“You must take care of your mother while I am away,” Big Thunder told the boy. “You must be the man of the house now. You must protect your mother and your home and see that all of the work is done.” He smiled and pressed his son’s shoulders. “You will soon be a man and then we can go on the big hunt together. But you are man enough now to watch over your mother while I am away.”
Little Thunder felt very proud of the way his father had spoken to him. When all was in readiness and the hunters had left the village, Little Thunder turned to his mother and stood very straight as he looked at her.
“Do not be afraid, for I will watch over you, mother,” he promised. “To show that I can get all the food we need, I will go into the woods and bring us a fine fat rabbit for supper.”
Now Little Thunder had a good hunting bow which his grandfather had made for him many moons ago. It was of stout hickory and had an even curve to it when the sinew string was pulled tight. Little Thunder had worked carefully to make straight, strong arrow shafts. He had chosen the best willow shoots from which be peeled the bark. Then he seasoned and straightened them over the fire, and rubbed them smooth with sandstone. His arrowpoints were made of flint which he had chipped with a piece of deer’s antler after much practice under the eyes of his father. These were his best arrows and he was saving them for the time he would go with his father on the hunt.
Little Thunder laid these big-game arrows aside and picked up the set he had made for use now as a young Indian boy. They had bone points which he had ground sharp and bound into the split end of the shaft with wet sinew that tightened as it dried. On the other end he had glued and tied carefully trimmed goose and turkey feathers to help the arrow fly straight to its mark. He selected several arrows and tested his bow. Little Thunder knew he would find plenty of game because the Indians never killed without needing the food or skin of an animal. Having finished all preparations for the hunt, he said good-bye to his mother and started off to find the fat juicy rabbit he had promised her.
Little Thunder trotted along the forest trails at a fast jog, looking in all directions for signs of game. He moved softly on his toes and the balls of his feet, as his father had taught him, so that he would not frighten the creatures of the forest.
Soon he came out of the forest into a large clearing that he believed would yield the game he was after. He had walked watchfully only a short while when, not seven paces from him, he saw a rather large clump of tall grass move. He dropped to the ground, pressed his body flat against the earth and waited. The grass did not move again. He tested the slight breeze by wetting a finger in his mouth and holding his finger in the air. The side of his finger away from him felt cool and he knew that the breeze was blowing toward him. Whatever was in the grass ahead of him would not be able to catch his scent. He crept forward softly. When he was about three paces from the clump of grass, he stood up with bow and arrow ready to shoot.
But before he let the arrow fly, he stopped short. There, nestled in the grass, was a young fawn which appeared to have been born only a short while ago. The fawn, frightened by Little Thunder, lay perfectly still, his coat blending in almost perfectly with the grasses and shrubs around him.
Little Thunder put the arrow back in his quiver. He moved toward the animal slowly. The fawn struggled to his spindly little legs and wobbled slightly. Then his legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Little Thunder could not help laughing at the awkward little animal. This scared the fawn even more and he rose to his feet again and tried to run but again tumbled to the ground. Little Thunder ran forward to where the fawn lay, fearful that the fawn might have hurt himself. When he reached the side of the fawn he knelt down and placed his hands along the soft silky neck. The fawn trembled but he made no attempt to move. Gently, Little Thunder stroked his neck and head and back and soon the little fawn quieted down. It was not too long before a rough little tongue reached up and swiped at Little Thunder’s face. Little Thunder laughed again and the fawn trembled. Speaking softly, Little Thunder told the fawn that everything was all right and that no one would harm him.
Little Thunder realized that the mother deer must not be too far off, because only rarely would a mother deer leave her young—and then only to get a drink of water or find a new place to hide her fawn. Little Thunder rose from the ground and decided to look around for the fawn’s mother. Walking to the opposite edge of the clearing, he looked down through the forest and saw a lake. Winding his way through the trees and brush, he was soon standing upon the shore of the lake. There he found fresh tracks of a full-grown deer. Then he saw some blood on the shore near more deer tracks, but he could find no further trace of the deer. Then he spotted the prints of a pair of moccasins. He realized that a warrior from a neighboring tribe in search of food had probably come upon the doe while she was drinking, shot her, and carried her away. He knew his guess was right when he saw a deer’s stubby tail tied to the branch of a low-hanging tree—a sign always left by an Indian near the place where he had killed an animal for food or clothing.
Little Thunder ran back quickly to the little fawn, still nestled in the tall grass. Even though he trembled as Little Thunder came near, he soon became calm as the young Indian petted him gently.
“Your mother has been killed, little one,” Little Thunder murmured to the fawn. “That leaves you with no one to look out for you. Do not worry. I, Little Thunder, will be your friend. But first we must get you to a safer place, for there are many animals that would make life dangerous for you here in the open.”
Little Thunder lifted the young fawn in his arms and carried him into the woods where he found a small thicket. Hiding the fawn in the thicket, he returned to the lake and brought some water to the fawn. Then picking up his bow and arrows, he trotted swiftly toward home to tell his mother of his adventure. On the way, a plump rabbit ran across his path. Little Thunder’s shot was easy and accurate. So he brought his mother the big rabbit he had promised—and a big but true story, too.
For many days after that, Little Thunder went back with food to his newly found friend. The young fawn soon became strong and was able to frisk about. Soon Little Thunder and the fawn were playing games together in the clearing. He even taught the fawn to come when he whistled.
At last, his father returned from the long hunting trip and Little Thunder told him all about his adventure with the young fawn.
“This I will have to see for myself,” Big Thunder told the boy. “Tomorrow we shall go together to the thicket in the forest.”
So the next morning Little Thunder took his father to the forest, but when they reached the thicket, it was empty. Big Thunder smiled at his son as if to say that the boy had dreamed the whole adventure.
“He is probably out frisking in the clearing,” Little Thunder said hastily, “or he’s down at the lake having a drink. He will be back soon. Come, father, we will sit over here and wait.”
Though they waited patiently long into the afternoon, the deer did not return. For several days after that, Little Thunder came back to the forest and clearing and lake, but there was no sign of his animal friend. Little Thunder lost all hope of finding the fawn and soon forgot all about him, until one day about twelve moons later.
Little Thunder had gone hunting that day and found himself on the trail of a young buck. He followed the buck all morning and just as he was about to give up the trail and return home, he saw the clearing where he had found the fawn. Approaching quietly he looked out across the clearing. At first he could see nothing. Then as he gazed along the side of the clearing near the forest, his eyes stopped at the small thicket. Something moved. Could it be the fawn, he wondered hopefully.
Slowly he stood up and moved toward the thicket. Then something stirred again. A beautiful young buck stood up in the thicket. The buck turned to run. Little Thunder whistled and called out softly. The buck stopped, turned and looked at the boy. Then, without fear, the buck ran forward to where Little Thunder stood with his hand outstretched. The animal’s tongue licked the Indian’s hand, and Little Thunder reached up and scratched the young buck’s head. The boy knew that his friend had come back at last. He would have much to talk about to the buck—and even more to tell his father.
The Bella Coola were a tribe that lived along the Northwest coast. Like most of the Indians in this part of the land, they were fishermen and woodcarvers. Some of the most beautiful carvings in the world have come from these tribes. Their chief source of food was fish. Each year at the time the salmon were running, the Indians would go out to the great rivers with spears and fish nets to make large catches. Each salmon was then split and dried and stored.
As soon as the Bella Coola boys were old and strong enough, they were taken out to the rivers and taught how to throw the fish spear with its long line attached. They were also taught the use of the large fish nets. Both the spear and the net were hard to handle and sometimes dangerous.
One day Little Twig (who had that name because of his size and the thinness of his body when he was born) begged his father to take him on the salmon hunt. All the men of the tribe were getting ready to head for the river steps where the salmon would be leaping. But Little Twig’s father stooped beside his son and spoke slowly to him.
“My son, I would like to take you along, but this is man’s work and you are still a young boy with much to learn. Stay here in the village and play with the other children. Your day of hunting and spearing the great salmon will come before you know it. But this time the answer must be No.”
Little Twig watched his father leave the village. When all the other fishermen had left, Little Twig went in search of his friend, Running Turtle. He found him carving a new handle for his knife.
“Running Turtle, let us go and watch our fathers fish for the great salmon,” he said. “We can go far above them on the river and watch from the ledge. We will stay only for a short while and will be back in the village before we are missed. I have never seen them fish for the great salmon because my father says that it is too dangerous for Indian boys. Will you go?”
“My father will not let me go to fish with the men of the village either. But he never said that I could not watch the men as they fish. Come, Little Twig, let us hurry. The men are probably already there.”
The two boys set out swiftly after the fishing party. Soon they could hear the river roaring just ahead of them. They stopped at the trees that grew close to the river shore. Peering through the branches, they could see the men of the tribe spread out on both sides of the river, some with nets and some with spears. At the feet of each fisherman were large baskets into which he threw the fish he caught.
The boys worked their way around and above the fishermen until they were about three hundred paces upstream from the fishermen. Edging close to the side of the river near the top of the waterfalls, the boys crept out on a sloping ledge of rock that was only an arm’s length from the rushing water. They were so close that the spray wet their faces as they gazed downstream at the fishermen.
Soon Little Twig became so excited by what he was watching that he stood up and began to pretend that he was fishing for salmon, too. But he was not used to the slippery rocks as the men were, and he suddenly found that he was losing his balance. He called to Running Turtle to help him, but before Running Turtle could grab him Little Twig was tumbling into the rushing river. His body was caught in the great swirling waters that swept him downstream. He choked as his eyes and nose and ears filled with water. Just as he began to think he would die, he felt his body being lifted from the water, and heard a voice shouting.
“Look at this fine fish that I have caught,” someone yelled, laughing.
Then Little Twig realized that one of the fishermen had reached out with his net and snatched him from the river. Little Twig sputtered and coughed and rubbed his eyes as strong hands set him on his feet. There he was, in the middle of a circle of grinning warriors from the village. He began rubbing all the sore spots where river rocks had struck his body. Suddenly he recognized his father’s face. Instead of wearing the stern look which Little Twig had expected, his father was smiling.
“Were you so eager to take a swim that you dove into the river?” he asked the boy. “Or did you hope to catch brother salmon with your bare hands?”
“I disobeyed you, my father, and I am truly sorry. I was a foolish young boy to come to the river when you told me to stay at home. Now I know why I have not been brought on the fishing trips. This is truly a job for men.”
Little Twig looked toward the ground. His father reached down and lifted the lad into the air.
“Yes, my son, this is a job for men. Someday soon you will join us in hunting the swift salmon with spear and net. But for now, be happy to remain in the village with your friends. You were lucky that my brother had his net where he did, or we might have missed you and your body would have been carried away. Come, we will go back to the village to tell your mother of your swim this fine day.”
Then he laughed again. Little Twig laughed this time, too, and all the braves joined in the laughter. No one would speak harshly to him about his foolish act even though it had brought him near death. Indians believed that angry words make people sick. So Indian parents, like Little Twig’s father, always tried to speak happily.
Just then Running Turtle came out of hiding, and he started to laugh with the others.
The Delawares were a peaceful tribe, hunting and fishing in their rich valley and not bothering their neighbors, for they had plenty and needed little more than they were able to obtain themselves with their strong bows and sharp arrows and their well-kept fishing gear.
It was late spring, and one day as Little Fire Cloud romped and played in the village his father called to him.
“Come, Little Fire Cloud, it is time we built a new canoe. Shortly we shall be needing a new canoe and if we do not start work now it will not be ready when the time comes to leave camp.”
So father and son started out to gather the materials to make a fine new canoe.
The Indians of the forest and lakes depended a great deal upon the canoe and were wise enough to construct them of material that was easy to obtain. Light cedar made the ribs and the planking of the canoe, and over this the Indians stretched a tight cover of birch bark. Then they took spruce roots and split them and these they used to sew the seams of the canoe together. They then would calk the spaces with a tarlike substance which was made from pine pitch and soot. When finished the product was firm and sturdy, but above all if the canoe should become injured in any way, the materials were always handy in the forest with which to make repairs.
Finally Little Fire Cloud and his father had gathered all the necessary equipment together and the work on the canoe was started. Father and son worked very hard at the job, and a few days later the canoe was completed. As the two finished their work they stood back to admire the job and Little Fire Cloud said,
“Is it not beautiful, father? It is the most beautiful canoe I have ever seen either in our own village or any of our neighbors.”
“Yes, Little Fire Cloud, it really is a beautiful canoe and one which we can be proud of.”
For the rest of that day that remained, Little Fire Cloud could talk of nothing else but the beautiful canoe that he helped his father to build. Finally supper was over, and it was time to retire.
That night as Little Fire Cloud fell asleep his head was all full of visions of canoes and rapids and great lakes and rivers. Soon the confusion of many things became one thing, and Little Fire Cloud found himself standing on the shore of a great lake. He did not know how he got there or what lake it was, but the water was a beautiful blue green and it was calm and smooth. It was daytime and, as Little Fire Cloud looked upon the lake, in the distance he saw a canoe coming toward him. In the bow of the canoe stood a great warrior, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes looking right at Little Fire Cloud.
In the stern of the canoe, a young warrior softly paddled the canoe forward toward the shore, directly to where Little Fire Cloud was standing. As the canoe drew closer, Little Fire Cloud saw that it was made of shimmering silver birch bark and it looked so clean and new.
As the bow scraped the shore, the warrior stepped from the canoe and walked to where Little Fire Cloud was standing.
“Come, Little Fire Cloud, step into the canoe, and we shall take a short trip.”
“I do not know if I should,” said Little Fire Cloud overcome by the great warrior who stood before him. “My father might wonder where I had gone.”
“Do not worry about your father for you will be gone only a short while and we shall return you to this point on the shore. I have something I want to show you.”
So Little Fire Cloud feeling a warmth toward this great warrior stepped in and seated himself in the middle of the canoe. Then the great warrior stepped in and pushed away from shore. The warrior in the stern turned the canoe toward the middle of the lake and began to paddle steadily, his blade cutting the water neatly and hardly making a ripple.
The canoe glided softly and smoothly across the water. Up ahead a mist had settled upon the water, and soon the canoe had entered this mist and was gliding softly through the water with nothing on any side but the cloudy white mist. All that Little Fire Cloud could see was water right next to the canoe.
Little Fire Cloud called to the warrior.
“Where are you taking me, O great warrior of the lake?”
“You shall see, little brave,” said the great warrior without turning in the canoe.
Soon the mist lifted, and there surrounding the canoe was a beautiful pool of water with many streams running off in different directions.
The Indian who was paddling guided the canoe into one of these streams, and as the canoe moved forward the warrior pointed toward the shore. There along the shore, Little Fire Cloud could see many beaver working diligently at gathering material for their homes. As the canoe continued along the stream, Little Fire Cloud saw many beautiful flowers and plants, and occasionally a deer could be seen drinking at the water’s edge. Little Fire Cloud was quick to notice that the animals seemed to pay no attention to the canoe when it sailed past where they stood except to lift their heads and look at this craft as it moved smoothly along the stream under the expert hands of the brave in the stern.
Little Fire Cloud noticed that there were no weapons in the canoe.
Soon they had reached a fork in the stream, and again the canoe was guided into one of the openings and the trip continued. Many more wild flowers and animals were observed by Little Fire Cloud until suddenly they were in the mist once again and all the beauty was behind them as they moved swiftly through the mist.
When they broke from the cloud, Little Fire Cloud could see the shore of the lake once again and he realized that they must have traveled in a circle. Soon the canoe scraped the shore and the warrior stepped out and assisted Little Fire Cloud. When the boy was safely ashore the warrior said, “Did you enjoy your trip?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Little Fire Cloud. “Everything was so beautiful. Thank you very much for the nice ride and for showing me all the beautiful things of nature.”
“Yes, Little Fire Cloud, there are many many beautiful things in nature that can be seen if one travels quietly and peacefully in a good canoe. Nature is our friend and, if we remember this, many pleasant hours will be spent seeing nature. Do not do anything to spoil this picture which will remain with you always. If you never raise your bow to kill unless you have need for food or clothing game will always be plentiful. But if you wasted this beauty which is given to the Indian you yourself and your people would soon die from hunger and cold. To kill for the sake of killing is cruel and wasteful. Now I must say good-bye, for I have many miles to travel. Good-bye, Little Fire Cloud, and remember your trip into the misty lake.”
With that the warrior stepped into the canoe, and soon the canoe turned and disappeared into the distance.
Suddenly Little Fire Cloud felt a hand upon his shoulder and someone was shaking him.
“My son, my son, wake up, you have been dreaming.”
When Little Fire Cloud opened his eyes he was lying on his bed, and his father was standing over him.
“Oh, father, I had the most beautiful dream. A great warrior came and took me for a ride in a beautiful canoe and showed me the wonders of nature in all their splendor.”
And Little Fire Cloud went on to tell his dream in all the beautiful detail that he could remember. His father was a good father and so he listened patiently to his son; and when Little Fire Cloud had finished telling about the dream, his father said, “Yes, my son, it was a beautiful dream, and in the dream you learned a great lesson concerning the creatures of the wild which I hope you will always remember.”
Little Beaver was full of excitement, for soon the winter would be over and he and his friend Jumping Rabbit would once again be able to take their little canoe and go to the lake and streams to catch the fine fish that waited in the early spring for the bait to be cast.
The Cayuga village had weathered the winter well, and now the first signs of spring were beginning to show. With the bursting forth of the spring flowers and the green shoots of plants and grass and the green leaves the Cayuga village seemed to come alive.
One of the first tasks was the uncovering of the canoes. (When winter approached, the canoes were all hauled far above the lake water’s edge and covered completely with mounds of sand. This kept them from drying out and cracking during the cold winter.) Finally all the canoes had been uncovered, and the Indians took to the lakes and the streams again, fishing and hunting to replenish the food supply that had been used during the winter.
One morning Little Beaver searched for his friend Jumping Rabbit for a long time and when he could not find him, he decided to go off by himself. Walking to the edge of the lake he found that his father had uncovered his canoe for him.
Stepping into the canoe he paddled across the lake to the mouth of a stream which was new to him. This stream led to the Lake of the Rushes where the girls and women gathered the rushes each spring to make new mats for the platforms of the wigwam. Here he had not been before.
As Little Beaver paddled he saw many signs of spring, but he was searching for big game. He wanted to be the first young boy to bring a deer back to the village.
Soon he beached his canoe on the side of the Rush Lake and moved inland searching for signs of the deer. Suddenly he came upon the tracks of what seemed to be a fine big buck. Following carefully along the track of the deer he noticed that the deer was moving slowly. Then suddenly the spaces between the tracks became bigger and he knew that the deer had begun to move faster.
Suddenly the noises of the woods ceased and it was very quiet. Up ahead a shadow flitted across the trail. Little Beaver dropped upon his belly and then he heard it—the cry of the great horned owl. But still he knew that the owl would not cry at this time of day and from a short distance off the trail he heard an answering cry.
Through the fading light among the trees up ahead, he saw a small group of warriors gather. One of these warriors placed his hand alongside his mouth, and the cry of the horned owl once again was heard and from another direction an answer.
Then Little Beaver knew that these were unfriendly Indians from the north and they had invaded the land of the Cayugas. They could be here for one reason only, to raid his village.
“I must return at once to the village and warn my people of this danger.”
Little Beaver turned and retreated down the path to where he had left his canoe. Pushing it out into the lake he immediately began paddling as fast as his arms could go for the mouth of the stream that would lead into the next lake and to the shore of his village. He reached the mouth of the stream just as the dark storm clouds started to gather over the lake.
And then it was raining and raining hard. This would slow up the attackers, but it would not stop them and Little Beaver had to get to his village quickly to warn his people of the danger. He dipped his paddle deep into the waters of the lake and the canoe moved forward. But now the wind was getting stronger and his arms began to ache from the effort. He paddled harder and harder but soon his arms became weak and he was still a great distance from the shore. Besides the danger of the storm it was fast approaching nightfall, and ahead Little Beaver could see the friendly fires of his village being lit one at a time.
These would act as beacons of direction for the enemy.
He chanced a glance behind and then he heard it again. The cry of the horned owl. The cry was coming from almost directly behind and in the dusk he could see the canoes of the enemy slipping from the stream into the lake.
The storm passed and the waters became calm, and now Little Beaver’s job was easier, but so was that of the enemy. He paddled with all his might though he felt his arms would fall off.
Finally he reached the shore and he leaped out onto the sand. Without waiting to pull his canoe ashore he rushed for the village. He turned to glance at the lake once more and he could see the canoes of the enemy drawing along the shore, closer to the village with each stroke.
He rushed to his father and quickly told him what he had seen. His father dashed from the wigwam and glanced toward the lake. Just then they both heard it once again. The cry of the great horned owl. His father stopped and listened and then placing his own hand to the side of his mouth he answered the whistle. Then he turned to his son.
“It is all right my son. These are friends come to join in a great celebration. It is your uncle and his people from the north. Be not afraid, for they are friends.”
Little Beaver looked at his father. He smiled and taking his father’s hand they walked toward the lakeside. Stepping from the canoes were a number of Cayuga warriors and they came with many bundles.
The two groups greeted each other and then the leader of the visitors came forward.
“Your father has explained that you thought we were unfriendly Indians come to call. I, for one, am glad that you are not a grown warrior right now, for your arrow shaft might have found its place in my heart in the forest. We had hoped to surprise your people with our visit but when we saw your canoe glide away from the Lake of the Rushes we knew we had been seen. And so, my little brave, let me congratulate you on a fine job of paddling. You came across the lake in a storm without slowing your stroke. I have told my brother that if we had been the enemy you would have reached the village far ahead of us and we would now be walking the trail of the happy hunting ground.”
That night Little Beaver slept very soundly. He had a great adventure on his first trip to the Lake of the Rushes and it would be a long time to come before he would go alone again.
Singing Fire, the young Apache brave, rode swiftly through the hills toward the village of his people. He had been hunting and now was returning to his tepee to join his family in a hearty evening meal. His hunger made him urge his pony to an even faster pace. Soon he could see the smoke of the fires in the village. It was only a few moments later that Singing Fire brought his pony to a quick stop on the very edge of the village. To ride his horse through the village this evening would have been unkind. The summer had been very dry, and his pony’s hoofs would have raised much dust that would settle in the cooking pots.
Walking through the village, the young brave waved and called to his friends. He laughed when they joked with him about his empty hands. He had been unable to find any game that he felt was worth bringing to the village. Soon he reached his father’s tepee and was welcomed warmly by the family.
When supper was finished, Singing Fire went to talk with his friend, Many Painted Ponies. The two braves had always been together since they were very young and just learning to walk. Now whenever they had time, they would sit and talk about their future together as great leaders of the Apache tribe. He found his friend working at making new arrow tips.
“Hello, my good friend, Many Painted Ponies, and how are you this fine evening?”
“My stomach is full and my heart is happy, Singing Fire. Could a brave ask much more of life? I have been very fortunate in having such a fine father and mother who have made my life such a pleasure. As I saw you ride in from the hunt, I noticed you carried no game. Was there no game where you rode? Usually you do not return empty-handed.”
“Today was bad for the hunt. The largest game knew that I was hunting and ran for cover, and I was not as quick as they to find the hiding places.”
The two young men laughed and then spent some time talking until darkness came. Each young man went back to his tepee for a well-earned sleep.
The next day there was great excitement in the village. As young Singing Fire stepped from his tepee, he saw that people were gathering in the center of the village to hear a tall Apache warrior who was talking loudly and rapidly to the chief of the village. As Singing Fire drew near, he was able to catch some of the words spoken by the warrior.
“It is true, my Chief, the Comanches have been seen in our land. If we are not careful they will raid our pony herds and make off with many of our best mounts. I have seen them to the east, and they skulk like the lowly wolf in the night.”
The great chief listened quietly until the young warrior had finished. Then he motioned to the older men of the tribe to gather in his tepee. When they were all inside, Singing Fire, Many Painted Ponies, and the other young braves stood outside waiting impatiently for what the elders of the tribe would decide. They could hear the young brave who had first reported to the chief repeating his story for those who had come late. He said that while trailing some ponies that had strayed from the herd he had come upon the coals of a recent fire. Because the marks in the sand were not Apache, he had followed the tracks made when the group broke camp. Traveling at a rapid pace, he soon had come upon the band of Comanches in a small gully. After watching them for a short while, the brave had mounted his pony and ridden as fast as he could to the village to tell the chief of this threat to their property and peace, within such a short distance of their camp.
Finally the Chief came out from his tepee and spoke to the young warriors.
“The Comanches have entered our hunting grounds. Not only have they broken the law, but they dare to ride within a short distance of our camp. We will gather a war party and go in search of these thieves of the night. We will give them a sound lesson by whipping those wild dogs so badly that they will return to their own land with their tails between their legs—if there are any left to return when we have met them upon the field of battle.”
With low shouts of agreement, everyone ran to prepare for the warpath.
Singing Fire and Many Painted Ponies returned to check their weapons and when preparations were completed returned to where the chief sat astride a great white horse. When everyone had assembled, the party left camp in search of the invading Comanches. For several days the party searched but no sign was found other than the old fire, that anyone had been in the vicinity. At last the chief turned to his men and said, “They have seen our strength and afraid have returned to their own land. They respect the might and fighting ability of the Apaches. Come, we will return to our village.”
The party started for home, but as Singing Fire and Many Painted Ponies rode along, Singing Fire was quiet.
“What is it, my friend, Singing Fire? You are so quiet.”
“I was just thinking, my friend, that the Comanches are not known as cowards; they surely would not turn from a fight. I do not believe they have left our land.”
“But, Singing Fire, for three days we have searched the land and no sign do we see of the Comanches. Certainly the earth did not open and swallow them up.”
“That is just the point, my friend. What has happened to the party? The brave reported seeing them and took us to where they had their fire. The tracks led away but suddenly stopped, and we have seen nothing to indicate that they returned to their own lands across the great river. I just am not satisfied that they have left.”
Nothing more was said for the remainder of the trip back to the village, and that evening after supper, Singing Fire went to sleep thinking about the hunt for the Comanches.
As he slept, he dreamed there were Comanche warriors mounted upon fast horses and they all seemed to be riding toward a solid wall. Singing Fire suddenly awoke recalling seeing that wall before.
About a day’s ride from their village was a small valley which they called the valley of the snake because it twisted and turned between the mountains. As the thundering riders neared the wall, it seemed to open up and they had disappeared within. Then the walls closed again and there was silence. Singing Fire leaped from his bed and rushed to his father’s side.
“My father, I must speak to our chief. It is of great importance that I see him now.”
“But it is late, my son, and certainly what you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”
“No, father, I must speak to him now.” With that, Singing Fire left his tepee and soon was standing before the tepee of the Great Chief. He made his presence known and was invited into the tepee.
The chief invited him to sit and then asked, “What brings you to my tepee so late, young Singing Fire?”
“Tonight, O Great Chief, in a dream I was drawn to the painted hill which stands guard over our village. Here I stood troubled in heart and mind because of what has been reported to our tribe.” Then Singing Fire proceeded to tell in complete detail of the dream he had had. When he finished, he waited for the chief to speak.
“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.
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.