The red feathers

This little brown owl that had been a spectator of the whole of Wise-as-a-she-wolf’s interview with Crack Bone, and that now sat and watched the giant prancing victoriously, was none other than Bright Robe. He, too, believed that his enemy had been disabled by the giant’s club and trodden to helplessness by the giant’s feet. Otherwise, the magician would surely have replied to the giant’s attack. One who could throw magic fire onto the roof of a lodge could as easily throw it against a man’s body. But he knew that his enemy was not dead, however his body might be crushed and broken. He was aware that no mortal hand, either of giant or magician, could kill Wise-as-a-she-wolf.

The owl had crossed the Narrow Sea some time before Crack Bone’s capture of the red feathers. He had visited the camps of the mountaineers, and the lodges of several magicians, and the caves of a fierce people still farther to the westward, and the lodges of the fat, blubber-eating people far to the northward; but, remembering his experiences in his own country, he had not made himself known to any one. He had practised the same discretion with the giants.

After the house was burned to the ground, Crack Bone strode up the hill and took possession of a lodge belonging to one of his people. The rightful owner was very angry, but he made no objections. He knew that he was no match for the chief, especially now that the chief was so light on his feet. The little owl followed Crack Bone, at a safe distance, watched him remove the feathers from his moccasins and tuck them under his belt, and then flew away to where some of the giants had thrown a number of fresh bones that were not entirely devoid of flesh. He ate his fill, keeping a sharp look-out all the while for foxes, and then returned to spy on the giant and the magic feathers.

Day after day the little brown owl kept watch over the actions of the chief of the giants. He followed the great savage on his hunting expeditions, watching him strike down moose and caribou and bear. In that desolate country summer was already past, and the owl was cold, for he had not yet made himself a winter retreat. The rivers and ponds froze and snow fell thick out of the gray skies; and still the owl followed Crack Bone or perched near his lodge, cold but determined. At last his alertness and watchfulness were rewarded. Crack Bone had been hunting and had used the red feathers, and the bird had followed him close, drifting from tree to tree. On reaching his lodge, Crack Bone immediately drew his moccasins from his feet and removed the feathers from them. It was now evening, and falling snow added to the gloom. The giant had killed three caribou; and just when in the act of hiding the feathers under his belt, he heard a sound of furtive movements near the spot where he had thrown the dead animals. He listened for a moment, then placed the feathers on a stone in the doorway of his lodge and sprang in the direction of the sound that had disturbed him. The owl fluttered to the ground, picked up the feathers in his beak, and flew away. He flew at his best speed, straight ahead through the gloom and the whirling snow. At last he alit in a great pine-tree and hid the feathers in a crevice in the bark. They would be safe there until morning. Then he snapped his beak and fluttered his wings. The red feathers were his, all ready to be placed in his moccasins when the enchantment was removed from him.

“I have done what Wise-as-a-she-wolf failed to do,” he chuckled.

Crack Bone did not reach the place where he had left the carcasses of the caribou a moment too soon. Stone Hand, the giant whose house he had so unceremoniously taken, was turning away with all three of the bodies in his arms. Crack Bone struck at him with his fist; but Stone Hand avoided the blow by leaping to one side; and letting two of the frozen carcasses fall to the ground, he swung the other by the hind legs and smote the chief across the head with it. The blow staggered Crack Bone for a moment; but only for a moment. His skull was far too thick to be injured by any weapon so light and yielding as the body of a stag. He reeled a little, bellowed with anger, and clutched at Stone Hand. But he missed his mark in the swirling gloom, and the thief dashed away. Crack Bone stooped, lifted a great stone from the ground, and hurled it blindly after the mutinous one. Then, yanking a small tree from the frozen ground, to serve him as a club, he dashed into the storm and darkness in mad pursuit. Stone Hand turned sharply, and headed for the unpeopled wilds; but Crack Bone ran straight on, until he stumbled among the lodges of his people. They were upon him in a moment, striking blindly with all manner of weapons. Logs flew from the tops of the houses, and everybody hit at whatever was within reach. Crack Bone received some painful blows while he scrambled on all-fours. He got to his feet, and swung his improvised club recklessly but with great execution. Lodges and giants were overturned, in a horrible uproar that frightened the wild animals for miles around. Everyone fought; but none knew what the fight was about or whom he fought with. All were fighting mad.

Stone Hand sat down and listened to the roars of combat from afar. “Since that old Crack Bone killed the magician and got hold of the jumping feathers,” he said, “he thinks he is the master of the world. He took my fine, warm house away from me; and now I believe he has attacked the whole tribe.”

He grunted and fell to devouring the one caribou that remained in his possession. He was hungry, for most of the game had moved southward since the coming of winter; and of late only Crack Bone, with the red feathers on his feet, had been able to overtake the herds. After eating the last bit of raw meat, Stone Hand lay down between two small hills and fell asleep. The snow span about him, and covered him from head to foot, as if he were a mountain. But he was full of food—that is, he had just enjoyed a moderate meal—so he slumbered soundly. For a long time the tumult of the distant battle continued to sift vaguely into his dreams.

The sun was above the horizon when Stone Hand opened his eyes. For a little while he wondered why he was not under cover, and stared stupidly at the hills on either side. He felt stiff and cold; but soon got to his feet and shook the snow from his limbs and body, and brushed it from his hair and face with his hands. Now he remembered how he had stolen the three caribou from the chief. He chuckled at the recollections of his escape and of the sounds of furious combat behind him. Now all was quiet, as if there had never been a shout, or the thump of a descending club, since the beginning of the world. He armed himself with a great piece of green timber and set out cautiously for the village, crawling on hands and knees. Now, in broad daylight, the familiar fear of the chief had returned to him. So he advanced slowly, and kept as close to the ground as he could. At last, peering over the top of a wooded hill, he obtained a clear view of the place which he had left so hurriedly the previous night. He gazed at the scene in amazement, for scarcely one of the lodges stood entire. Many were flat on the ground and the massive timbers and rocks of which they had been constructed lay scattered on all sides. Many others were unroofed. The surrounding trees were uprooted and broken, and the snow was trampled and stained with blood for hundreds of yards in every direction. And as for the inhabitants of this demolished village,—why, they seemed to be even in a worse way than their lodges. Some lay motionless on the snow, and others sat or reclined about their fallen homes, awkwardly dressing their wounds and groaning with pain. Not a giant of all that terrible company was able to stand on his feet.

As soon as an understanding of the true state of affairs got into Stone Hand’s thick head, he stood upright and advanced fearlessly. He walked among his fallen tribesmen and grinned at them heartlessly. His glances rested on old Crack Bone, who sat with his head in his hands, and he looked both savage and jovial.

“I am your chief now,” he said. “Does any one dispute my right?”

Groans were his only answer. Crack Bone did not so much as remove his hands from his head, which, I believe, he was doing his best to hold together.

“I am your chief,” continued Stone Hand, “so I will go and hunt. If I kill more than I can eat myself I will give you some. But I must have the magic feathers on my feet, for the herds are far to the southward. Where are the feathers?” he asked, turning to Crack Bone.

The ex-chief groaned, and mumbled something to the effect that he neither knew nor cared.

“Give them to me,” roared Stone Hand, angrily. “I am the chief now.”

Then Crack Bone tried to explain, with many grunts and moans, that the feathers were not to be found; that he had laid them down on a stone in front of his lodge and that some one had stolen them during the fight. But, of course, the new and self-elected chief did not believe a word of it.

“Give them to me,” he bellowed, swinging his club around the other’s head. But Crack Bone sullenly persisted in his story of the loss of the magic feathers. So Stone Hand searched him, despite his cries and bellowings at the pain of it; and he did not find them.

The little owl, in the meantime, had discovered a deep hole, high up in a great birch tree. It was the deserted nest of a woodpecker. He dropped the feathers into the hole; and down they fell, quite out of his reach.

“They will be safe there,” he said. “When I am ready to use them I will break the tree to splinters and take them out.”