CHAPTER V
THE WHITE MEDICINE
That the sun rose with customary precision made little difference to thesleepers in the mountain den. Little of its light crept down the holeagainst the rock wall, and none of it penetrated the warm buffalo-robes.The dogs, growing uneasy, walked about and scratched at the door; theyhad not been disturbed by last night's vigil. Waking, one by one, themen threw off the robes and went out; all but the boy, who lay quitestill, his vitality engaged in feeding the growing bones and stretchingmuscles.
Out by the stable Crooked-Bear said: "Take your ponies and that of theboy and ride away. They will starve here, and you must go before theyweaken 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. Iwill be kind to him. Tell Ba-cher-hish-a that her son will be a greatchief in a few grasses."
Silently, as only the cats and the wolves and the Indians conductthemselves, the men with the led horses lost themselves among the trees,leaving Crooked-Bear standing by his abode with the two greatcross-bred mastiffs, on their hind legs, leaning on him and trying tolick his face. As they stood together, the dogs were taller than he, andall three of them about the same color. It was a fantastic scene; a fewgoblins, hoarse mystery birds, Indian devils, and what not beside, mighthave been added to the group and without adding to its strangeness.Weasel had found a most unearthly home; but as he awoke and lay lookingabout the cabin, it did not seem so awfully strange. Down through theages--borne through hundreds of wombs--in some mysterious alcove of theboy's brain had survived something which did not make the long-hairedwhite man working about the fire, the massive dogs, the skins of wildanimals, 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 botherthe boy," came the hermit's words of command. The dogs understood, andlay heavily down, but their eyes shone through heavy red settings asthey regarded the boy with unarrested attention.
"I am afraid of your dogs, father; they are as big as ponies. Will theyeat me?"
"No; do not be afraid. Before the sun goes over the mountains they willeat any one who would raise his hand against you. Come, put your hand ontheir heads. The Indians do not do this; but these are white dogs, andthey will not bite any one who can put his hand on their heads," spokeCrooked-Bear in his labored way with the Indian tongue. He had nevermastered all the clicks and clucks of it.
The meat being done, it was put on the table, and White Weasel waspersuaded to undertake his first development. The hermit knew that themind never waits on a starved belly, so he explained to the boy thatonly dogs ate on the ground. That was not obvious to the youngster; buthe sat in the chair and mauled his piece of meat, which was in a tinplate. He drank his coffee out of a tin cup, which he could see was fullbetter than a hollow buffalo horn, besides having the extra blandishmentof sugar in it. As the hermit, occupying an up-turned pack-saddleopposite, regarded the boy, he could see that Weasel had a fullforehead--that it was not pinched like an Indian's; he understood thedeep, 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 thestatuesque, which is an easy way of saying he was good-looking. Thebearer of these messages from his ancestors to Crooked-Bear quitesatisfied him. He knew that the baby Weasel had been forcibly made toenter a life from which he himself had in mature years voluntarily fled,and for which neither was intended. They had entered from opposite doorsonly, and he did not wish to go out again, but the boy might. Hedetermined 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 thoughtunutterable protests. Crooked-Bear had killed an elk the day before,some considerable distance down the mountain, and taking his dogs withthe sledges, they sallied down to get it. What with helping to push theheavy loads in aid of the dogs and his disgust of being on foot, attheir noon home-coming White Weasel's interest began to flag.
Crooked-Bear noticed this, and put even more sugar into the boy'scoffee. He had a way of voicing half-uttered thoughts to himself, usinghis native tongue, also repeating these thoughts as though to reenforcethem. "I must go slow--I must go slow, or the boy will balk. I must leadhim 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. "Theywork only by fits and starts, but so am I indolent too. It befits oursavage way of life," saying which, he put some coffee-berries into asack and began pounding them with an axe. "I do not know--I do notremember to have been lazy; it does not matter now if I am. No onecares, and certainly I do not. I have tramped these mountains in allweathers; I have undergone all manner of hardships, yet they said Icould not be a soldier in the armies down south. Of course not--ofcourse not; a humpback could not be a soldier. He is fit only to swearat. Men would laugh at a crooked-back soldier. _She_ could see nothingbut my back. Ah--ah--it is past now. Men and women are not here to seemy back; the trees and the clouds, the mountains and my dogs, do notlook 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. Iwill see that he does; I will give him the happiness which was deniedme, and it pleases me to think that I can do this. I will create ahappiness which the vicissitudes of this strange life seem to havedenied him, saying, 'Weasel, you are to be a starved and naked nomad ofthe plains.' No! no! boy; you are not to be a starved and naked nomad ofthe plains. I have in my life done no intentional evil, and also I havedone no intentional good; now this problem of the boy has come tome--how it reaches out its roots for the nourishing things and how itsbranches spread for the storms!"
Having accompanied these thoughts by the beating of the axe, the hermitarose, and stood gazing on the sleeping lad. "Oh, if I had only had yourback!--oh! oh! oh! But if only you had had my opportunities andeducation--well, I am not a god; I am only a man; I will do what a mancan."
When the boy awoke, the hermit said, "My son, did you ever make a gunspeak?"
"No; my father's gun hangs with his mystery-bag on his reclining-mat,and a woman or child dare not lay their fingers on it."
"Would you like to make a gun talk?" came gently, but Weasel could onlymurmur. The new and great things of life were coming fast to him. Hewould almost have given his life to shoot a gun; to own one was like thecreation, and the few similar thoughts of men; it was beyond the stars.
"Weasel," said the man, taking up a carbine, and calling him byname,--which is un-Indian,--"here is a gun; it loads in the middle; Igive it to you; it is yours." With which he handed the weapon to theboy.
After some hesitation Weasel took the gun, holding it stiffly in frontof him, as an altar-boy might a sacred thing. He could say nothing, andsoon sat down, still holding the firearm, regarding it for a long time.When he could finally believe he was not dreaming, when he comprehendedthat he really did own a gun, he passed into an unutterable peace, akinto nothing but a mother and her new-born child. His white father steppedmajestically from the earth that Weasel knew into the rolling clouds ofthe unthought places.
"To-morrow I will take my gun, and you will take your gun, and we willwalk the hills together. Whatever we see, be it man or beast, your gunmay speak first," proposed the prophet.
"Yes, father, we will go out with the coming of the sun. My heart is asbig as the mountains; only yesterday I was a herd-boy, now I own a gun.This brought it all to me," the boy said almost to himself, as hefumbled a small bag hanging at his neck. The bag contained the driedhorse's hoof.
Throwing back his long hair, the prophet fixed his face on his newintellectual garden. He saw the weeds, and he hardly dared to pull them,fearing to disturb the tender seeds which he had so lately planted.Carefully he plucked at them. "No, my son, that was not your medicinew
hich brought the gun, but my medicine; the medicine of the white manbrought it to you. The medicine of the white man brought the gun to youbecause the Great Spirit knew you were a white boy. The medicine of thewhite man is not carried in a buckskin bag; it is carried here." And theprophet laid his finger on his own rather imposing brow; he swept hishair away from it with a graceful gesture, and smiling on the youth, hewaited to see whether the seed had come up with the bad weed.
Weasel's hand left the bag, and followed down to the gun while he lookedat his master. It might be so; no Indian boy whom he knew had ever had agun. This firearm absorbed him, and the man felt it would continue to doso for some time to come; therefore he said no more.
Bright and early was the start of the hunters in the morning. They leftthe dogs in the cabin, and with snow-shoes slung to their backs,followed down the sledge-trail toward the bare foothills, where thegame was. In and out among the shadows of the pine trees passed thefigures, vigorous with the mountain ozone, and both happy in theirrespective ways. On reaching a proper place, they adjusted the broad,oval rackets, and skirted along the timber-line, watching the hillsbelow them, from which the wind had blown the snow. It was not difficultto find game in those days, before the coming of the white men bearingtheir long-range rifles. Far out on the plain their trained eyes saw thebands of antelope, and, nearer, herds of mule-deer working about in theravines. "But," said the boy, "my first shot must be at an elk or abighorn, father."
"Come then, my son, we will go round this point of the hill, and on thesunny southern slope we will find the elk--great bands of them. Youshall shoot one, and when you have done that, the herd-boy will be ahunter."
As had been predicted, in due course of their walk they beheld bands ofelk lying about or walking slowly, their yellow backs gleaming in themorning sun. The warm winds from the valleys were coming up toward thearctic mountain-tops and away from the elk. "Take off your snow-shoes,my son; they creak on the snow--the elk will hear them; we must go downthis ravine, and when we are near enough, you will shoot."
Under cover of the rocks and sparse pines they slowly made theirwell-considered way noiselessly, the boy's eyes blazing with thehunter's lust, and the old man watching him eagerly. From time to timethe Weasel lifted his head above the rim-rock of the ravine to note theposition of their approach, but the hermit's heedful eye bore only onhis pupil. They had worked their way, after the hunter manner, a longdistance downward, and hoped soon to be in a position for a safe shot.The canon-like ravine which they were following narrowed suddenly; thesnow lay in deep drifts against its sides, making it necessary for themto go slowly along the ledges of the rim-rock, the boy always first. Asthey were about to round the point where the coulee tightened, a bigyellow form drifted like a wind-blown feather on to them; it suddenlyappeared not twenty feet from their faces, and it was a mountain-lion.Both the men and the animal stopped, the men straightening up while thecougar crouched down. The cat bared its fangs, the boy raised hiscarbine; both were in search of game, but neither for what he had found.The gun reached its place; the coulee echoed with the heavy report, andthrough the enveloping smoke flew the great cat as though also impelledby gunpowder. The boy had not missed his mark, and the lion his only bya small margin. The steep snowdrift yielded under his frantic claws,carrying him many yards down the sides.
"Load your gun and shoot him, Weasel; I shall not shoot," came thehermit's voice. The position of his long rifle belied his words, but theyouth did not look behind. He fumbled for a cartridge, was slow inworking the strange mechanism of the arm, but he was ready by the timethe cat, much frustrated by the unresisting snow, had nearly reachedhim. Again the canon chorussed to the rifle, and as the heavy blackpowder-smoke drifted off on the friendly wind, the boy saw that he hadkilled. All had happened too quickly for his brain if not for his arm.
"Load your gun," came the voice of command in English. The tensesituation made the new language strike Weasel's brain through his ear ashis bullet had struck the monster. The sound of it was what conveyed themeaning, and the harsh bang of the words went home. An Indian would havehad to gluck and cluck and glut for half a minute to make these threewords plain. It would have sounded more like grace before meat than acommand.
Weasel again broke his rifle and shoved the brass shell home, neverlooking elsewhere than at the yellow spot of fur on the white snow belowhim, as its fierce electric nerves slowly softened its expiring motionsinto quiet. He had never had even a dream of victory such as had takenform before him. He had known old Indian hunters who rode on a lion'sskin in the ceremonial days, and he knew what warriors in the tribe worethe grizzly bear-claw necklaces--every one knew those men. Could it bethat he would ride on a lion's skin? Could it be that he would carry agun which loaded in the middle? Yes, it could be if he only had a horse,but ponies were easier than guns or lions' skins in the Indian world.What a vista of power and glory opened in the boy's mind! What vanity ofhis could not yet be satisfied?
The hermit glanced over the rim-rock and saw the elk in long linestrotting away; he could hear the joints cracking, but his cabin was fullof meat. "Boy, this was a white man's medicine-hunt. Could any Indian dothat for you?" But the boy heeded not; with a series of wolfish yells heslid down the snowy incline toward his fallen foe. The hermit followed,and drawing their knives, they raised the hide while the body was yetwarm, taking head and tail and claws. Weasel was delirious with joy; helaughed and jabbered and ki-yied, while the pleased old man calculatedthat he had reduced the boy to a state of mind when it was safe toburden his wild young charge with something quite as serious for him astigers' skins. He would make him begin his English.
They made their way back to the snow-shoes--back to the sledge-road--upto the cabin--received a welcome from the dogs; but the coffee had lesssugar than before. Economy was a watchword with him who trailed hisnecessities over the long journey from the traders on pack-ponies, andso the lion skin tacked on the wall was enough for the boy.
Gradually the man brought English words into the play of conversation,and Weasel sought the key to the white medicine which had so exaltedhim. The nouns came first, and he soon began to piece them out withother parts of speech; his ear accustomed itself, and with it all camenew and larger thoughts carefully strewn in his way by the prophet.
They hunted together; did the little healthy work found in their simplemanner of life which no longer seemed fitted for women only; and thegrave old man at last saw the spark which he had lighted burst intoflame. It was the warmth of human kindness which is the base ofeverything ennobling to man.
One day when the buds of the leaves were beginning to show themselves,in response to nature's inviting smiles, the dogs barked furiously. Thetwo dwellers of the cabin seized their rifles, ran out to places whichhad been selected by them for their strategic advantages in calmmoments, and waited. Before long they heard challenges in the well-knownAbsaroke, which they answered.
"Do not talk English to your people, my son; they will not understand,"said the hermit; but what he feared was their suspicion of thetransformation of the lad. The Absaroke, no more than the Dakotahs,understood or loved the white man; they merely tolerated him for tribalreasons. The prophet had ingratiated himself by fortunate circumstancesand an abounding tact.
The newcomers were a dozen chiefs of the tribe, the boy's Indian fatheramong them. They drove a few led ponies belonging to Crooked-Bear, whichthey were returning after their wintering with the Absaroke herds. Thequickly shooting mountain grasses would support them at this season.
Long and seemingly interminable talks followed the pipe about theprophet's blazing hearth. He filled their minds with strong, sensibleadvice, reenforcing it by supposed inspired sources, until the tobaccowhich he had appropriated for such occasions gave out. It was a cheapand in fact the only way by which he could purchase immunity fromviolence--a safe wintering for his ponies and his fall supply of driedbuffalo meat.
His influence was boundless, and while he hoped quite as much as theInd
ians that the white men would never come to these parts during hislifetime, he also knew that they would. He heard reports that the minerswere invading the Sioux territory from the south; he knew gold, and heknew white men, and he realized what the combination always produced. Inthis strait he saw that the efforts of the Sioux would be so taxed tooppose the progress that the Absaroke would profit by theirpreoccupation. His revelations always favored the alliance between theAbsaroke and the yellow-eyes. No one can ever know how much thisforgotten hermit of the Chew-cara-ash-Nitishic did for his race in thedays when the Indians of the northern plains made their last standbefore the white men. The Indians from King Philip's time neverunderstood the powers, resources, and numbers of the white people. Eventhe Crows in those days wavered before the boastful envoys of theneighbor tribes. The Indians had hunted out of the country the Metis,the Pea-Soups, or the French half-breeds, together with the whitetrappers, who had often contracted Indian marriages, and who hadfollowed the fortunes of the early fur trade.
At that time old frontiersmen like Norris, who had for years followed upand down the plains, and across the range, admitted that a strong partyof seasoned trappers was not safe east of the Big Horn Mountains.
The long palaver terminated with the Indians' promise to send outwar-parties against the other tribes. The Weasel was not able to resista very natural desire to go again to the camps, to visit hisfoster-mother, the boys of his childhood, and deeper yet to bear the gunand the lion's skin. The important men of the visiting party had come toregard White Weasel with some sort of veneration; he had that about himwhich was not quite understandable; he was supposed to be near theunknown Power.
John Ermine of the Yellowstone Page 9
