Part 5

Driven by his hunger, the cold, his shame, and his real love for his sister, Long Moose set out several times to hunt. Each time he made a kill, but he was nearly as sad when he had done so as he had been when his parents died. To add to his sorrow, his sister would scold him for his poor skill, and taunt him by saying that he would never grow to be a real brave.

All the tribe could see that Long Moose and his sister were hungry most of the time. Their clothes were shabby and their home now was beyond repair.

One day in early spring, Long Moose went down to the edge of the lake to be away from the unkind glances of his sister and his friends—and to think. As he sat on a cold rock, staring out at the ice on the lake, an old man of the tribe came up and stood quietly beside him, waiting for Long Moose to speak.

“Nantesi, my friend,” Long Moose said, wondering if he still were his friend, “what brings you here to me?”

“My friend, Long Moose, for nearly two moons now there has been hunger in your home. Your clothes are worn out, and your sister is afraid to leave your home, because she is ashamed of her clothes. She has told some of the women that you are afraid to hunt the wild game because of the bear that lurks in the woods. Some of the other families have given her food and skins from time to time. But they can give her no more. The next winter may be hard again and each family will need every bit of its food and skins. You must not fear the bear. Your arms are strong, your legs are swift, and surely you have the strength of three men. You should be able to bring back more than is needed in your own home. Will you continue to lose the respect of your tribe, or will you become a man and take your place with the other braves of the tribe?”

Long Moose thought carefully about each word the old brave had spoken.

“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.