John Ermine of the Yellowstone (4 page)

The old men Nah-kee and Umbas-a-hoos sat smoking over their talk in the purple shade of a tepee. Idly noting the affairs of camp, their eyes fell on groups of small urchins, which were
scampering about engaging each other in mimic war. They shot blunt-headed arrows, while other tots returned the fire from the vantage of lariated ponies or friendly tepees. They further observed
that little White Weasel, by his activity, fierce impulse, and mental excellence, was admittedly leading one of these diminutive war-parties. He had stripped off his small buckskin shirt, and the
milk-white skin glared in the sunlight; one little braid had become undone and flowed in golden curls about his shoulders. In childish screams he urged his group to charge the other, and running
forth he scattered all before his insistent assault.

“See, brother,” spoke Nah-kee, “the little white Crow has been struck in the face by an arrow, but he does not stop.”

“Umph—he will make a warrior,” replied the other, his features relaxing into something approaching kindliness. The two old men understood what they saw even if they had never
heard of the “Gothic self-abandonment” which was the inheritance of White Weasel. “He may be a war-chief—he leads the boys even now, before he is big enough to climb up the
fore leg of a pony to get on its back. The arrow in his face did not stop him. These white men cannot endure pain as we do; they bleat like a deer under the knife. Do you remember the one we built
the fire on three grasses ago over by the Big Muddy when Eashdies split his head with a battleaxe to stop his noise? Brother, little White Weasel is a Crow.”

“It is so,” pursued the other veteran; “these yellow-eyes are only fit to play badger in a gravel-pit or harness themselves to loaded boats, which pull powder and lead up the
long river. They walk all one green-grass beside their long-horned buffalo, hauling their tepee wagons over the plains. If it were not for their medicine goods, we would drive them far
away.”

“Yes, brother, they are good for us. If we did not have their powder and guns, the Cut-Throats [Sioux] and the Cut-Arms [Cheyennes] would soon put the Absaroke fires out. We must step
carefully and keep our eyes open lest the whites again see White Weasel; and if these half-Indian men about camp talk to the traders about him, we will have the camp soldiers beat them with sticks.
The white traders would take our powder away from us unless we gave him to them.”

“We could steal him again, brother.”

“Yes, if they did not send him down the long river in a boat. Then he would go so far toward the morning that we should never pass our eyes over him again on this side of the Spiritland.
We need him to fill the place of some warrior who will be struck by the enemy.”

Seeing the squaw Ba-cher-hish-a passing, they called to her and said: “When there are any white men around the camps, paint the face of your little son White Weasel, and fill his hair with
wood ashes. If you are careful to do this, the white men will not notice him; you will not have to part with him again.”

“What you say is true,” spoke the squaw, “but I cannot put black ashes in his eyes.” She departed, nevertheless, glorious with the new thought.

Having fought each other with arrows until it no longer amused them, the foes of an idle hour ran away together down by the creek, where they disrobed by a process neatly described by the white
men’s drill regulations, which say a thing shall be done in “one time and two motions.”

White Weasel was more complicated than his fellows by reason of one shirt, which he promptly skinned off. “See the white Crow,” gurgled a small savage, as every eye turned to our
hero. “He always has the war paint on his body. He is always painted like the big men when they go to strike the enemy—he is red all over. The war paint is in his skin.”

“Now, let us be buffalo,” spoke one, answered by others, “Yes, let us be buffalo.” Accordingly, in true imitation of what to them was a familiar sight, they formed in
line, White Weasel at the head as usual. Bending their bodies forward and swinging their heads, they followed down to the water, throwing themselves flat in the shallows. Now they were no longer
buffalo, but merely small boys splashing about in the cool water, screaming incoherently and as nearly perfectly happy as nature ever intended human beings to be. After a few minutes of this, the
humorist among them, the ultra-imaginative one, stood up pointing dramatically, and, simulating fear, yelled, “Here comes the bad water monster,” whereat with shrill screams and much
splashing the score of little imps ran ashore and sat down, grinning at their half-felt fear. The water monster was quite real to them. Who could say one might not appear and grab a laggard?

After this they ran skipping along the river bank, quite naked, as purposeless as birds, until they met two old squaws dipping water from the creek to carry home. With hue and cry they gathered
about them, darting like quick-motioned wolves around worn-out buffalo. “They are buffalo, and we are wolves,” chorussed the infant band; “bite them! Blind them! We are wolves! We
will eat them!” They plucked at their garments and threw dirt over them in childish glee. The old women snarled at their persecutors and caught up sticks to defend themselves. It was
beginning to look rather serious for the supposed buffalo, when a young warrior came riding down, his pony going silently in the soft dirt. Comprehending the situation, and being fairly among them,
he dealt out a few well-considered cuts with his pony-whip, which changed the tune of those who had felt its contact. They all ran off, some holding on to their smarts—scattering away much as
the wolves themselves might have done under such conditions.

Indian boys are very much like white boys in every respect, except that they are subject to no restraint, and carry their mischievousness to all bounds. Their ideas of play being founded on the
ways of things about them, they are warriors, wild animals, horses, and the hunters, and the hunted by turns. Bands of these little Crows scarcely past toddling ranged the camp, keeping dogs,
ponies, and women in a constant state of unrest. Occasional justice was meted out to them with a pony-whip, but in proportions much less than their deserts.

Being hungry, White Weasel plodded home to his mother’s lodge, and finding a buffalo rib roasting near the fire he appropriated it. It was nearly as large as himself, and when he had
satisfied his appetite, his face and hands were most appallingly greased. Seeing this, his mother wiped him off, but not as thoroughly as his condition called for, it must be admitted. Falling back
on a buffalo robe, little Weasel soon fell into a deep slumber, during which a big dog belonging to the tent made play to complete the squaw’s washing, by licking all the grease from his face
and hands.

In due course he arose refreshed and ready for more mischief. The first opportunity which presented itself was the big dog, which was sleeping outside. “He is a young pony; I will break
him to bear a man,” said Weasel to himself. Straightway he threw himself on the pup, grasping firmly with heel and hand. The dog rose suddenly with a yell, and nipped one of Weasel’s
legs quite hard enough to bring his horse-breaking to a finish with an answering yell. The dog made off, followed by hissing imprecations from Ba-cher-hish-a, who rubbed the little round leg and
crooned away his tears. He was not long depressed by the incident.

Now all small Indian boys have a regard for prairie dog or marmot’s flesh, which is akin to the white boy’s taste for candy balls and cream paste. In order to satisfy it the small
Indian must lie out on the prairie for an hour under the broiling sun, and make a sure shot in the bargain. The white boy has only to acquire five cents, yet in the majority of cases that too is
attended by almost overwhelming difficulties.

With three other boys White Weasel repaired to the adjoining dog-town, and having located from cover a fat old marmot whose hole was near the outskirts of the village, they each cut a tuft of
grease-weed. Waiting until he had gone inside, they ran forward swiftly and threw themselves on the ground behind other dog mounds, putting up the grease-weed in front of themselves. With shrill
chirping, all the marmots of this colony dived into their holes and gave the desert over to silence. After a long time marmots far away from them came out to protest against the intrusion. An old
Indian warrior sitting on a nearby bluff, nursing morose thoughts, was almost charmed into good nature by the play of the infant hunters below him. He could remember when he had done this same
thing—many, many grasses ago. More grasses than he could well remember.

The sun had drawn a long shadow before the fat marmot showed his head above the level of his intrenchments—his fearful little black eyes set and his ears straining. Three other pairs of
black eyes and one pair of blue ones snapped at him from behind the grease-weed. There followed a long wait, after which the marmot jumped up on the dirt rim which surrounded his hole, and there
waited until his patience gave out. With a sharp bark and a wiggling of his tail he rolled out along the plain, a small ball of dusty fur. To the intent gaze of the nine-year-olds he was much more
important than can be explained from this viewpoint.

Having judged him sufficiently far from his base, the small hunters sprang to their knees, and drove their arrows with all the energy of soft young arms at the quarry. The marmot made a gallant
race, but an unfortunate blunt-head caught him somewhere and bowled him over. Before he could recover, the boys were upon him, and his stage had passed.

Carrying the game and followed by his companions, Weasel took it home to his foster-mother, who set to skinning it, crooning as she did in the repeated sing-song of her race:

and so on throughout the Indian list until the marmot was ready for cooking.

So ran the young life of the white Crow. While the sun shone, he chased over the country with his small fellows, shooting blunt arrows at anything living of which they were not afraid. No one
corrected him; no one made him go to bed early; no one washed him but the nearby brook; no one bothered him with stories about good little boys; in fact, whether he was good or bad had never been
indicated to him. He was as all Crow boys are—no better and no worse. He shared the affections of his foster-parents with several natural offspring, and shared in common, though the camp took
a keen interest in so unusual a Crow. Being by nature bright and engaging, he foraged on every camp kettle, and made the men laugh as they lounged in the afternoon shade, by his absurd imitations
of the war and scalp dances, which he served up seriously in his infant way.

Any white man could see at a glance that White Weasel was evolved from a race which, however remote from him, got its yellow hair, fair skin, and blue eyes amid the fjords, forests, rocks, and
ice-floes of the north of Europe. The fierce sun of lower latitudes had burned no ancestor of Weasel’s; their skins had been protected against cold blasts by the hides of animals. Their
yellow hair was the same as the Arctic bear’s, and their eyes the color of new ice. Little Weasel’s fortunes had taken him far afield. He was born white, but he had a Crow heart, so the
tribesmen persuaded themselves. They did not understand the laws of heredity. They had never hunted those.

CHAPTER THREE