TREASURY
OF
AMERICAN INDIAN TALES

BY THEODORE WHITSON RESSLER

BONANZA BOOKS · NEW YORK

517110660

Copyright © MCMLVII by National Board of Young Men’s Christian Association. Library of Congress Catalog Number: 57-5046. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to: BONANZA BOOKS, a division of Crown Publishers, Inc., 419 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10016.

This edition is published by BONANZA BOOKS,
a division of Crown Publishers, Inc.
by arrangement with The Association Press.
a b c d e f g h
Manufactured in the United States of America.

To William Frederick, My Son

I dedicate this book to you, my son. The ways of the Indian were good. Honesty and truth were sacred to them; courage, a part of their lives, as much as eating and sleeping. May this book prove to bring you many joyful hours of reading, for constantly were you with me during its writing, not only in person but in spirit.

THE 44 STORIES FROM 27 TRIBES

[Introduction] ix 1. ADVENTURE [Little Rabbit Discovers a Secret of Strength, Pueblo] 3 [Atagahi—The Secret Lake, Cherokee] 10 [Quarter Moon and Little Elk, Iroquois] 13 [A Kitten Brings a Boy His Feather, Nez Percé] 20 [Little Thunder Finds a Friend, Wyandot] 23 [How Not to Catch a Fish, Bella Coola] 29 [Little Fire Cloud’s Dream, Delaware] 33 [The Cry of the Horned Owl, Cayuga] 38 [The Dream That Led to Victory, Apache] 42 2. HUNTING AND FISHING [Grey Calf Learns to Hunt Buffalo, Crow] 53 [Little Fox and the Golden Eagle, Apache] 60 [How Long Moose Became a Brave, Powhatan] 65 [How a Fishing Trip Taught Loyalty to a Boy, Iroquois] 71 [Little Bear’s First Hunt, Apache] 79 [Crying Eagle Sees a Great Battle, Iroquois] 84 [Spotted Tail and the Ghost Wolf, Mohawk] 89 3. CUSTOMS [The Tribes Gather, Cree] 99 [Singing Eagle’s First Clothes, Huron] 105 [The New Tepee, Blackfoot] 108 [Little Dove Learns to Weave, Winnebago] 112 [Red Cloud’s Dream, Algonquin] 117 [Broken Tooth and the War Bonnet, Apache] 127 [Grey Squirrel Hears His Name, Oneida] 129 4. HEROISM [Little Fawn and the Wolves, Choctaw] 139 [The Island, Iroquois] 144 [A New Bow for Tani, Cherokee] 149 [Singing Waters and the Medicine Well, Teton-Dakota] 153 [The War That Should Not Have Happened, Comanche] 160 [Little Horse and the Painted Arrow, Delaware] 174 [Falling Water Earns a Feather, Dakota-Sioux] 192 [The Race with Death, Apache] 197 [The Storm, Algonquin] 210 5. CHARACTER [Sleeping Bear Makes a Mistake, Montagnais] 217 [The Lesson of the Elm Tree, Cherokee] 220 [The Race, Oneida] 225 [Little Thunderbird Tells the Truth, Blackfoot] 241 [The Prize No One Could See, Kickapoo] 247 [The Mysterious Pony Raiders, Blackfoot] 253 [The Canoe Race, Ottawa] 263 [Standing Fawn Makes a Doll, Shawnee] 269 [Black Cloud Remembers, Seneca] 274 [The Miracle of the Pine Grove, Iroquois] 281 [Crooked Arrow Finds a Friend, Shawnee] 286 [The Boy and the Warrior Chief, Seneca] 300

INTRODUCTION

This is a collection of American Indian tales for pre-teen boys and girls, a fact that does not obviate the possibility of their interest to parents and youth leaders, as well. All have been tested by the author-compiler with youngsters in many settings—in homes, in church, Scout and Y groups, by the campfire, in meeting rooms, and even in buses.

Those stories which the author has created are based upon Indian lore and customs. Many of the traditional stories were related to him by his Indian friends, descendants of the braves who first recounted them many generations ago. Both the original and the traditional tales are set down within the general context of Indian history, but without any pretense that the events actually took place.

Authenticity, however, in the life, customs, and moral standards of the Indians has been striven for in each story. Throughout, an attempt has been made to impart, without “preaching” at youngsters, three major ethical values common to all American Indians—courage, honesty in dealing with others, and truthfulness in speech.

The tales are of varying length, but all are short to conform with the interest span of average pre-teeners—and, hopefully, to leave them eager for the next story session.

It will be noted that both Indian boys and girls play leading roles. The author has found that the appeal of each story has been equal for both sexes irrespective of whether it has a young hero or heroine.

Parents and youth leaders will observe, too, that stress is placed in several stories upon the close father-son and mother-daughter relationship—completely true in Indian culture, and as much coveted in the formative pre-teen years of our own children today.

Whether read to children, or adapted and retold to them, or read by children themselves, it is hoped that these stories will be cherished as much by them as by the hundreds of boys and girls who helped, unwittingly, to select them for this book.

Theodore Whitson Ressler

1. ADVENTURE

LITTLE RABBIT DISCOVERS A SECRET OF STRENGTH

Little Rabbit was a young Pueblo brave who lived a very happy and carefree life. There was nothing very special about Little Rabbit unless you were to say that his spirits were never dampened by a sad turn of events. When something went wrong and people were unhappy, Little Rabbit usually found his way to their side, and would offer words of encouragement.

The village in which Little Rabbit was born was like all the Pueblo adobe villages of centuries before him. Little Rabbit had to climb a ladder in order to enter his home, because all ground floor rooms had only a roof entrance. By pulling up the ladder at night, families made their homes hard to enter.

Little Rabbit had once watched several families make an adobe building, several levels high. The walls were made of a mixture of yellowish clay and sand, called adobe; the roofs were made of a heavy layer of the same adobe laid over a strong frame of log beams, crisscrossed with poles, willow branches, sticks, grass, and desert brush. The Spaniards had taught the Pueblos how to mold the adobe into bricks. Small holes were made for windows and doorways. Each family had one large room, and the ground floor room (without windows or a doorway) was used by all the families for storage, initiation of the boys into secret societies, and for religious ceremonies.

Because each floor was set back the depth of the room below, each level had a porch which was used by the Pueblo women for making corn bread, pottery, and baskets, and by the men to weave rugs and blankets. When religious ceremonies, dances, and games were taking place, these porches gave the whole family the best possible point from which to watch.

Such was the village in which Little Rabbit had grown to the age of twelve, a strong and tall young brave.

One day he had just finished playing some running games with his friends and was returning to his home when one of his friends called to him, “Come, Little Rabbit, we are going to walk the ledges.”

Now walking the ledges was a very difficult game and, most of the time, was forbidden by the parents. But occasionally some of the more daring young braves, willing to chance their necks, would organize a game of ledge walking. The idea was something like “Follow the Leader,” but far more dangerous. The boys would walk right on the edge of the roofs—along the first floor and, if successful and daring enough, along the second, and then along the third floor roof. As the boys went higher, fewer and fewer would take part; a fall from any one of the roofs would be bad, but a fall from the second or third could cause great injury or even death.

Now Little Rabbit was not a coward, but he hesitated to play the game because his father had told him that he was not to go without his father’s permission, and Little Rabbit knew that this was one game his father would not permit him to play. So with sadness in his heart he shouted back to the other boys that he had work to do, and continued on his way home.

Several days passed, and each day a few of the older boys would gather to walk ledges, and each day they would ask Little Rabbit to take part, and each day Little Rabbit would say no. Finally it got to be too much for even Little Rabbit. The next time he was asked he answered yes, and soon was playing the very dangerous game.

The boys had all completed the first ledge of the round floor and were starting for the second. Just as Little Rabbit reached the second ledge, a voice called out, “Little Rabbit, my son, what are you doing?”

The rest of the braves scattered, but the surprise at hearing his father’s angry voice near by frightened Little Rabbit for a moment, and he lost his balance. He tried to straighten up, but went tumbling down the side of the dwelling. He managed to break his fall by grasping at the ladder but was not able to hold on. When he landed, his leg was doubled under him and a sharp pain shot through his body, and then he fainted.

When Little Rabbit awoke, he found he was stretched on his own bed, and his father and mother were standing over him.

“I am sorry, my son,” his father said softly. “I did not mean to startle you so. But I was afraid for you, and the fear in my heart gave harshness and anger to my voice. If I had waited until you were safely over the edge and then called to you, this terrible thing might not have happened.”

“Do not blame yourself,” said Little Rabbit. “It is I who made the mistake. I disobeyed my father. I am truly sorry for that. If I had not been doing something wrong, I would not have been startled when you called. It was a foolish thing for me to do. I let the other boys tease me into playing. It would have been braver for me to tell them no. Truly I am ashamed, my father.”

“You must rest, my son. Your leg has been badly injured. When you have rested we shall talk of this.” With that, Little Rabbit’s father left the house to continue his work.

For many days Little Rabbit lay in pain from his hurt leg; but more than his leg, his heart and mind were hurt from the unhappiness he had brought to his father by disobeying. He tried to talk with his mother about how he felt but all his mother would say was, “Do not worry so, Little Rabbit. Your father has forgiven you.”

But this was not what concerned Little Rabbit. His father now had to carry on the work of farming the corn and brans and cotton all alone for the family. This made Little Rabbit feel very unhappy. He wanted to do his share of the work, and he liked to see crops grow.

His leg began to heal, and soon Little Rabbit was able to hobble around with the aid of a stout staff. He began to help around the house as much as he could. Before long, he was able to limp out to the garden after his father and work a little there, too.

Many moons passed and his leg healed and became strong. But it was twisted so that when Little Rabbit walked or ran he would limp rather badly. The other young braves felt sorry for Little Rabbit. Even though he could move about rather easily with his twisted leg, he really could not keep up with the other young braves in the many games they played. Soon he found that he was not being asked so often to play the really exciting games.

One day as Little Rabbit was seated in front of his home, his father was returning from the garden. As he came to where Little Rabbit was seated, he stopped and spoke gently.

“Why do you sit here so sad and forlorn, my son? Always you have been gay and happy, but lately you have become quiet and sad. Tell your father what it is that troubles you.”

And so Little Rabbit explained that because he could not keep up with them in the games of speed and skill, the other boys no longer invited him to play.

“My son, if you are going to sit here and let your life pass you by because your leg will not obey every command it is given, you will soon become very unhappy and bitter. You will be of no use to anyone, even yourself. You must turn your thoughts to other things. If you cannot run fast, you must practice. If you cannot jump, you must practice.”

“I have tried, my father, but it seems to do no good. My leg is strong, but the way it is twisted causes me to limp. If I try to run my leg bends under me. I have tried day after day but it is of no use.”

“You cannot sit here and think of the world as a sad, unhappy place. Such thoughts will make your leg feel even more twisted than it really is. You must be thankful for your opportunity to raise yourself to be more than just an ordinary Indian brave. You have a battle inside yourself now that calls for great courage and wisdom. How you will overcome it I do not know, but you must try, my son.”

That night Little Rabbit could not go to sleep because he was thinking about what his father had said. Maybe he had not been working hard enough to make his leg do what he commanded. Tomorrow he would try harder.

And so every day Little Rabbit practiced very hard. For many hours each week, he would exercise his leg. Finally one day he awoke feeling strong and fit. After breakfast he went forth from his home to find his friends for a game. When he located them, they were beginning a foot race which would take them around the village. Without waiting to be asked, Little Rabbit trotted into line just as the race started. The other boys were off to a big lead, but that didn’t worry Little Rabbit. He remembered what his father had said and, with each running step, he repeated the words, “I must try.”

The race was going strong. Soon, to his own surprise, Little Rabbit began to pass the other boys one after another. What he had lost in ability, he made up in stamina—the strength to go on and on. His many days of practice were now proving valuable. As the other boys began to tire and drop back, Little Rabbit passed the leading young brave. Then he began to widen the gap between himself and the next runner until nearly one hundred paces separated him from the second place runner when he crossed the finish line.

When all the runners had come panting to the finish line, they gathered around Little Rabbit, slapping his shoulders and congratulating him upon his victory. Finally, one of the young braves asked, “How did you manage to stay so fresh to the very end?”

“Well, you see,” said Little Rabbit quietly, “when I fell from the ledge that day and broke my leg, I was sure that I was being punished for disobeying my father’s wishes. After my leg healed and I began to play again, I found that I could not keep up with you in your games. Once again I thought that I was still being punished. But my father told me I must try harder. This brought me courage. Once again I began practicing every day to learn to run and jump even though my leg was twisted. I do not have the skill that I used to have, but I now have endurance which may stand me in very good stead later on as it has here today.”

ATAGAHI—THE SECRET LAKE

Somewhere in the high ridges of the Great Smokies there was believed to be a lake called Atagahi, the Secret Lake. Few people had heard of it, and this is a story of a young Cherokee brave and his sister who enjoyed the secret of this beautiful lake nestled in the Great Smokies.

Utani placed his bright, shiny, new knife on the ground next to his new moccasins and admired the gleaming of the blade in the sun. He was a young Cherokee brave, rather tall for his age but very powerfully built and with sharp penetrating black eyes. He was too busy admiring the glint of the metal in the sun to notice the approach of Netani, his sister, until the shadow of her body crossed the knife blade and shut off the sun.

“Get out of the way of the sun,” cried Utani. “You are blocking the rays from shining on my knife.” Netani made no effort to move and so Utani repeated his request.

Netani could not understand Utani’s demand that she move, but he was her big brother and so she must obey. As she stepped aside she inquired of Utani why he watched so intently the blade of his knife in the sun.

Utani, of course, now being a man, did not want to give a childish answer such as, “I am watching the blade shine in the sun.” So he quickly gave another answer: “I am receiving a message from the sun.”

“What sort of message?” asked Netani.

“Oh, the sun is telling me where Atagahi is and maybe if I study the blade long enough the sun will tell me just where to find it.”

This, Utani thought, would satisfy his little sister. But her curiosity was too great, and she asked that Utani take her to the secret lake, Atagahi.

Now, Utani realized he had gone a little too far in his bragging; but being very stubborn, he refused to tell his sister that he really could not find the secret lake by looking at the knife blade in the sun. Utani made up his mind that he would have to find the secret lake, Atagahi. He rose and placed his knife carefully in his belt and, taking his sister’s hand, started toward the ridges of the Great Smokies. For two hours, Utani and Netani climbed higher and higher into the mountains; but as the day wore on, Utani began to feel a bit frightened, for they were a long way from home and had come upon nothing that looked like a lake. Finally Netani stopped a few feet behind Utani and called out.

“Let us rest here for a while, big brother. I am getting tired. Besides it is late and I am hungry. Let us go back to the village and look tomorrow.”

Of course, Utani secretly thought that was a wonderful idea, for he was tired and hungry too. He agreed to follow his little sister’s idea.

As he grasped his sister’s hand to start home, his foot kicked a small stone which rolled off the side of the trail and down a small embankment of earth and landed at the bottom with a splash. Utani and Netani looked at each other with great surprise and then carefully stepped to the edge of the path. Utani pushed aside the branches that grew along the side of the trail, and they both peered down into the waters of a beautiful blue green lake nestled among the trees and rocks that hid it from human eyes along the trail. They had found it! They had found Atagahi! It was fast growing dark, so the two children decided to return to their village and come back the following day to the secret lake. When they returned to their village the older braves wanted to know where they had been. Netani said, “We looked at Utani’s knife blade in the sun, and the sun told us where to find Atagahi.”

The older Cherokee braves all laughed and laughed very loudly. But Netani and Utani did not laugh, for they knew where Atagahi was and they could go there any time they pleased. They never told anyone their secret, but every once in a while if you looked very carefully up the trail into the mountains, you might see two Indian children kicking stones off the side of the trail.

QUARTER MOON AND LITTLE ELK

“Quarter Moon! Where are you, Quarter Moon?”

Little Elk was shouting for his friend as he trotted through the quiet Iroquois village.

It was July, and many of the older braves had gone off to fish and hunt. There were few left in the village except the women, the old men, and the children. Little Elk was now twelve and he was feeling like a big warrior more and more each day.

Finally just as Little Elk was about to give up, he heard his friend answering him from behind his father’s wigwam. “Why do you call so loudly, Little Elk?”

“Because my mother said that I could go fishing this day and I would like you, my friend, to go with me. I have a great deal of good fishing equipment, and there is still one canoe left at the shore of the great lake. Can you come with me?”

Quarter Moon thought for a moment, especially of the work he was supposed to do that day. Finally he said, “Wait, I will go and ask my mother.”

With that he disappeared into the wigwam and in a moment was out again, smiling.

“My mother says that I may go, but that I must be back when the sun has climbed to the highest point in the sky. For any day now, my father is expected back and I have not completed the chores he gave me to do when he left.”

“Come then,” said Little Elk. “We must hurry.”

The two boys ran to the lake shore and, after placing their fishing equipment in the canoe, they stepped in and pushed away from the shore.

“We will paddle along the shore,” said Little Elk.

The Indians of the Northeast made fishing tackle from young basswood saplings and made their hooks from bone. With these they were able to catch the mighty muskellunge of the northern waters and supplemented their fresh meat diet with lake fish.

The boys paddled for quite some time before they dropped their lines into the water. They had picked a good spot because in a matter of minutes they had several fish in the floor of the canoe. Suddenly, Little Elk noticed that the canoe had been drifting and he spoke to his friend about it.

“We should start for home, Little Elk,” Quarter Moon said. “The sun is climbing high in the heavens. We have many fine fish, and our mothers will be proud.”

As they picked up their paddles once again, Little Elk looked around to make sure that they were headed in the right direction. They had been so busy with their fishing that they had drifted far from where they had started. Little Elk wasn’t quite sure which direction they should take to go homeward, for the two boys had never been off by themselves fishing and for a moment he was confused. Then, looking at the sun, he decided that they had turned completely around and would have to turn their canoe once again to be headed in the right direction. And after he told Quarter Moon, the two boys turned the canoe around and began to paddle in the direction they were sure was right.

They paddled past several islands and toward the main shore, when Quarter Moon cried out, “Little Elk, our canoe has sprung a leak.”

Little Elk looked down at his moccasins. The water was beginning to rise in the canoe. Then Little Elk knew why this old canoe had been left at the shore of the lake. The bottom was not considered safe. So the canoe had been left to be repaired and used later on.

“Quarter Moon, we are not too far from the shore. Paddle harder and we will be able to reach the shore before the canoe fills so full that we cannot move it.”

So the boys paddled with all their strength and soon felt the bow of the canoe scrape against the sandy bottom of the lake shore. Jumping out, the two boys pulled the leaking canoe ashore and up onto the brush. Looking around, the boys realized that they were in unfamiliar territory. Neither boy had ever been this far along the shore, but now, by looking out upon the lake, they guessed that they were some distance north of their village.

“Well,” said Little Elk, “at least we are not lost, for by following the shore south, we will come to our village. Come, Quarter Moon! We will put our fish upon some green sticks and take them with us.”

The boys took their knives and cut out two young branches from nearby trees; by running the branch through the gills of the fish and out through the mouth, they were able to carry them comfortably. The boys then started to follow the shore for home. By this time the sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and the boys knew that it was getting quite late. So they hurried along the shore carrying their prize catch of muskellunge.

When they had gone less than halfway to the village, Quarter Moon suddenly called out to his faster companion.

“Wait, Little Elk, do not run so fast. I cannot keep up with you. I must rest.”

The two boys seated themselves on the side of the lake to catch their breath. It was then that they suddenly heard a noise. Turning around, Little Elk saw several feathers through the trees. He was about to call out when a warrior came into his sight and he realized that these were not Iroquois, but a roving band of Abnakes. Quickly he threw himself to the ground and pushed Quarter Moon down beside him. Quarter Moon almost cried out because he was so startled, but Little Elk motioned him to be still. He pointed into the woods and Quarter Moon could see why Little Elk had motioned him to be quiet. Then Little Elk counted the Abnakes who were moving quietly along the trail in single file, headed in the direction of his village. There were fourteen of them, all tall, strong, young warriors, each carrying a stout bow and a quiver of arrows.

When the band had passed, Little Elk turned to Quarter Moon and whispered:

“We must hurry. They are headed in the direction of our village and with our warriors all gone, there are none but the old men, women, and children. We must warn the village.”

They jumped up and began to run as fast as they could along the shore toward their village, forgetting all about their fish and fishing gear, in their haste to get to their village and warn their people.

Soon they saw smoke from campfires only a few hundred paces ahead. Even though both boys felt as if their hearts would burst, they forced themselves to continue running until the wigwams of the village were in sight. The boys slowed to a trot, and entered the village all out of breath. They ran straight to the wigwam of Quarter Moon’s uncle and tried, between gasps for breath, to tell him what they had seen. Finally Quarter Moon’s uncle raised his hand. “Wait! Wait! My boy, get your breath and then tell me what has brought you to my wigwam breathing so heavily and looking like a frightened deer.”

The boys took several deep breaths and then Little Elk told his story to the old man.

“But we are not at war with the Abnakes and surely we have nothing they would want in our village. But if this is an attack, we must warn the others. Go through the village and tell all the others to gather at the medicine lodge. There are some of us left who can handle weapons. Rather than give our few supplies or our women to an attacking band of Abnakes, we will gather every able-bodied man and woman and fight if we have to.”

Word was sent out through the village, and soon everyone gathered at the medicine lodge. Quarter Moon was ready to repeat to all what he had told the old brave when Little Elk looked through the fringe in the trees and spotted some warriors approaching. He was about to shout a warning when he saw his father in the lead of the party. Little Elk ran to his father, shouting that the Abnakes were near by. And then he saw, standing next to his father, a very tall and handsome Abnake. For some reason, Little Elk felt that this was no ordinary warrior. Then his father spoke.

“Wait, Little Elk, my son. What is this you say about our village being invaded?”

Little Elk was embarrassed and looked down at the ground. “My father, when Quarter Moon and I were returning from our fishing trip, we saw some Abnakes through the trees. They carried many bows and quivers of arrows, and they were moving swiftly and quietly toward our village. Quarter Moon and I ran as fast as we could to warn the village.”

“You did well, my son. But come, I want you to welcome a friend of mine. This is Chief Big Running Fox of the Abnakes. With him are fourteen of his finest hunters. Our hunting party searched far and wide for game but with little success. After many days of searching, we were ready to start for home, sad and empty handed, when we were met by Chief Big Running Fox. After explaining to him our presence in Abnake lands, we were invited to their village, where we received food and shelter for the night. The next morning Chief Big Running Fox explained that the bad weather this past spring had driven the game north. The Abnakes had plenty, but knew that their neighbors to the south would not have much game. So Chief Big Running Fox let us hunt on the Abnake grounds to get plenty of meat for our tribe. In return we have invited them here for a feast to thank them for this great kindness.”

“I am sorry, great chief, that I thought you were going to attack our village,” said Little Elk, feeling very much ashamed.

Chief Big Running Fox placed his hands upon the boy’s shoulders. “Do not feel ashamed. It could have been an unfriendly visit and you were right to warn your people of strangers near your home. Your father can be proud to have you for a son, and we are glad to have you as a friend.”

The hunting party of Iroquois and Abnakes moved into the village side by side. That night, instead of war dances, there were happy dances celebrating their good hunting and finding a new friend. Right in the center of all the excitement sat Little Elk and Quarter Moon, the heroes of the day.

A KITTEN BRINGS A BOY HIS FEATHER

Between the swift running Snake River and the rumbling Grande Ronde in the beautiful Valley of Winding Waters, there lived a band of Indians called the Wallows, a branch of the Nez Percé tribe.

Little White Wolf was one of the young boys who was trying to earn his first feathers which would show that he had become a full-fledged brave. Often he would wander from the camp into the forests that covered the slopes of the valley. There he would try to think of things he could do to get his feather—an act of bravery or great hunting skill. Two summers had passed since he first tried to win his feather. His little friends, Swift Owl and Gray Frog, had earned their feathers and now strutted proudly through the village to call attention to their feathers. They both took special care to spend most of their time playing near Little White Wolf, no doubt to make him jealous of their awards.

One day, when Little White Wolf was watching his mother mold a small bowl from clay, he caught sight of his father, Big White Wolf, striding into the village with a large brown animal slung over his shoulders. Little White Wolf knew that his father had made a kill. The boy raced forward excitedly to greet his father. As his father came nearer, the boy saw the large claws of a mountain lion. He was thrilled and proud and asked impatiently for his father to tell him the story of the kill. But his father only shook his head and put his hand on Little White Wolf’s shoulder to quiet him.

“My son,” he told him, “you will have to wait until the big fire tonight when I tell the tale for all to hear.”

That night as the braves gathered around the evening fire, Little White Wolf settled as close as he could to the spot where his father would stand to tell his tale of adventure. After the other braves had told their stories, Little White Wolf’s father walked with long, firm steps to the center of the circle and began to speak. While Little White Wolf listened, he thought that his father looked unusually strong and tall.

Big White Wolf told how he had been tracking a deer in a small glen at the southern end of the valley when he heard a snarl. Turning quickly, he saw a large female puma poised to spring at him from a tree. Just as the cat leaped, Big White Wolf shot his arrow. The cat fell dead at his feet. He could not explain why the big cat had been roused unless he had been close to a lair of kittens which this mother cat had been guarding.

Little White Wolf leaned forward listening intently. Suddenly a thought flashed through his mind. He could not sleep soundly that night because he kept thinking of his secret plan. As dawn broke, Little White Wolf arose silently and gathered his bow and arrow and a small pouch of food. Then he started off for the southern end of the valley. He came soon to the place where his father had killed the big cat. The boy began to search every nook and cranny for the little kittens that must be here. He felt sure his father had been right in guessing why the cat had sprung at him.

Finally, after many hours of searching, Little White Wolf was about to give up when he heard a faint cry coming from his right. He moved behind a small tree and parted the branches to see what had made the sound. Just a few paces away in the hollow of a rock lay a small ball of brown fur. Now Little White Wolf must carry out his plan to bring the puma kitten back to camp alive. He moved slowly and quietly so that he would not frighten the kitten. The little puma was looking away from Little White Wolf.

When the boy was only two paces away, the kitten heard him. The animal jumped up quickly and started to run. But the Indian was too fast. He leaped and caught the kitten by the scruff of the neck. Then he lifted the little puma gently and began to scratch its head and pet it. In a few moments, the animal was curled up in Little White Wolf’s arms, leaning contentedly against the boy’s chest. The boy started back to camp with his prize.

No one had known why he had left or where he had gone, so Little White Wolf was greeted excitedly by the other boys as he marched into the camp. Even Swift Owl and Gray Frog praised him for having rescued the little puma and for having braved a possible attack from some grown puma.

That night Little White Wolf told his story. With great dignity, the Chief awarded the boy his feather. He was a very proud young brave. Now he could strut with Gray Frog and Swift Owl throughout the camp.

Little White Wolf never realized how thankful his father was that his son had returned safely. Big White Wolf knew that the father cat might have returned while the boy was taking the kitten. If that had happened, there might have been no feather award council fire that night.

LITTLE THUNDER FINDS A FRIEND

Little Thunder was always the first one awake in his woodland Wyandot village, running about doing many chores before his parents were even awake. He would build up the breakfast fire and make sure there was enough wood to keep it going during the day. He would take the water bags to the cool spring and refill them with fresh water for that day and do many other little chores.

Finally when the rest of the village began to stir, Little Thunder would rush about gathering up his many small treasures and lay them all out in front of him on the ground to choose the ones he would carry with him that day. He had pieces of flint, a deer’s horn, colored stones from the brooks, birch bark on which he had burned pictures, and many other things important to an Indian boy. Then his mother would call him in to eat. When breakfast was over, his father and mother would explain the family’s plans for the day. Then each would set about doing his share of the work.

One morning just before Little Thunder’s father was to go off on a hunt with the other warriors of the village, he called Little Thunder to him.

“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.

HOW NOT TO CATCH A FISH

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.

LITTLE FIRE CLOUD’S DREAM

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.”

THE CRY OF THE HORNED OWL

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.

THE DREAM THAT LED TO VICTORY

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.

2. HUNTING AND FISHING

GREY CALF LEARNS TO HUNT BUFFALO

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.

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 AND THE GOLDEN EAGLE

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?”