Part 10

The night passed without incident but as dawn approached, Tani heard a rustle in the near-by bush. He raised his bow ready to fire, but recognized the head feathers of his Cherokee brothers and let the bow drop to the ground. He leaped forward with a happy cry. The two braves were from Talitanigska’s camp. They quickly made a sling hammock to carry Tani’s father and soon the four of them set forth for the great Chieftain’s camp.

Once safely within the camp, Tani’s father was well cared for and soon was able to stand once again on his injured foot. Two weeks after their arrival at Talitanigska’s camp a great council fire was held to celebrate the victory of the Cherokees over their enemies, the Senecas. As the festivities came to a close, Talitanigska stepped to the center of the ring and asked that Tani step forward. Then, in front of the great Cherokee Chieftains, Talitanigska took his stout hickory bow from his shoulder and placed it in Tani’s hands.

“This is for you, Tani,” he said, “for you are a great brave and now a man among men. You stood full of courage in the face of great danger. Because of your quick thinking, you saved your father’s life and made it possible for your father to bring me the valuable information. This information helped our fellow tribesmen to meet and defeat the Senecas, our enemies.”

Tani did not know what to say; but the following morning, as he and his father prepared to leave, he stepped in front of Chief Talitanigska and thanked him for the gift. He said he would always cherish the great hickory bow and remember the great kindness shown him by one of the great Chiefs of the Cherokee nation. Tani had his bow, just like his father’s. There was no happier brave alive as he tramped closely behind his father on the path home.

SINGING WATERS AND THE MEDICINE WELL

Singing Waters’ work as an Indian maiden in the Teton-Dakota tribe was typical of the work of Indian maidens across the continent. Each year she would make new clothing for her family and each day of the year she would cook and do the many little things that were the duty of a good Indian squaw. The work was hard but Singing Waters did not mind, for she loved her husband and her children and was very happy and proud to be able to help them.

When she found that she had some free time, Singing Waters would join the other women of the tribe to boast about her husband’s great deeds on the hunt and in battle. This was a favorite pastime of all the squaws. They would spend many hours throughout the years to talk, over and over again about the adventures of their braves. Each time they would repeat the stories with even more enthusiasm.

One day, all the tribe’s braves had left to hunt down a great buffalo herd for food and clothing for the tribe. Singing Waters was seated in front of her tepee, teaching her two daughters how to cook, when the morning sky grew suddenly very black. A great quiet fell upon the village. Even the dogs that seemed to spend their day barking for no good reason were silent. Singing Waters heard only the wind as it whispered through the village.

Then from the distance, there came a rumble that seemed to come slowly nearer and nearer to the village. Singing Waters realized quickly that a dust storm was heading for her village. The other squaws had heard it, too, and were rushing to gather their children into their tepees and bind the skins across the entrances as tightly as they could. The dogs whimpered and scattered for whatever shelter they could find. The village did not have to wait long, for the winds were soon lashing against the tepees, straining their fastenings, and the dust was whipping through the village like a flood tide rushing over the rocks on the seashore.

The dust reached into every opening in Singing Waters’ tepee. It wasn’t long before a fine coating of it covered everything and everyone inside. Her two daughters huddled close to her, crying slightly because of their fear of the storm. But soon the wind blew out of the village, and the last dust clouds settled to the ground. One by one the flaps of the tepees swung back. Mothers, children and old men began to come out. They found that many things, left outside in the haste of escaping from the storm, were covered with coats of light brown dust. Everyone began cleaning up the village and sweeping away the dust which had piled up against the sides of the tepees.

While this was happening a young boy, named Fat Buffalo because he was short and very fat, came running through the village, crying that his mother was lost. Singing Waters halted him and shook him a little to make him stop his screaming. When he had quieted, she was able to learn that Brown Fawn, the boy’s mother, had left the tepee early that morning to seek fresh water. She had been gone only a little while when the storm struck. Now she was not back in the tepee and Fat Buffalo was frightened.

Singing Waters was worried, but did not tell Fat Buffalo. She knew that an Indian woman out in such a storm might easily fall under the stinging pelting of the sand, only to be smothered by it. She might never be found unless, years later, new storms should blow away the dust and reveal the dry bones of a skeleton and a few bits of her clothing. Though Singing Waters felt panic in her heart, she quieted herself and spoke calmly to Fat Buffalo.

“Go back to your tepee, Fat Buffalo, and wait. Your mother probably found shelter from the storm. Now that it has stopped she will be home soon. If it will make you feel better, I will go and look for her. Return now to your tepee. I wouldn’t be surprised if your mother were there already.”

How Singing Waters hoped that Brown Fawn was back in the village by now! It would be almost an impossible task to find her here on the plains if she were dead or even hurt. First, Singing Waters would not know in which direction to start. The water hole that she and most of the tribe used was to the south, but there were many water holes in many directions from the village. Singing Waters decided that she should go to Brown Fawn’s tepee and find out if anyone else in the family knew in which direction she had gone.

After warning her two daughters to stay close to home, saying that she would be back shortly, Singing Waters ran swiftly through the village. Reaching Brown Fawn’s tepee, she opened the tent flap and stepped inside. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she saw Fat Buffalo kneeling in the far corner of the tepee, crying. Approaching slowly, Singing Waters saw that there was someone else in the tepee and that Fat Buffalo was kneeling next to that person. As she drew near, her heart was happy, for she thought that Brown Fawn had returned and was comforting Fat Buffalo. She was about to turn and leave when she suddenly realized that this woman was not Brown Fawn, but Fat Buffalo’s grandmother, Little Otter, who held the boy’s head on her lap.

Singing Waters approached quietly and spoke softly to Little Otter. “Has Brown Fawn returned yet with the water?” she asked with slight hope in her voice.

“No,” said Little Otter, “and it was because of me that she went in search of water. We have some water here in the tepee. But I have not been feeling well, and Brown Fawn thought that herbs brewed in fresh spring water from the rocks on the near-by hills might make a tea which would help my sickness to leave.”

“But,” said Singing Waters, “the hills where the streams flow are many miles from here. If Brown Fawn left when the sun rose, then she might just have reached the spring when the storm came. She is probably on her way back to the village right now.”

The sad news about Brown Fawn soon reached everyone in the village. Many anxious eyes watched the trail that led from the hills. Each person hoped to be first to catch sight of Brown Fawn and bring happiness to Little Otter and Fat Buffalo.

Later that afternoon, Singing Waters came once again to Brown Fawn’s tepee. She talked quietly with Little Otter and then hurried back to her tepee and placed a warm buffalo jacket across her shoulders. Then taking her two little daughters, she went to her sister’s tepee and asked if she might leave the children there for supper while she went in search of Brown Fawn. Her sister looked at her and asked, “Why do you not wait until the warriors return? They should be coming any time now, and they could go in search of Brown Fawn! You have two little children to think about.”

“Yes,” said Singing Waters, “I have two little children to think about, but we do not know when the warriors will be back. If the hunting is good they may not return for another week. Brown Fawn may not be too far from the village.” Nothing Singing Waters’ sister could say to her would change her mind. So she set out from the village toward the mountain spring known to the members of her tribe as the medicine well. It was getting late in the day, and Singing Waters knew that she must hurry if she were to reach the medicine well before sunset. She knew the trail well. As a girl she had followed it many times, for there always seemed to be some sickness in her village.

Singing Waters finally came in sight of the ridge beyond which lay the medicine well, still having found no trace of Brown Fawn. Tirelessly, she trotted on until she had climbed the ridge and had worked her way to the place from which the water flowed into the medicine well. As Singing Waters approached the medicine well, she called Brown Fawn’s name softly, but heard no answer. Then she began to call more loudly. Suddenly, from far ahead she heard a voice answer. Now Singing Waters began to run, for she feared that Brown Fawn was in serious trouble. She ran until she reached the side of the medicine well, but still did not see Brown Fawn. Then she called again and the voice answered. “Help me, I am over here.”

The voice was coming from beyond the medicine well. Singing Waters ran on further; then she stopped and called again. The voice replied again, and Singing Waters knew that she was closer. Brown Fawn’s voice seemed to be coming from just behind a rise ahead of her. She ran swiftly to the top of the rise, and there she found a water bag. As she looked down the side of the rise through the gathering gloom she could make out Brown Fawn’s figure down the side of the hill. She sat leaning against a boulder, and she called out to Singing Waters to help her. Singing Waters slipped and slid in her haste down the side of the hill until she was at the side of Brown Fawn. Brown Fawn was so glad to see her that she cried, great tears rolling down her now pale cheeks.

Singing Waters could see that Brown Fawn had twisted her ankle. As she began to lift the injured woman, Singing Waters asked her how she had hurt herself and how she had escaped the storm. Brown Fawn told how she had reached the medicine well just as the dust storm had broken. After filling her water bag, she had turned quickly to go and had fallen, twisting her ankle. When she was once again able to rise, putting her weight on her other ankle, she found that she had lost all sense of direction and had started hobbling in the wrong direction.

“Why didn’t you lie down among the rocks until the storm passed?” Singing Waters asked.

“I wanted to rest,” Brown Fawn replied, “but then I would think of my mother and son and I felt I must return to her and Fat Buffalo immediately with the medicine water.”

“But,” said Singing Waters, “you are safe now. Now we must return to the village while there is still a little light or we may become lost out here on the prairie far away from the warmth of our tepees. Come, Brown Fawn, lean upon me and I will help you to walk.”

So Brown Fawn placed her arm across Singing Waters’ shoulders. Together they slowly started back to the village. It was dark by the time they had reached the fringe of the village, but bright fires had been lighted to show them the way home. There was much rejoicing as Singing Waters entered the village half carrying Brown Fawn. Gentle hands grasped Brown Fawn and placed her gently upon the buffalo robe in her tepee. Soon her eyelids flickered and she opened them wide, looking around for a face which meant much to her. But Singing Waters had returned to her own home and her children and was recounting for them the adventure she had just had. They smiled, knowing that their mother was a woman of great courage. They were very proud.

THE WAR THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED

Little Turtle was a young Comanche who lived happily with his mother, father, and two older brothers on the great prairies. His father was well respected by the tribe, above all for having three sons who would grow to manhood and bring honor to the Comanche name.

Each day was a new adventure for Little Turtle and he welcomed each dawn with great excitement. He never knew just what was planned for him or what the other children of the village would decide to do, but he was always ready to take part in whatever would happen.

For some time now, Little Turtle, who had just turned ten, had been in the complete charge of his father. On certain days his father would take him far from the village to hunt and learn how to stalk wild game and find their signs. He learned his lessons well. At night in the tepee, he would sit next to his father because he was the youngest, and he would listen carefully while his father explained many things a young brave must know to become a strong and great Comanche warrior.

Because the Comanche village had been at peace for the last three years, Little Turtle had only love in his heart for everyone he knew or met. Sometimes his brothers and his father would speak to him of the hated Apache and Kiowa and the many reasons the Comanches had for hating them. But this meant very little to the lad. He never let such thoughts of war spoil his fun.

One evening after the three boys were asleep, Little Turtle’s father spoke with his mother.

“Blue Star,” he said, “for many days now I have talked to our youngest son of the Apaches and the Kiowas, but he does not seem to understand. I have told him of their many cruel ways and about our warriors who have fallen under the arrow and the tomahawk of the Apaches and the Kiowas. Still he refuses to speak harshly of such neighbors. Maybe Little Turtle is right. Maybe I am wrong in hating these neighbors to the north. You are wise, Blue Star. Your advice is often sought. Tell me now what I should teach our son. Shall I teach him to hate the horse stealers from the north? Or shall I not speak even their names in our daily talks?”

Blue Star thought for a moment and then said, “My husband and great warrior of the Comanches, hatred is a word which Little Turtle will learn soon enough. Now he is young and innocent. He enjoys the coming of each new day for the adventures that it will bring in his world of dreams. He is a happy child and to us a very wonderful boy. Do we want to change this wonderful boy to a grown warrior filled with hate? He knows nothing but love. Possibly peace will be a long time upon our village. We, his parents, would not want to spoil that happy world in which he lives.”

Great Hawk thought long about his wife’s words. Then he left the tepee to walk alone and solve this problem which lay so heavily upon his heart. Since his early days, Great Hawk had been taught to hate the Apaches and the Kiowas. His own father had lost his life in a battle with the Apaches. His brother’s hair now hung from the tepee of Grey Wolf, the Kiowa chieftain who sat at the head of the council lodge. And Grey Wolf was a cruel leader of a tribe that always looked for enemies to kill.

Great Hawk knew that he had strong personal reasons for hating the tribes to the north. But was it right for him to think of punishing his son for not hating them, too, in the way he did? Until he had talked with Blue Star, he had planned to question his son tomorrow about the Apaches and Kiowas, and if his son did not show a growing hatred toward them, then he would punish him. But now he was not sure. No, he would wait and be patient. After all, as Blue Star had said, there had been peace for three years now. Thoughts of war were kept alive only by the young bucks of the tribe who were eager for battle and glory. War was far from the minds of the older and wiser men of the tribe. They knew that peace had brought them prosperity and happiness, but war made them poor and brought them hunger and pain and the death of friends.

Great Hawk began thinking about Crooked Leg, one of the chieftains. He was the only member of the council of Comanche chieftains who was not happy that war had not come again.

Early in his youth Crooked Leg had fallen into the hands of the Kiowas and had been tortured badly. When his body was found being dragged by a Kiowa pony that had been turned loose, he had been beaten and twisted so badly that he lay close to death for many months. He had lived, but his leg had never healed straight. He always rose in pain and could never run again. Crooked Leg had stayed behind in the village during all later battles. His hate for the Kiowa had grown until he now thought about it all the time. At council meetings, he would always argue that the Comanches should once again take to the warpath against the Apaches and Kiowas. Each time he spoke, only a few council members would agree with him. So Crooked Leg was asked to be quiet while the council talked about tribal business. But the young bucks who thirsted for the taste of battle would carry his words through the village after each council meeting. For many days, the village would talk for war and against war. Soon the wise council members would win out, the bucks would quiet down, and Crooked Leg would be left to grumble in his tepee alone and forgotten for awhile.

Crooked Leg’s life had a lesson for Great Hawk. As he was returning to his tepee, he promised himself that he would not speak of hatred again to his son. He must not allow hatred to run his life as it had run Crooked Leg’s. If he did, even his friends might forget him and he would be of little use to anyone.

The following day promised little peace. Dawn brought a roaring storm that smashed at the Comanche village. The pounding rain had soon churned the ground into deep mud. Families remained indoors and fathers sat around their fires teaching sons how to make stout bows and straight arrows, knives, tomahawks, and other handmade tools a young brave needs to survive. Great Hawk used the time to talk to Little Turtle of the great powers of nature and peace and the Comanche people.

“As you grow,” he told Little Turtle, “remember to stay straight and true and do all things that are right, and you shall live a rich and happy life in our tribe. The Comanches have been favored greatly. We have lived in peace for the past three years and though it has been very dry, we have never been without water. Now the sky has opened and allowed the rains to fall so that we have water for our families and our horses. We have not suffered from great thirst since the great drought visited our land when we were last at war. After two years the supply of water was so small that our people were dying more from the great thirst than from the arrows of the enemy. Before long our chiefs sat down in council with our enemies to smoke the peace pipe. Now peace reigns over our people and they have plenty of food and water.”

Little Turtle had listened carefully while his father was speaking, then turned to his mother and said, “Mother, I am a very lucky boy to be a Comanche and to have such a wonderful family. I have a strong, wise, and kind father. You have cared for me as a baby and given me good food so that my bones would grow strong and straight. And I have two brothers of whom I am very proud.”

Blue Star smiled happily and began to make lunch. While the family was eating, the rain stopped. Soon the sun broke through the dark clouds and began to dry the earth. In the middle of the afternoon, Great Hawk rose and touched his son upon the shoulder.

“Come, Little Turtle,” he said. “It is time you learned to ride a horse. We will go to my string of ponies and pick one that you may ride and call your own. If you are to go on the hunt and take part in the many other riding events in the village, you must learn to ride well.”

Little Turtle’s heart leaped excitedly. He had been looking forward to the day his father would teach him to ride. Slowly Great Hawk and his son walked to where the tribe’s ponies were kept tied. Great Hawk began to look amongst the herd for a special pinto pony he had planned to give Little Turtle. It was small but strong and could run for a long time without getting winded. Great Hawk saw quickly that something was wrong. He began counting and discovered that three of his string, including the pinto, were gone. At first he thought that the storm had frightened them and they had broken loose from the main line which held the whole string. But as he reached the main line where the three ponies should have been tied, he saw the dangling ends of ropes that had been cut by a knife.

The pony guard must have left the herd to seek shelter during the storm. So it was easy for someone to steal his three ponies. Without thinking of Little Turtle, Great Hawk knelt in the mud to look closely at the clear tracks that the thieves had left. He rose to his feet quickly.

“The Apaches have stolen my ponies!” he cried out defiantly. “I shall ride after them and bring the ponies back even if blood must be shed!”

Then he remembered Little Turtle. “Go, Little Turtle,” he ordered. “Return to the tepee and explain to your mother what I must do. The Apaches have stolen three of my best ponies. I must ride fast to catch up with them before they get too far into the hills. I shall not rest until the ponies are back in our village or the scalps of the Apache thieves hang in our tepee.”

Then Great Hawk jumped onto a pony and sped off toward the hills.

Little Turtle ran home and told his mother and brothers what had happened.

Little Turtle’s brothers had been two of the young bucks who had agreed with Crooked Leg’s war talk. So they rushed out of the tepee, happy for this chance to fight. They stopped outside their tepee just long enough to pick up their weapons and shout the news to other young bucks of the tribe. Many of the young braves rallied quickly, grabbed their weapons, and dashed toward their ponies. This was just what Great Hawk had wanted to prevent. He thought that if he could overtake the thieves he would be able to bring them back as prisoners. Then the council of chieftains would decide how their stealing should be punished.

Only three Indians—not a large Apache band—were fleeing with the ponies. Great Hawk saw this clearly from the tracks he was following. He thought it might be three young Apache bucks who wanted to start trouble and had turned to stealing horses as a way of making the Comanches angry enough to fight. He must hurry, for if he did not reach the thieves before they got to the safety of the hills, he would have to report their escape to the council. Even the older Comanche chieftains probably would decide that war was the only answer.

When he reached the base of the hills, Great Hawk lost the trail of the thieves in the rocks. Slowly, he turned his mount and started for the village. This would now mean war. Great Hawk turned back toward the hills. Shaking his fist at the Apaches’ stronghold, he swore vengeance upon them. As he headed for home again, he met the war party of young Comanche bucks, led by his two sons.

“Wait!” he said, raising his hand. “Why do you ride so hard?”

“We ride to avenge the theft of your horses,” Great Hawk’s oldest son replied. “We will catch the Apache party and soak the foothills with their blood. No matter how many they are, we shall defeat them!”