The red feathers

In the days of which I write, in the island now known as Newfoundland, men made prayers to the sun, the winds, the frost and the stars. They believed that giants lived in the north; that a great stag caribou, as high as a pine, haunted the wilds beyond the Narrow Sea to the west; that gods moved about in divers shapes, doing good or evil as their natures prompted them, and that certain wise and crafty men acquired a knowledge of magic and thereby became stronger than the greatest warriors. Fog, to these people, was the breath of an old god who lived to the eastward, just beneath the rim of the sea; and fire was a spirit,—the offspring of a god,—that sometimes was content to feed on the fagots cut for it, cooking food for men and warming their bodies, and sometimes leaped into the woods and consumed the forest for miles in an outburst of fury.

A man of the Beothic race named Run-all-day had a lodge on the River of Three Fires, about half-way between its mouth and Wind Lake. There he lived only in the warmer months of the year. At the approach of winter he followed the great herds of caribou farther inland and southward, to the deeper forest and more sheltered barrens. During the summer he netted and speared the salmon in the River of Three Fires, feeding himself and his family on the flesh and smoking what could not be used then for their winter supply. Early in October, before starting on the inland journey, his wife and children gathered nuts and berries, while he hunted the fat caribou, which were already gathering in great herds preparatory to moving to the more sheltered feeding-grounds. With the venison and the berries his wife, Red Willow, made a rough sort of pemmican.

Run-all-day was fleet of foot and strong of wind and leg. It was by his speed and endurance when a boy that he had won his name. He had also proved himself a warrior of prowess, when occasion demanded, and might have followed his father as chief of a clan; but the islanders happened to be entering on a long term of peace when he grew to manhood, so he took a wife from another village and journeyed away from his family. His wits were not as quick as his legs and he entertained no great ambitions of distinguishing himself. He was quite content to protect and provide for his family—to sleep warm and eat his fill all the year round and see them do the same. Of course, sometimes at the tail-end of a bad season, provisions ran low; but if any man could find game and bring it to the ground, it was Run-all-day.

On a certain June evening, when the west was red and dusk was settling along the edges of the woods, Run-all-day withdrew his net of raw-hide thongs from a big pool four miles above his wigwam and seated himself on the grassy bank for a few minutes’ rest before walking home. Nine great silver fish lay beside him—a respectable load even for Run-all-day. To lessen their weight he had already slit them from throat to tail, with his flint knife, and tossed the entrails into the bushes. He was well satisfied with his afternoon’s work, and sighed with contentment and a pleasant weariness.

“It has been a good summer,” he murmured, “and there will be plenty of food for all of us.” He smiled at that thought, for his family had increased by one within the past week.

“You are a fortunate man, Run-all-day,” said a voice at his shoulder.

In the fraction of a second the salmon fisher was turned and on his feet, with the flint blade with which he had cleaned the fish ready in his hand. His eyes encountered those of a young man who stood not ten feet distant, with his back to the dusky forest. The stranger’s tunic of dressed deer-skin was decorated with strings of polished stones. On his feet were finely worked moccasins and in his hand a short spear. His face was very kind. To a keener reader of mankind than Run-all-day it would have suggested the hope and faith of a child, the wisdom that comes of experience and the charitable spirit of old age.

“Though I may be a stranger to you,” said the young man, smiling, “I am not your enemy. You need not threaten me with the knife, oh, tireless runner.”

Run-all-day tossed his weapon beside the dead fish and looked steadily at the other.

“You do not belong to this river, chief,” said he, “and yet you call me by my name. Is my reputation so great in the world?”

“To those who have ears to hear of an honest man,” replied the stranger, “your reputation has travelled far. How is the little warrior that came to your lodge but five days ago?”

“He is well and sound,” answered Run-all-day. “But what do you know of him?” he asked, in wonder. “Are you a god?”

“You put the question honestly,” said the young man with the spear.

He stepped close to the salmon fisher.

“I am not a god,” he said. “I am even of your own clan. I am called Wise-as-a-she-wolf.”

Run-all-day looked at him in open astonishment, for the name of the great magician was known far and wide. Some people held that Wise-as-a-she-wolf was stronger than several of the gods themselves; that he was the greatest student of magic since the days of the wicked Bright Robe; that his magic had been learned in the Crimson Wigwam and in the White Lodge beyond the ramparts of eternal ice; that the secrets of immortality and everlasting youth were his. And yet ’twas said that for all his power, his heart was kind as a young girl’s.

“Great chief,” said the salmon fisher, at last, “I had thought to see, in Wise-as-a-she-wolf, a full-grown man.”

“So be it, friend,” replied the other, and, in the twinkling of an eye, a warrior of great stature and grim visage stood before Run-all-day.

“Have mercy, great chief,” cried the fisherman of the River of Three Fires. He was strong and courageous; but he had a dread of big magic.

“Have no fear of your kinsman,” laughed the other; and, in the next second, the youth with the gentle face laid a reassuring hand on Run-all-day’s shoulder. The gigantic warrior was gone.