John Ermine of the Yellowstone (7 page)

Having eaten, and passed the pipe, Fire-Bear asked the hermit how the winter was passing—how the dry meat was lasting—what fortune had he in hunting, and had any enemies beset him?
He was assured his good friends, the Absaroke, had brought him enough dry meat, after the last fall hunt, to last him until he should no longer need it. The elk were below him, but plentiful, and
his big dogs were able to haul enough up the hills on his sleds. He only feared for his tobacco, coffee, and ammunition; that had always to be husbanded, being difficult to get and far to carry.
Further, he asked his friend, the Indian, to take some rawhides back to the women, to be dressed and made into clothes for his use.

“Has my brother any more talking papers from the yellow-eyes? Do the white men mean to take the Sioux lands away from them? The Sioux asked the Absaroke last fall to help drive the white
men out of the country, saying, ‘If they take our lands to dig their badger-holes in, they will soon want yours.’ The Absaroke would not help the Cut-Throats; for they are
dogs—they wag their tails before they bite,” spoke Fire-Bear.

“Yes, brother,” replied Crooked-Bear; “if you should, by aiding the Sioux, get rid of the white men, and even this you would not be able to do—you would still have the
Sioux, who are dogs, always ready to bite you. No, brother, have nothing to do with them, as I have counselled you. The Sak-a-war-te said this to me: ‘Before the grass on the plains shoots,
send a strong, fat-horse war-party to the enemy and strike hard. Sweep their ponies away—they will be full of sticks and bark, not able to carry their warriors that moon; tear their lodges
down and put their fires out; make their warriors sit shivering in the plum bushes. That is the way for the Crows to have peace.’ The Great Spirit has said to me: ‘Tell the Absaroke
that they can never run the buffalo on the plains in peace, until the Chis-chis-chash, the Dakotahs, and the Piegan dare not look them in the face. That, and that only, is the
path.’”

Far into the night the men talked of the tribal policy—it was diminutive statesmanship, commercial politics with buffalo meat for money. As Crooked-Bear sat on his hewn chair, he called
the boy to him, put his arm around him, and stood him against his knee. The youth’s head rose above the rugged face of the master of Indian mystery; he was in his first youth, his slender
bones had lengthened suddenly in the last few years, and the muscles had tried hard to catch up with them. They had no time to do more than that, consequently Weasel was more beautiful than he
would ever be again. The long lines of grace showed under the tight buckskins, and his face surveyed the old man with boyish wonder. Who can know what the elder thought of him in return? Doubtless
he dreamed of the infinite possibilities of so fine a youth. He whose fire had gone out mused pleasantly as he long regarded the form in whom they were newly lighted.

Slowly he began to speak, using the Indian forms of speech, and supplementing them with the gestures which only Indians can command. “Brother, we have lived a long time. We have made the
medicine strong for the Absaroke. We have taken the words of the Good Gods to the council-lodge when the tribe ran wildly and knew not which way to turn. We will follow soon the others who have
gone to the Shadow-land. The Absaroke will be left behind, and they must have wise men to guide them when we are gone. This young man will be one of those—I have seen that in my dreams. He
must stay here with me in the lonely mountains, and I will teach him the great mystery of the white men, together with that of the people of his own tribe. He will visit his father’s lodge
whenever his heart is hungry. He owes it to himself and to his people to grow strong in the mystery, and then some day the tribe will lean on him. Shall he stay, brothers?”

White Weasel, with arms dropped to his side, made no move. The flame from the hearth lighted one of his starlike eyes as it stood open, regardful of the strange old man. The Indians passed the
pipe, and for a long time there was no sound save the snapping of the fire and the pines outside popping with the cold.

At last Fire-Bear spoke: “We have had our ears open, brother. Your talk is good. The Sak-a-war-te demands this. The boy shall stay.”

Weasel’s foster-father held his peace. His was the sacrifice, but the Great Spirit could not ask too much of him. In reply to another inquiry, he said that the boy should stay; then
wrapping himself in his robe, he lay down before the fire to hide his weakness.

“Will you stay with me?” asked the Wonder-Worker of the boy, stroking his yellow hair and pouring the benevolence of his fire-lighted face in a steady stream on the youth.

“You have no ponies to herd, father. What shall I do?” he asked.

“I have no ponies for you to herd, but I have many mysteries here,” tapping the boy’s forehead with his finger, “for you to gather up and feed on, and they are greater
than ponies.”

“I will stay, father.”

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE
W
HITE
M
EDICINE

T
HAT THE SUN ROSE WITH CUSTOMARY PRECISION MADE LITTLE
difference to the sleepers in the mountain den. Little of its light crept down the hole against
the rock wall, and none of it penetrated the warm buffalo-robes. The dogs, growing uneasy, walked about and scratched at the door; they had not been disturbed by last night’s vigil. Waking,
one by one, the men threw off the robes and went out; all but the boy, who lay quite still, his vitality engaged in feeding the growing bones and stretching muscles.

Out by the stable Crooked-Bear said: “Take your ponies and that of the boy and ride away. They will starve here, and you must go before they weaken and are unable to carry you. A boy
changes his mind very quickly, and he may not think in the sunlight what he did in the firelight. I will be kind to him. Tell Ba-cher-hish-a that her son will be a great chief in a few
grasses.”

Silently, as only the cats and the wolves and the Indians conduct themselves, the men with the led horses lost themselves among the trees, leaving Crooked-Bear standing by his abode with the two
great cross-bred mastiffs, on their hind legs, leaning on him and trying to lick his face. As they stood together, the dogs were taller than he, and all three of them about the same color. It was a
fantastic scene; a few goblins, hoarse mystery birds, Indian devils, and what not beside, might have been added to the group and without adding to its strangeness. Weasel had found a most unearthly
home; but as he awoke and lay looking about the cabin, it did not seem so awfully strange. Down through the ages—borne through hundreds of wombs—in some mysterious alcove of the
boy’s brain had survived something which did not make the long-haired white man working about the fire, the massive dogs, the skins of wild animals, the sooty interior, look so strange.

As Weasel rose to a sitting posture on the bunk, the dogs got up also. “Down with you! Down with you, Eric! And you, Hope! You must not bother the boy,” came the hermit’s words
of command. The dogs understood, and lay heavily down, but their eyes shone through heavy red settings as they regarded the boy with unarrested attention.

“I am afraid of your dogs, father; they are as big as ponies. Will they eat me?”

“No; do not be afraid. Before the sun goes over the mountains they will eat any one who would raise his hand against you. Come, put your hand on their heads. The Indians do not do this;
but these are white dogs, and they will not bite any one who can put his hand on their heads,” spoke Crooked-Bear in his labored way with the Indian tongue. He had never mastered all the
clicks and clucks of it.

The meat being done, it was put on the table, and White Weasel was persuaded to undertake his first development. The hermit knew that the mind never waits on a starved belly, so he explained to
the boy that only dogs ate on the ground. That was not obvious to the youngster; but he sat in the chair and mauled his piece of meat, which was in a tin plate. He drank his coffee out of a tin
cup, which he could see was full better than a hollow buffalo horn, besides having the extra blandishment of sugar in it. As the hermit, occupying an upturned pack-saddle opposite, regarded the
boy, he could see that Weasel had a full forehead—that it was not pinched like an Indian’s; he understood the deep, wide-open eyes which were the color of new ice, and the straight,
solemn nose appealed to him also. The face was formal even to the statuesque, which is an easy way of saying he was good-looking. The bearer of these messages from his ancestors to Crooked-Bear
quite satisfied him. He knew that the baby Weasel had been forcibly made to enter a life from which he himself had in mature years voluntarily fled, and for which neither was intended. They had
entered from opposite doors only, and he did not wish to go out again, but the boy might. He determined to show him the way to undo the latching.

After breakfast began the slow second lesson of the white man’s mystery. It was in the shape of some squaw’s work, and again the boy thought unutterable protests. Crooked-Bear had
killed an elk the day before, some considerable distance down the mountain, and taking his dogs with the sledges, they sallied down to get it. What with helping to push the heavy loads in aid of
the dogs and his disgust of being on foot, at their noon homecoming White Weasel’s interest began to flag.

Crooked-Bear noticed this, and put even more sugar into the boy’s coffee. He had a way of voicing half-uttered thoughts to himself, using his native tongue, also repeating these thoughts
as though to reënforce them. “I must go slow—I must go slow, or the boy will balk. I must lead him with a silken thread; the rawhide will not do—it will not do.”
Meanwhile the growing youth passed naturally into oblivion on the bunk.

“These Indians are an indolent people,” the prophet continued. “They work only by fits and starts, but so am I indolent too. It befits our savage way of life,” saying
which, he put some coffee-berries into a sack and began pounding them with an axe. “I do not know—I do not remember to have been lazy; it does not matter now if I am. No one cares, and
certainly I do not. I have tramped these mountains in all weathers; I have undergone all manner of hardships, yet they said I could not be a soldier in the armies down south. Of course not—of
course not; a humpback could not be a soldier. He is fit only to swear at. Men would laugh at a crooked-back soldier.
She
could see nothing but my back. Ah—ah—it is past now. Men
and women are not here to see my back; the trees and the clouds, the mountains and my dogs, do not look at my spine. The Indians say my back was bent by my heavy thoughts. The boy there has a
straight back, and I hope he may walk among men. I will see that he does; I will give him the happiness which was denied me, and it pleases me to think that I can do this. I will create a happiness
which the vicissitudes of this strange life seem to have denied him, saying, ‘Weasel, you are to be a starved and naked nomad of the plains.’ No! No! Boy; you are not to be a starved
and naked nomad of the plains. I have in my life done no intentional evil, and also I have done no intentional good; now this problem of the boy has come to me—how it reaches out its roots
for the nourishing things and how its branches spread for the storms!”