The red feathers

The little brown owl was both astonished and enraged at the bear’s behaviour. He wanted to cry threats and derision after her; but he had already learned that it is not wise for a small owl to make itself too conspicuous in the wilderness, especially at night. So he contented himself with planning, for a full half-hour, the fate of that she bear, should she oblige him by living until the five long summers and winters of his enchantment were passed. Even in his pitiful bird-shape he enjoyed nothing so much as the scheming of awful revenges on his enemies. So for awhile, the matter of the old woman was driven from his thoughts; but it was recalled to his mind by the sight of a lynx moving noiselessly past the foot of the tree upon which he was perched. Without hesitation, he requested the big cat to stop and hear what he had to say. The lynx obeyed like a flash, leaping into the air and alighting with his head toward the tree, crouched, his green eyes sinister and steady.

“Who speaks?” he snarled.

His round head was close to the ground, much lower than his hind-quarters, under which his great hind legs were doubled like springs. He was ready to launch himself upward or forward, as the case might require. His white teeth gleamed in the starlight.

“It is I, Bright Robe, who speaks,” replied the owl. The name seemed to convey no particular meaning to the lynx.

“Hah, it is nothing but a little owl,” he snarled, and turned about as if to continue on his interrupted business.

“Not so fast,” cried the other. “I am Bright Robe, the great magician, the greatest magician in the world.”

“I have no time to sit and listen to the lies of an owl. I am hungry and must hunt,” replied the big cat.

“I tell you, I am Bright Robe, the master of magic,” cried the bird.

“Then turn yourself into a nice fat hare, and jump down here, and I’ll turn you into a lynx,” said the beast, grinning wickedly over his shoulder. “I am something of a magician myself,” he added.

“Why do you not believe me?” asked the owl.

“Who ever believed an owl?” replied the other, “or, for that matter, who ever believed the word of Bright Robe? So you are a liar, whoever you are.”

The owl changed the subject immediately.

“If you are looking for food,” he said, “I know where there is plenty of it.”

“What kind of food?” inquired the lynx.

“Pemmican, and smoked fish, and dried meat,” replied the bird, in his most seductive voice.

“Nothing fresh?” asked the other.

“Well, not fresh, exactly, but all sweet and in prime condition.”

“Where is it?”

“In the store-house of old Whispering Grass.”

“Miserable bird,” cried the lynx, “why have you wasted my time with this idle tale? That old woman’s store-house is as strong as a pine-tree.”

“The walls may be strong,” replied the owl, “but the roof is of bark. One stroke of your great claws would tear it to strips.”

“It was of poles, laid snug together, when I last clawed at it,” said the lynx.

“I tried it last night,” answered the owl, “and it was of bark.”

The lynx came close to the tree and glared up at the bird. His eyes were round and green, and made the owl feel quite uncomfortable. He was glad that Wise-as-a-she-wolf had not let him loose in the wilderness in the form of a hare.

“Why are you so anxious that I should have plenty of food?” inquired the lynx, suspiciously. “I did not know that we were such good friends.”

“To be honest with you,” replied the owl, “I want you to eat and carry away the old woman’s food so that she shall starve. My suggestion is not prompted by friendship for you so much as by my enmity toward her.”

“How is that? I never knew the old woman to have an enemy before,” said the lynx.

Then the owl told the story of how the old woman had shot the arrow at him, when he was in his proper form of Bright Robe.

“Why did you not slay her then, oh mighty one?” sneered the lynx, who did not believe a word of the story.

“It—it was not convenient for me to do so, just then,” answered the bird.

“Then why not do it now?” asked the lynx. “If you are a great magician ’twould be a simple matter for you to turn yourself into a bear and go tear the old woman’s store-house to fragments, or even eat the old woman.”

“To do so now would disturb my plans,” cried the bird, petulantly. “I do not wish the old woman to see my hand in the matter,” he added, more quietly.

The big cat snarled disgustedly.

“Why do you tell me such a foolish story?” he asked. “I have never heard so many lies in all my life before.”

“It is the truth,” said the bird.

“I don’t know why a miserable little owl should want an old woman to starve (which she wouldn’t, anyway, because she can catch plenty of fish in the lake), but I’ll just go along and see if what you say about the roof of the store-house is true or not,” said the lynx, turning and walking away.

The owl flew after him and floated above his head.

“I did not think of that,” he said. “I forgot that she could catch fish in the lake. You had better go right into her lodge and kill her.”

That was too much for the lynx. Without any warning, he sprang into the air and struck at the bird with unsheathed claws. He missed his mark by an inch.

The terrified owl flew into the nearest tree and sat there quietly for half an hour. He was thoroughly disheartened, and could not help wondering what would have happened to him if the lynx had struck him. Of course he would have suffered the pangs of a violent death; but would his spirit—his immortal life—have remained in the body of the great cat, after it had crunched and swallowed his meagre flesh and bones, or would he have been fated to wander, formless, until the awful five summers were passed? The idea was a terrible one, however he considered it. As a man, even as a magician, he had always feared pain; and, surely, it was better to be a bird than have no body at all.

At last the little owl roused himself from his unpleasant reflections and winged silently away in the direction of the lodge of Whispering Grass. He soon reached the little clearing, and floated across it, close to the ground. He alit on a small tree in the shadow of the woods, from which he had a good view of the lodge and the store-house. He had not been perched there long before he saw the lynx steal into the starlit clearing from the black edge of the forest. He was not surprised at the sight.

The lynx advanced cautiously, slowly, often halting and looking suspiciously about him. He circled the lodge twice, then crept to the store-house and glided around and around it. He evidently suspected the owl of trying to tempt him into a trap. At last he stood up on his hind legs and clawed the walls of the little store-house inquiringly. He sniffed at the cracks between the poles, at first with distrust but soon with evident relish. He reached up a paw and felt the roof of bark. He examined it, in this way, from all sides, and failed to detect any manner of trap. At last he dropped back, squatted for a moment, and then sprang lightly to the roof and straightway began ripping the bark. At first he did it gently, inquiringly, but soon, finding a stout protection of poles everywhere under the bark, he became violent. The fragrance of the pemmican and fish and flesh stole up to his hungry nostrils and he forgot all caution in his mad efforts to tear the well-pinned roof into fragments.

The owl, watching from his perch, was at first surprised at the other’s failure, then amused. The roof was more substantial than he had thought, after all. Well, it did not matter (except to the lynx), since the old woman could live by catching fish in the lake.

The great hide which hung in front of the doorway of the lodge was drawn noiselessly aside; and neither the owl nor the toiling lynx noticed it. Then, suddenly, there sounded the sharp twang of a released bow-string, and, with a snarling scream, the lynx sprang from the roof of the store-house and fled into the woods. Again the bow-string twanged and a second arrow sped from the black interior of the wigwam. It struck a glancing blow on the roof where the lynx had so lately stood, flew upwards and sideways and hit the unsuspecting owl a hard blow across the breast with its shaft.

The owl found himself on the ground, feeling very sore and ill. He tried to fly, but could only flutter a foot or two at a time, so bruised were his muscles. He knew that the ground was not a safe place for him and immediately began to make violent efforts to get into a tree. Again and again he hopped and fluttered, only to fall back each time as if the boughs of the little spruce had pushed him away. It was not only discouraging, but it hurt; and, worst of all, he still remained on the ground, at the mercy of prowling animals. He rested for awhile, and then continued his painful efforts to get into the tree. Failure followed failure, and he was steadily losing strength. He had about decided to give up the attempt and look for some sort of hole in which to hide when he heard a soft foot-fall behind him. In a frenzy of terror he hopped upward again, flapped his wings desperately, touched the end of a branch about six feet from the ground and clung with beak and claws. He felt himself slipping back. He clawed; he threshed the air and branches with his sore wings; and, at last, he reached a solid perch. At the same moment a big red fox glided, like a shadow, under the tree. That was a close shave for the little owl.