Part 11

“Wait!” Great Hawk pleaded. “There were only three men. They are already in the hills. We will lose many men if we try to attack them here. We do not know this ground, but the Apaches know it well. We must take this problem to our council.”

Just as Great Hawk spoke of the council, Crooked Leg rode out from amidst the young warriors. Great Hawk had not seen the old warrior who rode up close to Great Hawk.

“Out of the way, old and weak one,” Crooked Leg screamed. “You are afraid of these thieving vultures who steal from us under cover of a great storm. We are not afraid and we will go on until we find them. We have sat back too long getting fat and lazy on the buffalo meat. We have closed our eyes to the Apaches’ great war plans against our village!”

There were many shouts of approval from the young bucks, who were starting to move about impatiently.

“Wait!” shouted Great Hawk above the yelling of the young Comanche braves. “This long-planned war plan against our village was carried out by just three braves, as the trail will show you. They did not attack. They killed no one. They only stole three horses. This was no attack by the Apache tribe. It was probably the work of three young bucks, like many of you here, who could not be held back. They went off on their own to try to stir up trouble between our two tribes. They baited the trap and you are riding right into it. What has happened here must be settled by our council. Do not let Crooked Leg drive you into something you will regret the rest of your lives—if you live to regret it!”

The young men grew quiet as Great Hawk was speaking.

“And now I speak directly to my two sons,” he continued. “I, your father, order you to return with me to our tepee.”

But the fire that Crooked Leg had been building for so long burst into flame again as he urged the young bucks to go on. They surged forward toward the hills. Great Hawk was forced to rein his pony aside to avoid being run into. He knew that if Crooked Leg succeeded in clashing with the Apaches, he, Great Hawk, would lose importance in the tribe. But if Crooked Leg were defeated at the hands of the Apaches, the council would deliver fair judgment and punishment.

The young Comanche men had never fought before and might be defeated easily. So for the sake of his sons, Great Hawk turned his pony and fell in with the young bucks. When they saw that he had joined them, they urged their ponies ahead at a faster pace.

Soon they were deep in the hills of the Apaches. The party halted, and Great Hawk moved to the front. Grasping the bridle on Crooked Leg’s pony he swung the animal around sharply.

“You will ride no farther,” he told the old warrior. “I command you to go back to our village now. We have no idea where the horse thieves are. You are willing to gamble the lives of these brave young Comanches to satisfy a hate that burns deeply in your heart and mind.”

While Crooked Leg watched him angrily, Great Hawk spoke to the young men.

“Your wish to see justice done is good,” he began. “But the Apache has great strength, even greater here in his own home. We are few and most of us have never fought. If we fight here, our scalps will hang in the tepee of the Apaches before nightfall. Do not follow Crooked Leg any longer. What he suggests can bring only death to yourselves and much sadness to your families. We must return to the council and seek the wise advice of our chieftains.”

Great Hawk could see that his words were beginning to have an effect. He continued talking to the young bucks until their ranks began to break as a few turned their mounts toward home. Others followed, and Crooked Leg started screaming at them to come back and follow him to glory in the defeat of the Apaches. Then, just as the last few braves were heading back down the trail, the hills suddenly bristled with Apache warriors, each aiming an arrow at a young Comanche brave. As Great Hawk looked slowly around, he saw that there were twenty times more Apache than Comanche warriors.

The Comanche party was stunned. No one moved. Then one brave made a grab for his tomahawk. Great Hawk slapped his arm, saying, “Do not be a fool. You would be dead before your hand touched the tomahawk handle. Right now at least a dozen arrows are aimed at your body. Your tepee will be unhappy tonight if you are so foolish.”

Then Great Hawk rode out a little apart from the rest of the band. Raising his empty hands, he called to the Apaches.

“Who among you is the leader, for it is with him that I wish to talk?”

A tall, strong brave stepped from behind a boulder and made his way to the circle of warriors.

“I, Maskan, am leader here,” he said. “Why do you ride into our lands in such haste and with such anger on your faces?”

Then Great Hawk explained the events that had led up to this moment. When he finished, the Apache leader signaled, and three young Kiowa bucks were dragged from behind the boulders into plain sight of the Comanche party.

“These,” said Maskan, “are the three who stole your horses and ours. Their blood has run hot with the desire for adventure. So all alone, they set out last evening to invade your land and ours to steal horses. We have waited for them here among the rocks. We have watched you from the time they were taken by our warriors. You who seem to lead here have spoken wisely. The Kiowas will be punished as all Kiowa are in the Apache nation. We have your horses. They will be yours again. We ask you to go in peace from these hills. You have come in anger. Now you can leave in friendship. The older men of your tribe and ours know the trouble we are having with our young braves who want the glory of battle. One day war will come when the chieftains who want it are strong enough to convince the council. That day is not far away. But now return in peace to your village.”

Maskan turned and started for the boulder before Great Hawk could thank him. Maskan told his braves to bring out the stolen horses. At that moment Crooked Leg slipped his tomahawk from his belt and sent it sailing toward the Apache leader. It landed with a thud in the middle of Maskan’s back. Maskan cried out and fell to the ground, rolling in the dust. Immediately, Crooked Leg’s body was filled with arrows as shaft after shaft whined through the air. War whoops split the air as the Comanches rose to attack the Apaches who dodged behind the rocks that had sheltered them before.

Great Hawk realized that it would be useless to attempt any talk of peace now. With a sinking feeling in his heart he, too, joined the battle, struggling to reach his two sons. The great numbers of Apaches, well protected by large boulders, made the victory easy for them. The young Comanches fell under the hail of Apache arrows, and their war cries became screams of pain.

Then Great Hawk yelled to the warriors to retreat. The riddled band rushed toward their village. Sixteen young Comanche braves lay dead on the ground and seven strong Indian ponies were dead or dying. It was a ragged, tired, and bloody war party that entered the Comanche village that night. Badly beaten, their spirit defeated, they understood now that war was not as glorious as they had thought. As Great Hawk entered his tepee alone, Blue Star greeted him warmly but with fright in her eyes.

“Where are our two sons, Great Hawk?” she asked. Great Hawk looked at his wife and then at Little Turtle.

“Little Turtle, you have never learned to hate and you know nothing of war. Now both hatred and war must shatter your world of dreams. Your two brothers lie out there in the foothills, killed by sharp, well-aimed Apache arrows. They and fourteen others will no longer walk this earth with us. Among them lies Crooked Leg, who is to blame for these deaths today. Many Apaches and Comanches will yet die in a battle that never should have begun.”

From that day forward, Little Turtle left his dream world and walked in the real world of warring tribes, learning to hate his tribe’s enemies, to fight and revenge the death of his brothers.

The war continued for some time. Many Apache and Comanche braves were killed and injured. The council of Comanche chieftains met to discuss better ways of fighting the Apaches. Great Hawk, who had led so many attacks against the Apaches, stood in the council to speak. As he spoke, Little Turtle listened from just outside the lodge where he lay hidden.

“I, Great Hawk, have fought many battles with the Apaches. I am tired but I will fight as long as we must. Before this war started, I had great hate in my heart for the Apaches and Kiowas, as many of you know. I tried to teach this to my son. I know now how wrong I was. My son could not bring himself to hate someone or something he had not seen and who had done him no harm. On that unhappy day which could have ended peacefully, Crooked Leg sent a tomahawk into the back of Maskan, a brave and fair-minded warrior who tried to keep the peace. Then the war started. Two of my sons fell dead at my side, but still I fought on. When we who were left managed to escape with our lives and return to our village, I had to break the sad news to my family. Yet from that moment I held no hate for the Apaches.

“My oldest boys had gone from our village to follow Crooked Leg, a man whose whole life has been one of hate. They died because of that hate, though they died bravely, fighting as Comanches should. But now my youngest son has learned to hate as his brothers did and I am worried deeply. War comes with hate and is worse than disease or drought. The Comanches have always fought honorably, but Crooked Leg’s act will always dishonor our tribe. We cannot seek peace until we have cleansed our hearts of hate. We must do this for the happiness and well-being of our children and their children.”

The council was silent for several moments after Great Hawk had spoken. Then one of the head chiefs rose slowly and looked directly at Great Hawk. “You have spoken wisely, Great Hawk,” he began. “We must think this over carefully. If we want peace, it must be genuine and honorable. Let us go back to our tepees. Let us call the council to meet in two suns and make our decision then.”

When Great Hawk returned to his tepee, his son was waiting for him, having run ahead.

“Do not be troubled, father,” Little Turtle said, “for I have driven the hate from my heart. I hope this war will end soon and that there will be no room in anyone’s heart for hate. For hate eats men’s hearts and makes them like Crooked Leg, unhappy and selfish and cruel, bringing death and sorrow to those around them. These things are not for the Comanches.”

LITTLE HORSE AND THE PAINTED ARROW

Little Horse was a member of the proud and courageous Delaware tribe. He grew up in his tribe among a people who were peaceful. They hunted and fished and sang and danced and celebrated much as most tribes did in the very early days, but there was to come a time when all was not peace and contentment.

Little Horse had been well trained by his father, Running Bear, and he had taken his lessons as a young boy very seriously. Though he had practiced very hard, he had never become very good with the bow and arrow or the tomahawk. But he had become very good at using and throwing the traditional hunting knife which was his proudest possession.

It was spring in the valley of the Delawares and day followed day with the peaceful and warm sun shining down upon the village in which Little Horse lived. Occasionally the soft rains would descend on the forest and hillside making everything wet and a rich green color. All was happiness in the village until that fateful day when Little Horse decided to take his long trip.

Shouldering his stout bow and a quiver of arrows he started out along the forest trail. He desired to go to the upper end of the valley and search out some wild turkey which he had heard many of the returning hunters speak about. The fact that the place where these turkeys lived was almost a day’s journey from his village did not seem to bother him, for he had placed in his food pouch enough dried venison and he would have berries and nuts along the way.

As he walked along, he looked from side to side watching for signs of wild game, not wanting to kill any so close to home but wanting to test his senses of hearing and sight which had been trained by his father so patiently.

Once in a while, Little Horse would stop in his journey to partake of some fresh water or just to rest on a moss patch under some large tree and think about the wonders of nature and the wonderful peace in his tribe.

Then he would rise and continue his journey which took him further and further from home with each step. And not realizing it, he had soon crossed into the land of the Iroquois, for his particular tribe had their village close to the line which separated the lands of the Delawares from the hunting grounds of the Iroquois.

This talk of tribal lands and borders did not mean much to Little Horse, although he had heard his father speak quite often of the Iroquois; and though he had been told never to wander too far from the village, he felt he was grown up enough by this time to take care of himself. One other thing which meant very little to Little Horse was the fact that in this period, neighboring tribes were often at war with each other, for war between tribes was rather common among the American Indians. Stealing and quarreling among individuals and trespassing upon hunting grounds were but a few reasons for this constant state of war and feuding. But to a young lad like Little Horse, who was so wrapped up in his desire to hunt the elusive turkey, war and fighting were the furthest things from his mind.

Meanwhile Running Bear, back at the village, was asking about for his son, for today he was to have taken him fishing in the great lake. No one seemed to know where the boy was until Running Bear asked a group of children playing on the edge of the village, and one of them replied that he had seen Little Horse with his food pouch at his belt and his bow over his shoulder trotting up the trail that led to the north and into the land of the Iroquois.

Fear gripped Running Bear’s heart. Just that morning one of the hunters had returned from the forest to tell of having found three Iroquois painted arrows stuck in the ground in a row, which was a sign of open warfare and he had the three arrows gripped in his hand which had been found close by to the village. This could mean but one thing. For some reason the Iroquois had been aroused, and now no Delaware would be safe alone any great distance from the home encampment. As long as this open warfare lasted, now they would have to travel in groups.

Running Bear feared for his son. So Running Bear gathered a few of his friends, and in a group they started up the trail toward the land of the Iroquois, hoping that Little Horse had not gone too far after all.

But they were to be sadly disappointed, for Little Horse at this moment was deep in Iroquois territory on the trail of wild turkey.

As Little Horse walked silently along the forest trails, he suddenly realized that it had become very quiet. He stopped to listen for the song of the birds but he heard none. He even found it so quiet that the breeze sounded like a windstorm. Someone or something else was near by, for only for that reason would all the forest creatures grow silent.

Then he heard the call of one solitary bird ahead and off to the left. And then behind him to the right he heard a similar call and then Little Horse knew.

It came upon him suddenly like a thundering in his ears. He realized that he was no longer in Delaware country, for this was the call of the Iroquois which his father had taught to him. But what had he to fear? The Delawares and the Iroquois were not at war, and so he boldly shouldered his bow and turned to start for home down the trail. But before he had taken two steps there was a loud whooping from many directions and before Little Horse could do anything, he was surrounded and his arms pinned by four husky Iroquois braves. One of them brandishing a shining knife was about to take the boy’s life when another brave stepped from the brush and spoke, “Put down your knife. This Delaware is tall, but he is only a boy.”

“But he is still a Delaware,” cried the brave, holding the knife close to the heart of Little Horse.

“No matter, he is young and strong. We will take him back to the village with us. We have not had much sport these days of late. This young one will make a fair game for us. We will have him run the gauntlet to see whether he will be permitted to live. I, Crooked Hand, have spoken.”

Little Horse then realized that Crooked Hand must be some sort of leader in the tribe, for there was no more argument. The arms of Little Horse were then tightly bound behind him and he was roughly shoved along the trail toward the village from whence these warriors had come. His weapons had been gathered, and one of the braves carried these as the party trotted easily along the trail, pressing Little Horse before them.

It was not too long after this that Running Bear and his rescue party arrived at the place where the struggle had taken place. It was soon evident to all the braves in the party that Little Horse had been taken prisoner, for once past the marks of the struggle, it was easy to pick out the markings of his moccasins in the soft earth of the trail and Little Horse had made sure to come down heavily on his feet in order to leave a trail plain enough for any who might follow to see.

Running Bear and his party pressed forward, going more stealthily now, for they were deep in the territory of the Iroquois and from all signs quite close to the village. Suddenly Running Bear stopped and signaled the party to flatten themselves upon the ground. Through the trees he had seen the feather of an Iroquois and, hardly daring to breathe, they waited. Detection now would mean almost certain death, for they were tired from their long race through the forest and the Iroquois, being close to home and fresh, would have made easy victims of the Delawares.

The lone Iroquois brave had stopped and looked around and then satisfying himself that nothing out of the ordinary was around had continued along the trail in pursuit of the rest of his party which had Little Horse captive.

Running Bear, when he felt it was safe, gathered his friends about him and then spoke in a whisper.

“We will wait until it is dark and then I will approach the village and see if it would be possible for us to rescue Little Horse and return to our village. It is very late and surely he will not be in danger tonight, for the thieving Iroquois will go into council to decide what to do with him. He is definitely a prisoner and most likely since he is young and strong but yet a boy they will make him run the gauntlet tomorrow as a test as to whether he will be permitted to live or must die.”

When darkness fell, Running Bear slipped through the forest to the edge of the Iroquois village and there, hidden in the brush, he was able to view the happenings in the village. He noticed one particular wigwam being well guarded and this he presumed was where Little Horse was being held prisoner. Then as his eyes wandered about the village he noticed a number of older men entering the large council lodge.

This was a fairly large village of the Iroquois, and Running Bear felt that it would be useless for his small band to attempt a rescue of Little Horse.

Suddenly he heard a slight rustling to the side of the trail and peering into the darkness he saw the figure of a brave approaching the trail. He waited and when the brave was almost upon him he reached out and throwing his arms around the throat of the Iroquois he drove his knife into the brave’s heart.

Without a sound the Iroquois slipped to the ground. Running Bear turned and fled back through the forest. They must leave the land quickly, for as soon as the dead brave was discovered a large party would be sent to look for the killers. So as soon as Running Bear had returned to his friends they made a hasty retreat from the vicinity of the village and, running at a steady pace, returned to their village to report the findings. Running Bear planned to gather a large force and the following evening they would attack the Iroquois village and seek to rescue Little Horse.

Meanwhile Little Horse sat in the wigwam of the Iroquois village awaiting the decision of the council and it was not long in coming. Soon a rather tall Iroquois brave entered and standing in the doorway he informed Little Horse that the council had agreed to spare his life if tomorrow he could prove himself worthy of the gift of life by running the gauntlet.

When the sun was directly overhead he would be placed at the head of two rows of Iroquois and at a given signal would run the gauntlet of war clubs prepared for him.

It would be ridiculous to say that Little Horse was not frightened, for at this particular time Little Horse was a very scared little brave. He had known nothing but comfort and warmth and friendliness since the day he was born, and the loving care and kindness of his family and friends had been his only contact with Indian life. Here in the village of a tribe which he had not thought to be hostile, he suddenly found himself a prisoner and about to be forced to run the gauntlet of war clubs.

He had heard a great deal about the gauntlet from his father who had witnessed the gauntlet and had told of his experience as one of the line of braves making up the gauntlet when they dealt with some of their prisoners.

Little Horse was afraid, and his fear kept him from resting his body for the coming ordeal. Then in the midst of this fear which gripped his heart, Little Horse remembered the words of his father.

“My son,” Running Bear had said to him one day, “if ever you should find yourself in trouble or in danger, remember that you are a Delaware and the Delawares are a strong and proud people. Rest as much as you can, force your body to relax so that you may be prepared for whatever ordeal you must face. You have been taught every skill possible except the skill of courage. This you must have in your heart and if courage abides in your heart as the beaver in the stream, then fear can be overcome and one can consider himself prepared for any hardship which may lie ahead.”

Remembering those words was great comfort to Little Horse and again and again he kept repeating them to himself. Soon the chill that seemed to be in his body left him and the cold fear that gripped his heart released its hold and he was calm once again. When his body relaxed and his mind was at ease, Little Horse slept.

No sense to worry over what tomorrow will bring, but remember the words of Running Bear. Twice more he repeated the words of his father to himself and with that he was asleep.

He had not been asleep long when the door of the wigwam was darkened by two of the braves who had aided in his capture that afternoon. As they viewed the boy asleep on the floor, the taller of the two spoke.

“He sleeps. Look how calm his face is. Notice the slight smile upon his lips. This is the sign of a growing warrior. Courage burns deep in his heart. For even now, knowing that tomorrow he may have to die, he sleeps the peaceful sleep of a baby. This lad can be no more than fifteen and yet he is tall and strong and he had a good face. For many moons we have been at peace with our brothers the Delawares and now war and bloodshed.” The other brave shook his head and, looking at the lad, he spoke.

“If you had not been present when he was captured, his hair would now be hanging from the wigwam of the vicious one. He has the blood of several Delawares upon his hands now and one more would only have added to his greatness even if it were only the scalp of a boy.