Part 4

“What importance do you attach to this dream you have had, young Singing Fire?”

“I do not know, Great Chief, but I would like your permission to take Many Painted Ponies and ride to this place I have seen in the dream. I would like to see what can be found there and then I will return to my village.”

The Indians placed a great deal of faith in dreams, and so the chief gave his permission and early the next morning, Many Painted Ponies and Singing Fire set out for the valley that Singing Fire had seen not only in his dream, but many times on his hunting trips.

They traveled all day, and when the sun was setting in the west, they found themselves but a short distance from the entrance to the valley. They camped for the night, not lighting a fire, in case there should be any unfriendly Indians in the vicinity.

As dawn drew near, the two young men crawled to the mountainous heights overlooking the twisting valley. There they lay and watched the valley below. For almost an hour they sat until finally about noontime a small band of warriors could be seen riding into the valley. They rode straight up the middle of the valley twisting and turning as the valley turned but finally about midway up the valley they swung sharply to the left and seemed to disappear into the very walls surrounding the valley.

“Come,” said Singing Fire, “we must investigate this strange occurrence.”

It took them most of the afternoon to reach a vantage point overlooking where the warriors had disappeared. Crawling carefully to the very edge, the two young braves looked carefully over the edge. Below them lay a fantastic sight. A tremendous Comanche encampment was being formed in a small box canyon. The entrance to the box canyon was a mere crack in the wall which was just about wide enough for one horse and rider to enter at one time. Now Singing Fire could see why a rider going through the valley would not see the opening for it was actually hidden from view by a turn in the trail. If one were not looking for it, one would not find it except by accident.

“This is why we have not seen the Comanches except for that one small party. Under cover of night or early dawn they have been entering our land in small parties, gathering here until their force is large enough to make war upon our people.”

Singing Fire tapped his friend upon the shoulder, motioning him away from the edge.

“Many Painted Ponies, one of us must ride for all he is worth to reach our village and tell of this plan to our people. You must tell the chief to gather the Apaches together and we can trap the scheming Comanches in their own camp.”

Many Painted Ponies rose to leave. “Be careful, my friend, for if they should suspect that you are here your scalp will soon hang from their medicine lodge and they will break from their camp fearing the trap we will set for them. Now I will ride for our village and may your prayers go with me.” With that, Many Painted Ponies left and mounting his pony he rode off toward home.

Singing Fire kept careful watch for the next day and night and when dawn approached he saw the dust of many horses approaching. Riding forth to meet his people, a plan formed in his mind. In council with the chiefs a short time later the plan was outlined. The best marksmen of the Apaches were placed around the box canyon on the walls overlooking the unsuspecting camp of the Comanches. Other warriors would ride into the valley to stand guard at the only entrance or exit to the canyon to make sure none escaped.

Soon all was in readiness. The signal was given. Like an attacking horde of eagles, the Apaches began firing down upon the Comanche encampment. The battle was long and bloody. In confusion the Comanches mounted their ponies and headed for the exit. Here they were met with a hail of arrows which drove them back into the canyon.

When the Comanche forces were thoroughly disorganized, the chief signaled the Apaches to charge through the entrance and soon the two tribes were locked in hand to hand combat. The victory was complete and soon the last of the Comanches had fallen before the knives and war clubs of the attacking Apaches.

In triumph the tribe returned to the village where great celebrations marked the next few days and nights. The hero of the affair was praised before the council, and Singing Fire was honored for his part in the great victory.

2. HUNTING AND FISHING

GREY CALF LEARNS TO HUNT BUFFALO

Grey Calf opened his eyes to greet the warmth of the early spring day. There was a great deal of excitement in his Crow village as he rolled out from under his buffalo robe. At just that moment, his father entered the tepee.

“Come, my son,” he said. “We must dress and eat right away. The village is broken down, for we are going to move again. Your mother is waiting to take down our tepee. Come, you must prepare to help load the travois.”

Grey Calf learned as a very young Crow that whenever his tribe had to move to follow the buffalo herds, the whole village was packed and loaded upon travois drawn by the horse or horses of each family. Everything the family owned was made to be carried easily in rawhide containers that could be folded and put away when the family had settled in a new place. Furniture was made so that it could be folded, too.

Many times, Grey Calf had watched his mother make the travois. She would take two of the tepee poles and fasten them together with a rawhide thong, just a short way from one end. Then she would pull the poles apart at the opposite end and set them, at the point where they were crossed and tied, upon the shoulders of their horse. The longer ends of the crossed poles would stretch outward and rest on the ground behind their horse on each side. Then she would run a long strip of rawhide through the knot that joined the poles over the horse’s shoulders, and tie it around the horse’s chest like a light harness. Finally, she would stretch and tie strips of rawhide across the poles behind the horse, to make a frame on which their family goods were loaded.

Grey Calf’s father had told him once that many years ago, before the white man had brought horses to the Indians’ land, the travois had been fastened to their strong dogs. But the dogs were not so strong as horses, so the loads had to be much smaller and lighter. Even their tepees were smaller in those days because larger ones would have weighed too much for any one dog to pull on the travois.

These thoughts passed rapidly through Grey Calf’s mind as he listened to his father. Then he yawned and asked, “Must we move so soon again, father? It seems such a short while ago that our tribe set up its village here.”

“My son, the buffalo are on the move,” his father answered patiently. “You know that we would not have our tepees, our best food and clothing, and little of anything else without the great buffalo. When they decide to move, we must move with them. The scouts who have been watching the herd tell us that it has started to leave for new feeding grounds.”

Without another word, Grey Calf got up quickly and began helping his mother gather their belongings. He helped her take down the tepee. Then she built the travois rapidly, and he helped her pack and load their belongings onto it.

Soon, where once a proud village had stood, hardly anything was left standing. The men set out ahead on their horses, followed by the women and children on horses, the smaller children sometimes riding on the travois, their mothers and the older children riding astride the horses’ backs. Grey Calf, like many other of the older boys, was riding his own pony near his mother.

The scouts were far ahead of them, keeping close touch with the wandering buffalo herd, and signaling the tribe to tell the braves which way to lead their families. The scouts were also watching carefully for roving bands of the Crows’ enemies, for they were near Cheyenne territory, but they saw none.

Just as Grey Calf was ready to ask his mother if the buffalo herd would never stop roaming, a scout raced his horse back to tell the braves that the herd was circling around, ready to settle down near fresh water and food. The Chief gave the signal, and all the families went to work busily setting up their tepees. Before too long, smoke was rising lazily from the fires which circled their new village. The trek had taken most of the day, and the women were beginning to cook the evening meal.

The braves were watering their thirsty horses, and then would put them out to graze. Grey Calf did all he could to help his mother get their meal ready quickly because he was very hungry. When all the small chores had been completed, the families gathered at their tepees, to eat the food that smelled so good to all the children.

It wasn’t long after Grey Calf had eaten that he began to feel drowsy. Saying goodnight to his father and mother, he went into the tepee, rolled himself in his warm buffalo robe (because the prairie night would be cool), and was soon sound asleep.

The next day dawned as one of great excitement, for word came to the tepee of Grey Calf that today One Horn, the great buffalo hunter, was going to take the young braves on their first buffalo hunt.

Like other Crow boys, Grey Calf had spent many days preparing patiently for this great event. His father had taught him how to ride his pony and to shoot the bow and arrow. He had learned how to ride into a herd and to shoot from beneath his pony’s neck. And now that great day was here. One Horn, the greatest of buffalo hunters in the tribe, would give the young braves their last lesson before taking them out onto the prairie for the actual hunt.

When the young braves had gathered, One Horn stepped to the center of the circle and gave his final instructions, warning them not to be too eager but to take their time and make sure of their shot. And above all, he warned them, as soon as they had made their shot they must swerve away from the herd. In this way they would be out of danger if the herd should spread out to avoid trampling its fallen members.

When One Horn finished, he asked if there were any questions. The young braves had none. So One Horn told them that the time of the hunt would be midafternoon. The boys were told to return to their tepees and get everything ready.

Grey Calf sped back to his tepee to tell his family breathlessly all that had happened. For the rest of the morning he worked carefully over each of his arrows and his strong bow. In fact, he was so busy that his mother had to call him three times before he came to lunch.

The sun seemed to move very slowly for all the Crow boys. But soon a young brave on a frisky pony rode swiftly through the village to tell them to gather for the hunt.

Grey Calf leaped upon his pony’s back and sped to the edge of the village where the other young braves were gathering. When all had gathered and were seated on the ground, One Horn spoke.

“A small group of buffalo has wandered away from the main herd,” he said. “It is from this small group that we shall choose our targets. I will inspect each young brave’s weapons in turn. When all are satisfactory, we shall move out in the direction of the small herd. Do not ride hard but move your pony slowly. Buffalo will not go far in this heat. We shall have plenty of time to come near them, take our positions quietly, and then attack together without warning.”

When One Horn had finished examining each young brave’s weapons, the small band moved out in single file. Soon they sighted the buffalo. One Horn gave hand signals to the young braves to spread out and take their positions silently, but above all to wait for the signal from One Horn to attack.

As slowly and quietly as possible, each young brave moved into position. All eyes were on One Horn, and suddenly he gave the signal. The air was torn apart as wild yelps leaped from the throats of the eager young hunters. The buffalo were startled and began running about wildly. The boys dug their heels into their ponies’ sides and headed into the group of buffalo. Soon the dust clouds were so heavy that one could not tell the hunters from the hunted, but the young braves rode swiftly, each hunter picking out his buffalo carefully and with an eye to size. This was to be the first of many buffalo kills, and each young brave hoped that his would be the largest of the beasts brought down.

Buffalo after buffalo began to stumble and fall before the accurate shooting of the young hunters. The ponies were magnificent in their performance, for each had been carefully trained for this day.

As quickly as the hunt had started it was over. One by one the young braves returned to One Horn who had seen their great success. Soon they were once again at their starting point. They knew that the remaining buffalo would tire and, knowing they were no longer being chased, would begin to mill and settle down once again.

One Horn gazed proudly upon the field of battle. Twelve plump shaggy beasts lay dead upon the prairie. Every brave had made his kill. There would be much rejoicing in the village that evening. One Horn told the young braves how to prepare their kills for the return to the village, and they went to work immediately. Their adventure this afternoon would mean much food for the tribe and new clothing for the coming winter and horns and tails to decorate their costumes and tepees.

As One Horn rode from dead buffalo to dead buffalo, watching the young braves at work, he was quick to praise each lad for his part in the hunt that day. Soon all had completed their tasks and a triumphant band returned to the village.

That evening each young brave in turn told how he had made his kill and there was a great deal of celebrating. The honor of the biggest kill went to Grey Calf. As the last of the families were going into their tepees for the evening, Grey Calf’s father came to sit by his side.

“My son, your father is proud. Not only has my son killed his first buffalo but it was by far the largest of the beasts killed today. Today you had success and triumph, but life will not always be that simple. The trail ahead is hard. There will be many difficult times, but if you learn your lessons well you shall one day be a great and respected warrior of the tribe.”

When Grey Calf’s father had finished speaking, he looked down upon his son and smiled. The tired young brave had fallen asleep.

LITTLE FOX AND THE GOLDEN EAGLE

Little Fox, a member of the Apache Tribe, was a shy Indian lad who was rather small. When he was born he was a very tiny baby and his face was thin and pointed like that of a fox. For this reason he was given the name of Little Fox.

As Little Fox grew older, he dreamed of the day he would be able to wear the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle, the most respected bird of the American Indian. It was believed that there was great power in the thirteen tail feathers and in the pinion feathers on the wings of the Great Golden Eagle.

One day Little Fox was seated in his mother’s wickiup, when his father entered. Without a word Little Fox’s father went to a case made of deerskin and carefully removed the cover. Then with great care he removed from the case a most beautiful feather bonnet, at which Little Fox gazed with great longing. His father, Swift Deer, was an honored brave in the tribe and had become privileged to wear the bonnet of eagle feathers for his many brave deeds and the telling of these deeds before the Council of Chiefs. Swift Deer had been granted the right to place additional eagle feathers in his headdress. Suddenly, Swift Deer turned to Little Fox, and said, “Why do you look so sad, my son?”

Little Fox turned slowly to his father and said, “It is because I, Little Fox, have not been able to do anything that the Council would recognize as a deed worthy of the wearing of the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.”

“Little Fox,” said his father, “you seek too hard for a deed to compete for this honor. Tell me, do you have any eagle feathers that you could wear, in case you should do a deed which would be considered worthy?”

“No, my father,” said Little Fox, “but by the rising of the next new moon, I shall have many eagle feathers, for tomorrow I start in search of the Great Golden Eagle. It has been told by Great Moose that beyond the three hills many Golden Eagles have been seen.”

Swift Deer was proud. He knew that though his son was small he had in his breast a brave heart, for to go in search of the Great Golden Eagle took a great deal of courage. Once again Swift Deer took his son aside and told him the many dangers of eagle hunting, but praised him for his bravery in going to get the tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.

The following morning, Little Fox took some food. Then taking a long strong thong of deerskin, he looped it several times around his waist and tied the food pouch to it. Strapping a knife also to the thong, he started for the place where the Great Golden Eagles had been seen.

On the way he stopped just long enough to snare a plump young rabbit which he would use for bait. When he reached the place where the eagles were to be found, he started digging a deep hole, large enough for him to stand in. Then he placed branches over the hole to hide it, with a small space for him to reach through and grasp the tail feathers of the eagle. To the top of this cover he tied the plump young rabbit with a piece of thong. After all was in readiness, Little Fox lifted the edge of his cover and slid into the hole, resting his foot on a thick root which stuck out of the earth into the hole. Placing his back against the side of the hole, he waited patiently for the Golden Eagle.

An hour passed and then two and three, and Little Fox began to feel his muscles tighten up and his body start to grow stiff. He began to feel impatient. Suddenly, he heard the rabbit begin to move about uneasily, then tug in panic against the thong that held him. Surely the Golden Eagle must be close by. Little Fox felt relaxed; the stiffness in his body was gone. Now excitement rushed into his body as he waited for the Golden Eagle to come to rest on the top of his hiding place.

All at once, Little Fox felt the ground tremble and he heard what sounded like the low rumble of a waterfall. Then he knew that what he had heard was the low growl of a bear. He peered through a crack in the cover over the hole and saw the bear’s towering form. Fear gripped the heart of Little Fox. Many were the stories he had heard of Indians who had lost their lives while hunting for the prized feathers of the Golden Eagle.

The bear, with the swiftness of a fleeting arrow, made one sweep with his huge paw and the rabbit went sprawling. The bear paused as though he were thinking about the problem before him. Here was one of his enemies trapped beneath his feet. How would he reach his enemy? With an angry growl he ripped at the boughs which covered the hiding place of Little Fox until he had uncovered the top of the hole.

Holding his breath and his heart beating wildly, Little Fox crouched far down in the hole and waited for the final moment when he, instead of the Golden Eagle, would fall victim in his own trap. The bear lunged but missed his mark. Little Fox suddenly realized that the top of the hole was too small for the bear to get his paw and his head in at the same time. Again and again the bear lunged, but without success. The more he lunged and failed, the angrier he became. He thrust first his paw and then his head into the hole; but Little Fox, by pressing down against the bottom of the hole, was able to keep just out of reach of the flailing paws and gnashing teeth. All of a sudden, the bear pulled back away from the hole as if to consider his next move. In this instant, Little Fox thought of a way that might save his life. He quickly untied the long leather thong around his waist, made a loop of it, and as slowly and quietly as possible placed the loop just below the opening, holding it in place all around by pressing the thong into the earth. Little Fox tied the other end to the root on which he had been standing.

Now the bear was returning. Little Fox waited, holding tight to the leather thong. As the bear placed his head in the hole and so into the loop, Little Fox pulled hard on the thong, which immediately came loose from the earth and tightened around the throat of the bear.

In angry surprise, the bear pulled back from the hole only to be stopped short as the thong drew tight. Then he began a series of noises which Little Fox remembered for many moons. The bear’s growls gradually grew to roars, and then turned to cries of pain. The harder the bear pulled, the tighter the thong gripped his throat, until the cries became coughs and gasps. Then all was quiet. The bear’s thrashing around had ceased, but still Little Fox waited.

Little Fox slowly raised himself until he could see just over the edge. There, not two feet from the hole, lay a huge bear, quite still and dead. Little Fox quickly pulled himself from the hole and started at a run for the village.

He reached the village and, not stopping to answer any questions, ran straight to his father’s wickiup. He began telling his story, still panting and talking so fast that his father made him stop to get his breath and then speak slowly. When Little Fox had finished, Swift Deer gathered some of the other warriors and went to the place where this adventure had taken place. With great pride, Swift Deer helped to skin the bear and bring it back to the village. Not long after, Little Fox stood in the Council meeting before the elders of the tribe and recounted his tale of courage. And when all his words had been heard, the Council voted that Little Fox should wear in his headband not one, but two of the most treasured tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.

HOW LONG MOOSE BECAME A BRAVE

The Powhatan Indians were a great tribe whose hard work each year was rewarded with large supplies of food and clothing.

Long Moose was growing up among his people happily, doing his share of the tribe’s work. He had become very tall and awkward. He had great strength, too, which he hadn’t learned yet to use well. During games and contests, Long Moose often forgot how strong he was and, not meaning to, would hurt his friends, sometimes rather badly.

Long Moose was still trying over and over to learn how to make hunting tools when winter came. It was a bitter, cold, northern winter. Both his mother and father became very sick and died after only a few days, leaving his younger sister and himself alone without near relatives to help them.

Because Long Moose was not a skillful young brave, his sister had little respect for him. He spent many days thinking sadly about his parents, but doing nothing to get food and keep their shelter tight against the wind and snow. Soon their small supply of food and fuel was nearly gone, and Long Moose had brought no hides for making clothes or repairing their home. He had also failed to give his share of food and hides for all the tribe, as every warrior was expected to do. Not only his sister but all the tribe began to feel that Little Moose was not a good Powhatan.

His sister’s harsh looks at him and his own growing hunger and cold made Long Moose think about how and why he was not a good brother or a good brave. He had to admit to himself that there was only one real reason besides his poor hunting tools and bad marksmanship: he did not want to hunt or make good hunting tools because he did not want to kill any animals.

He thought about how often he had gone out to hunt and even when, without looking for them, he had run across deer near by, he would still come back without having shot a single arrow. Long Moose knew that he loved all wild animals as much as he had loved his parents, and loved his sister and his friends now.