excitement grows within the body, the hand becomes unsteady. You must control our body and your mind, or you will find that your aim will not be true. Your arrow, instead of striking its mark, will do nothing but chew up the dust of the prairie.”

Little Bear listened quietly to his father; as so many times before, he realized the wisdom in his father’s words.

There was little conversation for a while, until the scouts returned to report that the herd had not moved and that a short ride would bring the party to within striking distance. The hunting party moved on until the signal was passed that the herd was just over the next rise. Instructions were given and the party quickly spread out into an attacking formation, each brave hoping to have the best spot to ride down the buffalo herd. As soon as everyone was in position, they waited for the next signal of the leader.

Little Bear could feel the excitement mounting in his body and, remembering the words of his father, fought off the tenseness that was filling his arms and legs. The rise in front of him, which separated the hunting party from the herd, seemed to be very far away. Just as Little Bear felt he could not control his pony or himself any longer, the signal was given. The braves, with shouts rising from their throats, raced over the rise. Soon there was a mixture of running, frightened buffalo, and riding, yelling warrior hunters, and clouds of dust that rose from the hundreds of hoofs churning the prairie.

Little Bear drew an arrow from his quiver. Following the patient teaching of his father, he calmly placed the arrow to the bow string. Leaning forward on the neck of his pony, holding tight with his knees pressed against his pony’s sides, he peered into the dust and quickly spotted his quarry. A large bull buffalo was lumbering along a little wide of the herd. Carefully taking aim, Little Bear let go his arrow. The last thing he saw before the dust welled up again to block his sight was his arrow protruding from the side of a stumbling buffalo.

Little Bear swerved his pony rapidly away from the herd. When the pony was able to check his forward speed, pony and rider withdrew to the side of the battleground to watch the rest of the hunt in safety. As the herd disappeared across the prairie, the members of the hunting party turned their horses and began the ride back to where the herd had been grazing. When the dust had cleared, Little Bear saw scattered across the prairie the bodies of many buffalo which had fallen before the accurate shooting of the hunters. Each brave would be able to tell his kill, for each arrow bore the mark of its owner.

Little Bear galloped toward the spot where he thought his buffalo had fallen. While he rode, his heart beat very fast. He tried to show little excitement as he drew near to a group of hunters who stood looking down at an object upon the ground. As Little Bear drew close, he slowed his pony. His father turned and smiled. Dismounting, Little Bear walked to his father’s side. Lying on the ground at the feet of the older braves was a bull buffalo of tremendous size. And there was the arrow of Little Bear exactly where the arrow of a good hunter should be. He had hit the buffalo in a vital spot.

Swift Eagle placed his arm across the shoulders of his son. Amid the many grunts and exclamations of approval coming from the warrior hunters, Little Bear heard the deep calm, proud voice of his father.

“You have done well, my son. This is a fine buffalo, one which we are sure will prove to be the largest one killed this day. The many hours spent in teaching you were not wasted. This you have proven today. You will return to our village a hero and tell of your exploits at the council tonight. No longer will you have to stay behind when the hunters go in search of food. Today you have become a hunter and earned the right to ride with the hunting party. Your father is proud.”

And so the procession, after attending the buffalo and stripping the hides and packing the fresh meat for the return trek, headed for home. At the front of the party rode Swift Eagle and Little Bear, a proud father and an even prouder son. Today the young brave had succeeded in his first hunt.

CRYING EAGLE SEES A GREAT BATTLE

It was a dark winter evening in the small Iroquois village. The cries of the wolf echoed in the forest as Great Eagle, war leader of the Iroquois, was preparing for bed. He stopped to take a last look for the night at his young son, Crying Eagle, and smiled at his boy who slept so peacefully. As he pulled the warm robe up around his son’s neck to keep the cold from seeping in and disturbing his sleep, he thought to himself,

“How lucky I am to have been blessed with such a son. Truly, he will be a leader among his people. Not because he is the son of Great Eagle, war chief of the Iroquois, but because he will be tall and strong and brave and will learn well the ways of the tribe. Soon he will be ready to be a leader and when that day comes, I will be proud to stand forth and say, ‘This is my son.’”

Great Eagle slept warm and soundly that night and arose with the dawn of the next day. Today his son was to go on a trek with him to learn the ways of the wild game in winter time.

Great Eagle moved to his son’s bed and called softly to him, “Come, my son, for we have a long way to travel and much to do today.”

Crying Eagle got up quickly, put on his warm winter clothes, and sat with his father at breakfast. As soon as breakfast was over, they gathered their weapons and left the protection of the Iroquois village and headed toward the forest. As they walked along the trail, Great Eagle pointed out different signs. Here the snow had been scraped by a deer nosing for anything green under the snow. There was a squirrel nest bulging with its store of winter food. And everywhere there were the tracks of many wolves. This had been a hard winter, and the hungry wolves were moving in packs to seek out easy prey. Many animals would not find enough food to keep them at full strength. Unless one were very careful, escape from an attack by these forest marauders would be impossible.

Crying Eagle began to get tired and his father motioned toward a small glen in the forest off to the side of the trail. There were some fallen logs upon which they could sit and have their lunch of jerked venison and water. As they sat eating slowly, Great Eagle watched the forest around them for any signs of game. But all was quiet except for the singing of the few winter birds that lived there, even in the coldest weather. Suddenly, they heard the crackling of some dry timber in the distance and Great Eagle raised his head.

“A buck leaping through the brush,” he said.

“How can you tell, father?”

“Listen, my son! You will discover that there is a moment of silence between each crackling of brush. That tells you that whatever makes the noise is leaping, and the heavy crashing of brush tells you that the animal is large. Because it leaps, you know it is not a bear. So we can be almost sure that it is a buck.”

Just as Great Eagle stopped speaking, they saw a large buck moving in long leaps among the brush and small trees. Suddenly, he stopped and sniffed the air. Great Eagle and his son stood perfectly still. The buck looked directly toward them. The breeze was blowing toward the buck and he had caught their scent. Crying Eagle raised his bow but felt his father’s hand upon his shoulder.

“No, my son. The buck is truly beautiful. But our wigwam is full of venison, and we have enough fine clothes to last for a long time. We do not kill the forest animals unless we really need to. Truly, I know how much you want to make a kill and tell your friends of the fine buck your steady hand brought down, but that must wait for another day. We are here to learn the way animals live during the winter, so that when you must hunt for your family, you will find it easy.”

The buck seemed to wait for Great Eagle to speak with his son. Then he leaped away through the forest. Great Eagle and his son spent the rest of the afternoon studying other signs of wild life. As the sun began to sink low in the west, Great Eagle turned and started on the trail for home. After they had gone a ways, Great Eagle halted and motioned for his son to be still. Together the two Indians crouched low and Great Eagle pointed through the trees. There, only three hundred paces away in a clearing, stood a large buck. Off to the right of the buck stood a beautiful brown doe and further on through the trees was another buck, moving slowly forward through the trees.

“Why do we stop, father?” asked Crying Eagle, still crouching low in the snow.

“Because, son, I believe that we are about to see something very rarely seen by humans. The buck in the clearing is standing guard over his bride, the doe on our right. The buck coming through the trees is young and wants the doe, too. So he is challenging the old buck to a duel. The winner will get the doe. In a moment they will face each other in the clearing. They will meet head on and the battle will be on. The buck that gives up first and turns from the battle will be the loser, and the other will claim his bride.”

Soon, as Great Eagle had said, the younger buck entered the clearing. The two faced each other, the younger pawing at the ground while the older stood surveying this young challenger of his right to the doe, who lay watching them calmly from the brush to the side of the clearing. Then the two bucks began to circle. They stopped and almost at once the young one charged. The older buck met the attack head on and there was a loud crash as their antlers met and locked. They pushed and pulled and wrenched until suddenly their antlers were free. They were almost equally matched, for even though the younger buck seemed faster, the older was a veteran of many such battles and knew more tricks in fighting.

Again they locked horns but unlocked quickly this time. Then the older buck’s antlers slashed into the side of the young buck. Back and forth the battle waged and then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The young buck had had enough. He tossed his head into the air and leaped off into the forest, to lick his wounds and wait for another doe. The old buck walked with what looked like pride to his doe. She rose to her feet and, side by side, they began pushing their noses into the snow to smell out food.

“Come,” said Great Eagle, “let us leave them in peace. You have seen one of the great events in the life of wild animals. Remember it well for you may be called upon to defend the persons and things you love, even when you think the enemy is stronger. Remember how strength alone is not enough. You must know how to fight well in order to win.”

Crying Eagle was thinking about each word his father had spoken as they headed home. They moved rapidly because they wanted to reach the village before dark. Soon through the trees they could see the flickering of many campfires. In a few moments they were in the camp and at home. A hot meal of stew was waiting for them, and father and son ate heartily. When they had finished, Crying Eagle spoke to his father.

“My father, you opened my eyes today to many new things. I hope that I have learned my lesson well and will always obey your teaching.”

Crying Eagle kept his promise well. Some years later there was trouble between his village and the neighboring tribes. While the young bucks shouted for blood and the scalps of their neighbors, Crying Eagle called for peace and talk. Like his father in battle, he was a brave warrior, but where talk around the council fire could save lives, Crying Eagle was a great leader and peacemaker.

Crying Eagle lived to a very old age, but he never forgot that walk through the winter forest with his father Chief Great Eagle, war chief of the mighty Iroquois.

Based on a story told to the author by John Fitch, Vermont farmer,
1937.

SPOTTED TAIL AND THE GHOST WOLF

The Mohawk village of bark houses nestled along the river, and all was peace and contentment in the village. Spotted Tail and his family lived in peace and contentment in the village, for they were a happy people. The hunting and fishing were good and there was little sickness among the people of his tribe and all was made so that the people would be happy.

When young Spotted Tail had reached his fifteenth summer, something happened to his tribe. Suddenly the game of the forest became scarce. The deer began to disappear and even the smallest of game was becoming hard to find. This concerned the council, for never before had this happened to their hunting grounds. And then one day while the warriors were busy preparing to go out on the hunt, a young Mohawk warrior staggered into the camp. Blood dripped from his body and as he reached the center of the village he collapsed.

Eager hands lifted him and carried him to his house and when his wounds had been bathed the great chief of the Mohawks came to talk with him.

“What has happened to you, my brother? Surely this is the work of some great savage beast that you have encountered in the green forest.”

“O Great Chief, my companion and I had been following the tracks of a deer and feeling we were quite lucky to have come upon such a find. Suddenly as we trotted along the trail following the deer there was a horrible snarling from off to the side of the trail. We stopped and looked toward the side of the trail, and there before our very eyes was a pack of ferocious-looking wolves. Before we could even draw our bowstrings they were upon us. My companion and I fought them, but soon they had dragged my companion to the ground. They began to fight among themselves over one of their wounded comrades, and it was then that I crawled off into the brush and when I saw my chance I ran as fast as I could toward our village. I could hear the snarls of the pack behind me but I ran as fast as my legs could carry me and soon I heard them no more. But one thing I will always remember is the leader of the pack, a white wolf of tremendous size. He had a beautiful white coat and was much larger than the rest of the pack. I am tired, I must rest now.”

And with that the warrior closed his eyes and slept.

The chief immediately called a council of his warriors and among them was Spotted Tail’s father. Now the reason for the lack of game was known. The winter further north had been very severe and so the wolf pack had come further south seeking food. But now that they had been roaming so free for so long they decided to stay.

The chief rose before the council and said:

“We must set out on the hunt immediately, but we must hunt this pack of wolves and destroy them before they cause all the deer to disappear. If we fail, our smoke racks will become empty and our people will starve.”

So party after party of warriors were sent out in search of the wolf pack, but they always returned disappointed; for they had often come upon the pack but never had been able to get close enough to do any real damage.

Finally Sleeping Water, one of the young warriors, Suggested that instead of going in large parties they ought to go out in pairs or three at a time and when sighting the pack send word to a larger hunting party and they in turn could surround and destroy the pack.

The council approved of this method and so the warriors began to go out in pairs. It was now that Spotted Tail began his adventure which was to be spoken of in the lodges for many moons to come.

Spotted Tail was chosen by Sleeping Water to go as his companion, and the two braves started on the hunt. They ranged far and wide and finally picked up the trail of the pack. Sleeping Water knelt by the tracks of the wolves and could tell that they were fairly fresh tracks.

Quickly the two braves trotted along the trail in pursuit of the pack and soon through the trees ahead Sleeping Water spotted the pack moving stealthily through the trees as if stalking an animal. Turning to Spotted Tail he said, “Spotted Tail, you will keep the pack in sight and follow them as they move, marking your trail. I will return and fetch a large hunting party and we shall destroy this pack of wolves. You are not afraid to keep watch?”

Spotted Tail felt it a great honor to be asked to do such an important job and he told Sleeping Water that he would keep close watch on the pack and if he moved he would mark his trail well.

When Sleeping Water departed, Spotted Tail kept close watch on the pack as it milled around. Evidently the hunt they were on was ended, for many of the wolves were circling in the snow and finding resting places.

It was fast growing dark and Spotted Tail hoped that they would not decide to move in the dark or he would surely lose them before the dawn. Then he saw him—the giant white leader of the pack—standing off to one side of the pack as if on guard. He was truly a majestic animal, fully half a foot taller at the shoulder than the other wolves and his coat was a shimmering white as pure as the snow.

As night settled, a bright moon came out and the night was shattered by the baying of the wolves at the moon.

On a rock pinnacle overlooking the wolves’ bedding ground, the great white leader stood guard, his eyes never still, moving from side to side as he watched for any approaching danger. Spotted Tail remained awake as long as he could, but soon his eyes felt very tired. He was about to drop off to sleep when he noticed the pack stirring. He gazed out into the shadows of the night and the leader seemed to be staring right through the brush and trees into Spotted Tail’s hiding place.

Then Spotted Tail saw the reason for the movement: a deer had wandered to within a short distance of the wolves, and now the pack was preparing to kill this unsuspecting victim.

The leader seemed to bark instructions and suddenly the pack was up and circling the deer. There was a mad rush and suddenly the excitement was over, the booty was shared, and the pack settled down once again.

Spotted Tail breathed a sigh of relief, for the pack in chasing the deer had come too close for comfort to his hiding place in the thick brush. Dawn was fast approaching, and now the pack was on the move once again. Spotted Tail followed as close as he dared, making sure that he kept downwind from these lean hungry wolves that had caused death and starvation to come to his People. Then he got an idea.

If he could get a good shot in and wound or even kill the leader, it might have the same effect as if a chief died, the pack would be without a leader and might be so disorganized that the hunters from his tribe, who he was sure were fast approaching, would be able to make easy work of the rest of the pack.

Then the opportunity came his way. There standing off to the side of the pack was the large white leader. Spotted Tail settled himself upon one knee in the snow and drawing careful aim with his bow, he let fly. The arrow seemed to go right through the great beast and he leaped high in the air. Spotted Tail was about to shout of his great shot to the heavens when he saw that the wolf had come to rest on all fours and was turned now in his direction, his teeth bared and a terrible snarl coming from deep within his throat.

Gathered behind the great white wolf like an army, was the rest of the pack, snarling and waiting for the orders from their leader, but the leader seemed to warn them away—this was his kill—and slowly began moving toward Spotted Tail.

Spotted Tail stood firm and placed another arrow to his bowstring. He fired again, and the arrow again seemed to go straight to its mark but still the beast kept moving forward. Now the wolf began to run in a steady loping trot toward the Indian and suddenly he was leaping.

Spotted Tail drew his knife, but in mid-air the wolf seemed to stop and try to turn and return from whence he had come, and then the body was crashing to the ground, an arrow quivering in his side. Then there were howls and yells and cries from many points of the forest and arrows came flying into the wolf pack. Beast after beast fell under the onslaught of deadly shafts being fired by revenge-seeking Mohawk warriors until suddenly the whole pack lay dead in the quiet of the winter forest.

It all happened so quickly that before Spotted Tail realized what had happened, Sleeping Water was lifting him from the snow smiling.

“You have done well, my young brother, you have been brave this day. You left very clear signs for our party to follow and because of that we were able to wipe out this pack of beasts which have killed so much game.”

“But the leader of the pack—I fired an arrow into him and it went right through him. Twice I saw this happen. He must have been a ghost and yet I saw his body hit the ground with the arrows of my brothers. How do you explain this, Sleeping Water?”

“Come, Spotted Tail, I will show you.” Together they walked to where the great beast lay.

“You see, his coat was such a pure white that it blended with the snow and when you fired it seemed as though you hit him but actually you missed. It is no shame, for it was a long and a difficult shot and when you fired a second time as he was moving toward you, the sun on the snow caused reflection to make you misjudge your shot.

“We observed all this from our hiding places, for we came upon you just as you were preparing to make your first shot. But, please, Spotted Tail, do not take a chance like that again. It is very foolish to try something so dangerous when you are alone and especially when you knew that help was on the way. But this adventure has ended well, and you will have much to tell in the medicine lodge tonight, of the great ghost wolf that hunted these lands.”

And so the pack was destroyed and soon the game returned once again to the hunting ground of the Mohawk and once again all was peaceful and happy along the Osage River.

This story was told to the author by Jim Nutley of the Canadian Forest
Ranger Service.

3. CUSTOMS

THE TRIBES GATHER

The Cree were plains Indians. Today their village was full of activity. A hunting party had just returned after a very successful hunt. The braves were already around the great council fire, telling of their exploits. Among these warriors was Slow Tongue, whose bravery and courage among the Cree was never questioned.

When all the celebrating was over, Slow Tongue returned to his tepee and his family. His young son, Swift Hawk, had waited up for him and, with pride in his eyes, he looked up into his father’s face and said, “I am very proud to have you for my father.”

“My young son, it is long past your bedtime and you should have closed your ears to the night noises of the prairie many hours ago. But I must also say that I am proud to have you as a son and tomorrow we shall talk and I shall tell you all about the hunt.” Slow Tongue turned to leave his son’s side when he heard a noise at the entrance of his tepee.

“Slow Tongue,” a voice called quietly, “it is I, Seeing Bear. Come, I must speak with you.”

Slow Tongue left the tepee. “Why do you call me from my tepee so late in the night, Sleeping Bear,” he asked. “I am tired and my buffalo robe beckons to me to come and wrap myself in its warm folds, for my body aches.”

“Look, Slow Tongue! Look to the north! At first I thought the heat of the day had made me see things that do not exist. But now I am sure it has not. Look and tell me what you see.”

Slow Tongue turned his head to the north and gazed out into the darkness of the night. Far in the distance he saw a red glow which disappeared, appeared again, and disappeared many times.

“What can it mean, Slow Tongue?”

“It is a message, Seeing Bear. The fire signal tells that the tribes of the plains are gathering for the Sun Dance. Truly this is great news. Tomorrow we must break camp and leave for the northern meadow of the Blue Star, for it is there that the great celebrations will be held. You go to the southern part of the village and I will go to the northern part, and we will spread the word. It is late and many are asleep, but surely this is news for which they will be glad to be awakened.”

The next morning there was great excitement in the Cree village. The gathering for the Sun Dance not only meant gathering to celebrate the greatest religious ceremony of the plains Indians, but it also meant that it would be a time for great feasts, mock battles, ceremonial hunts, and the recounting of the past year’s experience with many old friends. And, of course, the men looked forward to smoking the ceremonial pipes which was also a part of this great occasion.

The tribe had soon broken down its village and packed and the great procession headed north toward the meadow of the Blue Star.

For two days and two nights the Cree village moved northward. Their progress was slow but steady, and there was much gaiety. There was much to look forward to, and many of the younger braves could hardly be kept from rushing on ahead of the tribe.

Soon other tribes began to join the Cree in their trek north. In all directions smoke signals could be seen, sent up by eager messengers reporting the movements of the tribes as they converged on the sacred grounds.

It was very clear to Swift Hawk now that friend and enemy were walking side by side. This was one time during the year when the burning desire to strike out at your enemy was replaced by a stronger desire to do worship together in the hope of a good year to come.

Soon the meadow of the Blue Star was reached, and the tribe of Swift Hawk chose a place to set its village in the great circle with the tribe’s sacred tepee as its center. Campfires began to burn merrily, and the smell of cooking food filled the air. Old and young warriors walked about to renew old acquaintances and talk about what had happened during the past year. Dancers could be seen here and there practicing seriously for the time of the great ceremony.

Soon word spread through the encampment that there were to be riding contests at the far west side of the meadow on the following day. These contests would be open to young braves who had made their first buffalo kill during the last year. This made Swift Hawk leap and shout for joy. Just last month he had brought down his first buffalo. This meant he could enter the riding contest. For many years now Swift Hawk had watched the contests from afar. Each year he promised himself that next year he would enter and win. Each year his father told him to be patient and that his time would come.

It was a very difficult contest to test the skills of the young warriors. Each boy was to start his ride from the top of a hill that sloped sharply down into the meadow. At every one-hundred-yard point along a twisting path down the steep slope, for a distance of five hundred yards, were four sets of poles, two poles to each set. Each set was driven in the ground a buffalo’s length apart until they stood between four and five feet above ground. Between these two poles a buffalo hide was stretched to look like a buffalo running directly toward the sloping path, his flank toward the young warriors as they rode down.

Each young brave was allowed a bow of his choice, four arrows, and a quiver. The brave, when given the signal to go, would race down the slope at full speed. Drawing an arrow from the quiver and bending his body down under the neck of his pony and holding on with his feet, he would aim his arrow under the neck of the pony and shoot the arrow into the buffalo hide. He would do this with each of the four arrows.