CHAPTER II
WHITE WEASEL
For many days the Absaroke trotted and bumped along, ceaselessly beatingtheir ponies' sides with their heels, and lashing with their elk-hornwhips. With their packs and travoix they could not move fast, but theymade up for this by long hours of industrious plodding. An Indian isnever struck without striking back, and his counter always comes whennot expected. They wanted to manoeuvre their women and children, so thatmany hills and broad valleys would lie between them and their vengeancewhen it should be taken. Through the deep canons, among the dark pinetrees, out across the bold table-lands, through the rivers of themountains, wound the long cavalcade, making its way to the chosen valleyof Crowland, where their warriors mustered in numbers to secure themfrom all thought of fear of the white men.
The braves burned for vengeance on the white fools who dug in the Gulchthey were leaving behind, but the yellow-eyed people were all brothers.To strike the slaves of the gravel-pits would be to make trouble withthe river-men, who brought up the powder and guns in boats everygreen-grass. The tribal policy was against such a rupture. The Crows, orSparrowhawks as they called themselves, were already encompassed bytheir enemies, and only able by the most desperate endeavors to holdtheir own hunting-grounds against the Blackfeet, Sioux, and Cheyennes.Theirs was the pick and choosing of the northern plains. Neither too hotnor too cold, well watered and thickly grassed on the plains, swarmingwith buffalo, while in the winter they could retire to the upper valleysof the Big Horn River, where they were shut in by the impassablesnow-clad mountains from foreign horse thieves, and where the nutritioussalt-weed kept their ponies in condition. Like all good lands, theycould only be held by a strong and brave people, who were made to fightconstantly for what they held. The powder and guns could only be hadfrom the white traders, so they made a virtue of necessity and heldtheir hand.
Before many days the squaw Ba-cher-hish-a rode among the lodges withlittle White Weasel sitting behind her, dry-eyed and content.
Alder had lost Gold Nugget, but the Indians had White Weasel--so thingswere mended.
His foster-mother--the one from whom the chief had taken him--had stayedbehind the retreating camp, stealing about unseen. She wore the wolfskinover her back, and in those days no one paid any attention to a wolf.In the dusk of evening she had lain near the shack where her boy washoused, and at the first opportunity she had seized him and fled. He didnot cry out when her warning hiss struck native tones on his ear.Mounting her pony, she had gained the scouts, which lay back on theIndian trail. The hat-weavers (white men) should know White Weasel nomore.
The old men Nah-kee and Umbas-a-hoos sat smoking over their talk in thepurple shade of a tepee. Idly noting the affairs of camp, their eyesfell on groups of small urchins, which were scampering about engagingeach other in mimic war. They shot blunt-headed arrows, while other totsreturned the fire from the vantage of lariated ponies or friendlytepees. They further observed that little White Weasel, by his activity,fierce impulse, and mental excellence, was admittedly leading one ofthese diminutive war-parties. He had stripped off his small buckskinshirt, and the milk-white skin glared in the sunlight; one little braidhad become undone and flowed in golden curls about his shoulders. Inchildish screams he urged his group to charge the other, and runningforth he scattered all before his insistent assault.
"See, brother," spoke Nah-kee, "the little white Crow has been struck inthe face by an arrow, but he does not stop."
"Umph--he will make a warrior," replied the other, his features relaxinginto something approaching kindliness. The two old men understood whatthey 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--heleads the boys even now, before he is big enough to climb up the foreleg of a pony to get on its back. The arrow in his face did not stophim. These white men cannot endure pain as we do; they bleat like a deerunder the knife. Do you remember the one we built the fire on threegrasses ago over by the Big Muddy when Eashdies split his head with abattle-axe to stop his noise? Brother, little White Weasel is a Crow."
A CROW.]
"It is so," pursued the other veteran; "these yellow-eyes are only fitto play badger in a gravel-pit or harness themselves to loaded boats,which pull powder and lead up the long river. They walk all onegreen-grass beside their long-horned buffalo, hauling their tepee wagonsover the plains. If it were not for their medicine goods, we would drivethem far away."
"Yes, brother, they are good for us. If we did not have their powder andguns, the Cut-Throats [Sioux] and the Cut-Arms [Cheyennes] would soonput the Absaroke fires out. We must step carefully and keep our eyesopen lest the whites again see White Weasel; and if these half-Indianmen about camp talk to the traders about him, we will have the campsoldiers beat them with sticks. The white traders would take our powderaway 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 hewould go so far toward the morning that we should never pass our eyesover him again on this side of the Spiritland. We need him to fill theplace 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 yourlittle son White Weasel, and fill his hair with wood ashes. If you arecareful to do this, the white men will not notice him; you will not haveto part with him again."
"What you say is true," spoke the squaw, "but I cannot put black ashesin his eyes." She departed, nevertheless, glorious with the new thought.
Having fought each other with arrows until it no longer amused them, thefoes of an idle hour ran away together down by the creek, where theydisrobed by a process neatly described by the white men's drillregulations, which say a thing shall be done in "one time and twomotions."
White Weasel was more complicated than his fellows by reason of oneshirt, which he promptly skinned off. "See the white Crow," gurgled asmall savage, as every eye turned to our hero. "He always has thewar-paint on his body. He is always painted like the big men when theygo to strike the enemy--he is red all over. The war-paint is in hisskin."
"Now, let us be buffalo," spoke one, answered by others, "Yes, let us bebuffalo." Accordingly, in true imitation of what to them was a familiarsight, they formed in line, White Weasel at the head as usual. Bendingtheir bodies forward and swinging their heads, they followed down to thewater, throwing themselves flat in the shallows. Now they were no longerbuffalo, but merely small boys splashing about in the cool water,screaming incoherently and as nearly perfectly happy as nature everintended human beings to be. After a few minutes of this, the humoristamong 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 impsran ashore and sat down, grinning at their half-felt fear. The watermonster was quite real to them. Who could say one might not appear andgrab a laggard?
After this they ran skipping along the river bank, quite naked, aspurposeless as birds, until they met two old squaws dipping water fromthe creek to carry home. With hue and cry they gathered about them,darting like quick-motioned wolves around worn-out buffalo. "They arebuffalo, and we are wolves," chorussed the infant band; "bite them!blind them! We are wolves! we will eat them!" They plucked at theirgarments and threw dirt over them in childish glee. The old womensnarled at their persecutors and caught up sticks to defend themselves.It was beginning to look rather serious for the supposed buffalo, when ayoung warrior came riding down, his pony going silently in the softdirt. Comprehending the situation, and being fairly among them, he dealtout a few well-considered cuts with his pony-whip, which changed thetune of those who had felt its contact. They all ran off, some holdingon to their smarts--scattering away much as the wolves themselves mighthave done under such conditions.
Indian boys are very much like white boys in
every respect, except thatthey are subject to no restraint, and carry their mischievousness to allbounds. Their ideas of play being founded on the ways of things aboutthem, they are warriors, wild animals, horses, and the hunters, and thehunted by turns. Bands of these little Crows scarcely past toddlingranged the camp, keeping dogs, ponies, and women in a constant state ofunrest. Occasional justice was meted out to them with a pony-whip, butin proportions much less than their deserts.
Being hungry, White Weasel plodded home to his mother's lodge, andfinding a buffalo rib roasting near the fire he appropriated it. It wasnearly as large as himself, and when he had satisfied his appetite, hisface and hands were most appallingly greased. Seeing this, his motherwiped him off, but not as thoroughly as his condition called for, itmust be admitted. Falling back on a buffalo robe, little Weasel soonfell into a deep slumber, during which a big dog belonging to the tentmade play to complete the squaw's washing, by licking all the greasefrom his face and hands.
In due course he arose refreshed and ready for more mischief. The firstopportunity which presented itself was the big dog, which was sleepingoutside. "He is a young pony; I will break him to bear a man," saidWeasel to himself. Straightway he threw himself on the pup, graspingfirmly with heel and hand. The dog rose suddenly with a yell, and nippedone of Weasel's legs quite hard enough to bring his horse-breaking to afinish with an answering yell. The dog made off, followed by hissingimprecations from Ba-cher-hish-a, who rubbed the little round leg andcrooned away his tears. He was not long depressed by the incident.
Now all small Indian boys have a regard for prairie-dog or marmot'sflesh, which is akin to the white boy's taste for candy balls and creampaste. In order to satisfy it the small Indian must lie out on theprairie for an hour under the broiling sun, and make a sure shot in thebargain. The white boy has only to acquire five cents, yet in themajority of cases that too is attended by almost overwhelmingdifficulties.
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 theoutskirts of the village, they each cut a tuft of grease-weed. Waitinguntil he had gone inside, they ran forward swiftly and threw themselveson the ground behind other dog mounds, putting up the grease-weed infront of themselves. With shrill chirping, all the marmots of thiscolony dived into their holes and gave the desert over to silence. Aftera long time marmots far away from them came out to protest against theintrusion. An old Indian warrior sitting on a near-by bluff, nursingmorose thoughts, was almost charmed into good nature by the play of theinfant hunters below him. He could remember when he had done this samething--many, many grasses ago. More grasses than he could well remember.
The sun had drawn a long shadow before the fat marmot showed his headabove the level of his intrenchments--his fearful little black eyes setand his ears straining. Three other pairs of black eyes and one pair ofblue ones snapped at him from behind the grease-weed. There followed along wait, after which the marmot jumped up on the dirt rim whichsurrounded his hole, and there waited until his patience gave out. Witha sharp bark and a wiggling of his tail he rolled out along the plain, asmall ball of dusty fur. To the intent gaze of the nine-year-olds hewas much more important than can be explained from this view-point.
Having judged him sufficiently far from his base, the small hunterssprang to their knees, and drove their arrows with all the energy ofsoft young arms at the quarry. The marmot made a gallant race, but anunfortunate blunt-head caught him somewhere and bowled him over. Beforehe could recover, the boys were upon him, and his stage had passed.
Carrying the game and followed by his companions, Weasel took it home tohis foster-mother, who set to skinning it, crooning as she did in therepeated sing-song of her race:--
"My son is a little hunter, My son is a little hunter, Some day the buffalo will fear him, Some day the buffalo will fear him, Some day the buffalo will fear him,"
and so on throughout the Indian list until the marmot was ready forcooking.
So ran the young life of the white Crow. While the sun shone, he chasedover the country with his small fellows, shooting blunt arrows atanything living of which they were not afraid. No one corrected him; noone made him go to bed early; no one washed him but the near-by 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 asall Crow boys are--no better and no worse. He shared the affections ofhis foster-parents with several natural offspring, and shared in common,though the camp took a keen interest in so unusual a Crow. Being bynature bright and engaging, he foraged on every camp kettle, and madethe men laugh as they lounged in the afternoon shade, by his absurdimitations of the war and scalp dances, which he served up seriously inhis infant way.
Any white man could see at a glance that White Weasel was evolved from arace which, however remote from him, got its yellow hair, fair skin, andblue eyes amid the fjords, forests, rocks, and ice-floes of the north ofEurope. The fierce sun of lower latitudes had burned no ancestor ofWeasel's; their skins had been protected against cold blasts by thehides 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 takenhim far afield. He was born white, but he had a Crow heart, so thetribesmen persuaded themselves. They did not understand the laws ofheredity. They had never hunted those.
John Ermine of the Yellowstone Page 6
