Soon, where once a proud village had stood, hardly anything was left standing. The men set out ahead on their horses, followed by the women and children on horses, the smaller children sometimes riding on the travois, their mothers and the older children riding astride the horses’ backs. Grey Calf, like many other of the older boys, was riding his own pony near his mother.
The scouts were far ahead of them, keeping close touch with the wandering buffalo herd, and signaling the tribe to tell the braves which way to lead their families. The scouts were also watching carefully for roving bands of the Crows’ enemies, for they were near Cheyenne territory, but they saw none.
Just as Grey Calf was ready to ask his mother if the buffalo herd would never stop roaming, a scout raced his horse back to tell the braves that the herd was circling around, ready to settle down near fresh water and food. The Chief gave the signal, and all the families went to work busily setting up their tepees. Before too long, smoke was rising lazily from the fires which circled their new village. The trek had taken most of the day, and the women were beginning to cook the evening meal.
The braves were watering their thirsty horses, and then would put them out to graze. Grey Calf did all he could to help his mother get their meal ready quickly because he was very hungry. When all the small chores had been completed, the families gathered at their tepees, to eat the food that smelled so good to all the children.
It wasn’t long after Grey Calf had eaten that he began to feel drowsy. Saying goodnight to his father and mother, he went into the tepee, rolled himself in his warm buffalo robe (because the prairie night would be cool), and was soon sound asleep.
The next day dawned as one of great excitement, for word came to the tepee of Grey Calf that today One Horn, the great buffalo hunter, was going to take the young braves on their first buffalo hunt.
Like other Crow boys, Grey Calf had spent many days preparing patiently for this great event. His father had taught him how to ride his pony and to shoot the bow and arrow. He had learned how to ride into a herd and to shoot from beneath his pony’s neck. And now that great day was here. One Horn, the greatest of buffalo hunters in the tribe, would give the young braves their last lesson before taking them out onto the prairie for the actual hunt.
When the young braves had gathered, One Horn stepped to the center of the circle and gave his final instructions, warning them not to be too eager but to take their time and make sure of their shot. And above all, he warned them, as soon as they had made their shot they must swerve away from the herd. In this way they would be out of danger if the herd should spread out to avoid trampling its fallen members.
When One Horn finished, he asked if there were any questions. The young braves had none. So One Horn told them that the time of the hunt would be midafternoon. The boys were told to return to their tepees and get everything ready.
Grey Calf sped back to his tepee to tell his family breathlessly all that had happened. For the rest of the morning he worked carefully over each of his arrows and his strong bow. In fact, he was so busy that his mother had to call him three times before he came to lunch.
The sun seemed to move very slowly for all the Crow boys. But soon a young brave on a frisky pony rode swiftly through the village to tell them to gather for the hunt.
Grey Calf leaped upon his pony’s back and sped to the edge of the village where the other young braves were gathering. When all had gathered and were seated on the ground, One Horn spoke.
“A small group of buffalo has wandered away from the main herd,” he said. “It is from this small group that we shall choose our targets. I will inspect each young brave’s weapons in turn. When all are satisfactory, we shall move out in the direction of the small herd. Do not ride hard but move your pony slowly. Buffalo will not go far in this heat. We shall have plenty of time to come near them, take our positions quietly, and then attack together without warning.”
When One Horn had finished examining each young brave’s weapons, the small band moved out in single file. Soon they sighted the buffalo. One Horn gave hand signals to the young braves to spread out and take their positions silently, but above all to wait for the signal from One Horn to attack.
As slowly and quietly as possible, each young brave moved into position. All eyes were on One Horn, and suddenly he gave the signal. The air was torn apart as wild yelps leaped from the throats of the eager young hunters. The buffalo were startled and began running about wildly. The boys dug their heels into their ponies’ sides and headed into the group of buffalo. Soon the dust clouds were so heavy that one could not tell the hunters from the hunted, but the young braves rode swiftly, each hunter picking out his buffalo carefully and with an eye to size. This was to be the first of many buffalo kills, and each young brave hoped that his would be the largest of the beasts brought down.
Buffalo after buffalo began to stumble and fall before the accurate shooting of the young hunters. The ponies were magnificent in their performance, for each had been carefully trained for this day.
As quickly as the hunt had started it was over. One by one the young braves returned to One Horn who had seen their great success. Soon they were once again at their starting point. They knew that the remaining buffalo would tire and, knowing they were no longer being chased, would begin to mill and settle down once again.
One Horn gazed proudly upon the field of battle. Twelve plump shaggy beasts lay dead upon the prairie. Every brave had made his kill. There would be much rejoicing in the village that evening. One Horn told the young braves how to prepare their kills for the return to the village, and they went to work immediately. Their adventure this afternoon would mean much food for the tribe and new clothing for the coming winter and horns and tails to decorate their costumes and tepees.
As One Horn rode from dead buffalo to dead buffalo, watching the young braves at work, he was quick to praise each lad for his part in the hunt that day. Soon all had completed their tasks and a triumphant band returned to the village.
That evening each young brave in turn told how he had made his kill and there was a great deal of celebrating. The honor of the biggest kill went to Grey Calf. As the last of the families were going into their tepees for the evening, Grey Calf’s father came to sit by his side.
“My son, your father is proud. Not only has my son killed his first buffalo but it was by far the largest of the beasts killed today. Today you had success and triumph, but life will not always be that simple. The trail ahead is hard. There will be many difficult times, but if you learn your lessons well you shall one day be a great and respected warrior of the tribe.”
When Grey Calf’s father had finished speaking, he looked down upon his son and smiled. The tired young brave had fallen asleep.
Little Fox, a member of the Apache Tribe, was a shy Indian lad who was rather small. When he was born he was a very tiny baby and his face was thin and pointed like that of a fox. For this reason he was given the name of Little Fox.
As Little Fox grew older, he dreamed of the day he would be able to wear the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle, the most respected bird of the American Indian. It was believed that there was great power in the thirteen tail feathers and in the pinion feathers on the wings of the Great Golden Eagle.
One day Little Fox was seated in his mother’s wickiup, when his father entered. Without a word Little Fox’s father went to a case made of deerskin and carefully removed the cover. Then with great care he removed from the case a most beautiful feather bonnet, at which Little Fox gazed with great longing. His father, Swift Deer, was an honored brave in the tribe and had become privileged to wear the bonnet of eagle feathers for his many brave deeds and the telling of these deeds before the Council of Chiefs. Swift Deer had been granted the right to place additional eagle feathers in his headdress. Suddenly, Swift Deer turned to Little Fox, and said, “Why do you look so sad, my son?”
Little Fox turned slowly to his father and said, “It is because I, Little Fox, have not been able to do anything that the Council would recognize as a deed worthy of the wearing of the feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.”
“Little Fox,” said his father, “you seek too hard for a deed to compete for this honor. Tell me, do you have any eagle feathers that you could wear, in case you should do a deed which would be considered worthy?”
“No, my father,” said Little Fox, “but by the rising of the next new moon, I shall have many eagle feathers, for tomorrow I start in search of the Great Golden Eagle. It has been told by Great Moose that beyond the three hills many Golden Eagles have been seen.”
Swift Deer was proud. He knew that though his son was small he had in his breast a brave heart, for to go in search of the Great Golden Eagle took a great deal of courage. Once again Swift Deer took his son aside and told him the many dangers of eagle hunting, but praised him for his bravery in going to get the tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.
The following morning, Little Fox took some food. Then taking a long strong thong of deerskin, he looped it several times around his waist and tied the food pouch to it. Strapping a knife also to the thong, he started for the place where the Great Golden Eagles had been seen.
On the way he stopped just long enough to snare a plump young rabbit which he would use for bait. When he reached the place where the eagles were to be found, he started digging a deep hole, large enough for him to stand in. Then he placed branches over the hole to hide it, with a small space for him to reach through and grasp the tail feathers of the eagle. To the top of this cover he tied the plump young rabbit with a piece of thong. After all was in readiness, Little Fox lifted the edge of his cover and slid into the hole, resting his foot on a thick root which stuck out of the earth into the hole. Placing his back against the side of the hole, he waited patiently for the Golden Eagle.
An hour passed and then two and three, and Little Fox began to feel his muscles tighten up and his body start to grow stiff. He began to feel impatient. Suddenly, he heard the rabbit begin to move about uneasily, then tug in panic against the thong that held him. Surely the Golden Eagle must be close by. Little Fox felt relaxed; the stiffness in his body was gone. Now excitement rushed into his body as he waited for the Golden Eagle to come to rest on the top of his hiding place.
All at once, Little Fox felt the ground tremble and he heard what sounded like the low rumble of a waterfall. Then he knew that what he had heard was the low growl of a bear. He peered through a crack in the cover over the hole and saw the bear’s towering form. Fear gripped the heart of Little Fox. Many were the stories he had heard of Indians who had lost their lives while hunting for the prized feathers of the Golden Eagle.
The bear, with the swiftness of a fleeting arrow, made one sweep with his huge paw and the rabbit went sprawling. The bear paused as though he were thinking about the problem before him. Here was one of his enemies trapped beneath his feet. How would he reach his enemy? With an angry growl he ripped at the boughs which covered the hiding place of Little Fox until he had uncovered the top of the hole.
Holding his breath and his heart beating wildly, Little Fox crouched far down in the hole and waited for the final moment when he, instead of the Golden Eagle, would fall victim in his own trap. The bear lunged but missed his mark. Little Fox suddenly realized that the top of the hole was too small for the bear to get his paw and his head in at the same time. Again and again the bear lunged, but without success. The more he lunged and failed, the angrier he became. He thrust first his paw and then his head into the hole; but Little Fox, by pressing down against the bottom of the hole, was able to keep just out of reach of the flailing paws and gnashing teeth. All of a sudden, the bear pulled back away from the hole as if to consider his next move. In this instant, Little Fox thought of a way that might save his life. He quickly untied the long leather thong around his waist, made a loop of it, and as slowly and quietly as possible placed the loop just below the opening, holding it in place all around by pressing the thong into the earth. Little Fox tied the other end to the root on which he had been standing.
Now the bear was returning. Little Fox waited, holding tight to the leather thong. As the bear placed his head in the hole and so into the loop, Little Fox pulled hard on the thong, which immediately came loose from the earth and tightened around the throat of the bear.
In angry surprise, the bear pulled back from the hole only to be stopped short as the thong drew tight. Then he began a series of noises which Little Fox remembered for many moons. The bear’s growls gradually grew to roars, and then turned to cries of pain. The harder the bear pulled, the tighter the thong gripped his throat, until the cries became coughs and gasps. Then all was quiet. The bear’s thrashing around had ceased, but still Little Fox waited.
Little Fox slowly raised himself until he could see just over the edge. There, not two feet from the hole, lay a huge bear, quite still and dead. Little Fox quickly pulled himself from the hole and started at a run for the village.
He reached the village and, not stopping to answer any questions, ran straight to his father’s wickiup. He began telling his story, still panting and talking so fast that his father made him stop to get his breath and then speak slowly. When Little Fox had finished, Swift Deer gathered some of the other warriors and went to the place where this adventure had taken place. With great pride, Swift Deer helped to skin the bear and bring it back to the village. Not long after, Little Fox stood in the Council meeting before the elders of the tribe and recounted his tale of courage. And when all his words had been heard, the Council voted that Little Fox should wear in his headband not one, but two of the most treasured tail feathers of the Great Golden Eagle.
The Powhatan Indians were a great tribe whose hard work each year was rewarded with large supplies of food and clothing.
Long Moose was growing up among his people happily, doing his share of the tribe’s work. He had become very tall and awkward. He had great strength, too, which he hadn’t learned yet to use well. During games and contests, Long Moose often forgot how strong he was and, not meaning to, would hurt his friends, sometimes rather badly.
Long Moose was still trying over and over to learn how to make hunting tools when winter came. It was a bitter, cold, northern winter. Both his mother and father became very sick and died after only a few days, leaving his younger sister and himself alone without near relatives to help them.
Because Long Moose was not a skillful young brave, his sister had little respect for him. He spent many days thinking sadly about his parents, but doing nothing to get food and keep their shelter tight against the wind and snow. Soon their small supply of food and fuel was nearly gone, and Long Moose had brought no hides for making clothes or repairing their home. He had also failed to give his share of food and hides for all the tribe, as every warrior was expected to do. Not only his sister but all the tribe began to feel that Little Moose was not a good Powhatan.
His sister’s harsh looks at him and his own growing hunger and cold made Long Moose think about how and why he was not a good brother or a good brave. He had to admit to himself that there was only one real reason besides his poor hunting tools and bad marksmanship: he did not want to hunt or make good hunting tools because he did not want to kill any animals.
He thought about how often he had gone out to hunt and even when, without looking for them, he had run across deer near by, he would still come back without having shot a single arrow. Long Moose knew that he loved all wild animals as much as he had loved his parents, and loved his sister and his friends now.
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!”
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 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.
Little Bear swerved his pony rapidly away from the herd. When the pony was able to check his forward speed, pony and rider withdrew to the side of the battleground to watch the rest of the hunt in safety. As the herd disappeared across the prairie, the members of the hunting party turned their horses and began the ride back to where the herd had been grazing. When the dust had cleared, Little Bear saw scattered across the prairie the bodies of many buffalo which had fallen before the accurate shooting of the hunters. Each brave would be able to tell his kill, for each arrow bore the mark of its owner.
Little Bear galloped toward the spot where he thought his buffalo had fallen. While he rode, his heart beat very fast. He tried to show little excitement as he drew near to a group of hunters who stood looking down at an object upon the ground. As Little Bear drew close, he slowed his pony. His father turned and smiled. Dismounting, Little Bear walked to his father’s side. Lying on the ground at the feet of the older braves was a bull buffalo of tremendous size. And there was the arrow of Little Bear exactly where the arrow of a good hunter should be. He had hit the buffalo in a vital spot.
Swift Eagle placed his arm across the shoulders of his son. Amid the many grunts and exclamations of approval coming from the warrior hunters, Little Bear heard the deep calm, proud voice of his father.
“You have done well, my son. This is a fine buffalo, one which we are sure will prove to be the largest one killed this day. The many hours spent in teaching you were not wasted. This you have proven today. You will return to our village a hero and tell of your exploits at the council tonight. No longer will you have to stay behind when the hunters go in search of food. Today you have become a hunter and earned the right to ride with the hunting party. Your father is proud.”
And so the procession, after attending the buffalo and stripping the hides and packing the fresh meat for the return trek, headed for home. At the front of the party rode Swift Eagle and Little Bear, a proud father and an even prouder son. Today the young brave had succeeded in his first hunt.
It was a dark winter evening in the small Iroquois village. The cries of the wolf echoed in the forest as Great Eagle, war leader of the Iroquois, was preparing for bed. He stopped to take a last look for the night at his young son, Crying Eagle, and smiled at his boy who slept so peacefully. As he pulled the warm robe up around his son’s neck to keep the cold from seeping in and disturbing his sleep, he thought to himself,
“How lucky I am to have been blessed with such a son. Truly, he will be a leader among his people. Not because he is the son of Great Eagle, war chief of the Iroquois, but because he will be tall and strong and brave and will learn well the ways of the tribe. Soon he will be ready to be a leader and when that day comes, I will be proud to stand forth and say, ‘This is my son.’”
Great Eagle slept warm and soundly that night and arose with the dawn of the next day. Today his son was to go on a trek with him to learn the ways of the wild game in winter time.
Great Eagle moved to his son’s bed and called softly to him, “Come, my son, for we have a long way to travel and much to do today.”