CHAPTER VI
JOHN ERMINE
For a few days after the departure of the boy the hermit felt depressed;he had added a human interest to his life, which previously had beensatisfied by communion with nature alone. The bugs, the plants, thebirds, the beasts, the dogs, the hunting, had sufficed. The seat on therock wall above the cabin, where he mused, and where his eyes wentforward over interminable miles of cloud-flecked plain and tier aftertier of ragged mountain ranges, had satisfied him, while his mindwandered backward among the years before he became a hermit.
But shortly the time arrived when he was compelled to make hissemiannual trip with his pack-horses to the traders for his supplies ofammunition, of pots and pans, of tobacco, blankets, and food-stuffs,without which he could not exist. This journey was always tedious, hard,and dangerous; but he tried always to do it while the horses of theenemy out on the plains were thin and as yet unserviceable. With all thecircumspection he was able to use, he had on several occasions nearlylost his life; but needs must, he could renounce everything on earthexcept his belly. However, this time he accomplished his journey, andaside from straying ponies, turning packs, with the other inevitables ofdesert life, he, safe and well provided, found his cabin again. TheIndians had told him that White Weasel had gone with a war-party. Thatwas nothing;--all men in the wild country were more or less at war allthe time. "I hope the boy keeps that corn-silk on his head,"soliloquized the hermit; "also I think it would be a good thing for theyoung savage if he is forced to leave other people's alone. A freshscalp in that boy's hand will make an extra year's work for me. Itcannot be helped--it cannot be helped; it is the law of nature, onlythat law operates badly out here. What does it matter, however? Thewomen can correct the loss of a man more or less in the world."
With the return of spring came the elk and bighorn. They walked into hispark and blew their whistles as they smelled the odors from his hearth.The big gray bears came out of their winter caves and rumbled past hisdoor. These were his greatest foes, constantly stampeding his ponies,even clawing at his heavy log horse-barn, where he always kept one horseto hunt the others with, and trying to circumvent his meat-arbor,--adevice hung on a pole high up between two slender trees, which wasoperated up and down by a rawhide rope. Small black bears often put thisout of action, but the dogs were usually able to chase these away. Notso with the silver-tips; for at times one of the playful brutes wouldcome round to indulge himself in the sport of chasing Eric and Hopeabout the dooryard over their own preserves. They both had been slashedand hugged at intervals in their youth, and so took the big bears attheir own estimate. The long, fifty-caliber rifle was called upon onsuch occasions, and thus far with success.
One day, at the beginning of summer, the boy returned to the hermit'snest,--was barked at, challenged, and finally greeted.
"Have you blinded your ponies' trail carefully, coming up from thevalley? The enemy is abroad in the land these days," was asked andanswered satisfactorily. The boy's features, which were rather grave inresponse to the seriousness of his life, were relaxed and beaming. Therewas an eagle feather in his hair, hanging down behind. He led the ponyloaned by the prophet, which bore a bunch of buckskins, and was mountedon a fine animal, quite in the warrior class, with a new elk-hornsaddle. His panther skin was rolled behind him. Dismounting, hecarefully undid this, and from its folds drew forth a scalp--a braid oflong hair, the skin stretched on a wooden ring and half covered down theplat with silver disks made of pounded silver dollars.
"It was a Dakotah, father, and I put his fire out with the medicine gunyou gave me. I have danced it with the warriors; I am a warrior now."
The old man's worst fears had been realized, but after eating he had thestory from White Weasel.
"When I reached the village, my father's and mother's hearts grew big atthe sight of my gun and lion's skin. My mother had made the buckskinsyou sent down by my father into clothes both for yourself and formyself." Here he presented the hermit with his new dress, made beautifulwith yellow ochre and with long fringes at back and sleeves, and open atthe front, as was the white man's custom.
"Long-Horse," the boy continued, "was making up a party to go to theDakotahs. I asked to be one of them, but he thought I was young. I saidmy medicine was strong and that my horse was fat. He said I was young tolearn the war-path secret, but after smoking my talk he consented. I hadonly eight cartridges and one horse, all the other Indians having twoapiece. Your old pack-pony is a war-horse now, father; he has carried awarrior," and the turquoise eyes gleamed brilliantly. "Long-Horse had abig band; we made the war-path medicine and travelled many sleeps withour backs to the sun. One morning our scouts found two men, an Absarokeand a white man, and brought them in. They belonged to the whitewarriors' camp, which was fighting the Dakotahs, who were all aroundthem, and these men were going for help. Long-Horse moved toward thisplace guided by the men we had met. Before the sun was up, the Absarokerode into the camp of the white soldiers, and they were glad to see us.They had the white cloth lodges and many wagons, but their horses hadbeen taken by the Dakotahs and they had lost some soldiers. The whitemen had put their dead men in the ground. I saw where they had dug inthe earth and left mounds such as the prairie-dog builds. The camp wason the low ground, and back of this were bluffs. When the sun gavelight, we could see the Cut-Throats swarm on their hill as the ants dowhen you lift a stone. There were five Cut-Throats to one white soldier,and the white men could not go out to them. While the white men had nowomen, they had more wagons than I could count, loaded with sugar andcoffee until the wheels cut the ground. I never knew there was so muchcoffee and sugar; where does it come from, father? The white men arerich, and there are so few of them that each has more than he wants. Ina place of that kind the Absaroke would have run away, but the white mencannot run, and they think more of the coffee and sugar than they do oftheir own lives. It made my head weak when I saw the enemy; they rodeswiftly; they were all warriors, for they all had the war-feathers intheir hair. They had guns, and as they rode they made the gestures ofwomen and snakes and dogs at us. They rode away from a spot which theypointed at, and then they pointed at us, saying we were buffalo thatalways ran away like this. Long-Horse and the white chief, a big manwith short hair, made a long talk. The Absaroke gave their oldtravelling-ponies to the white warriors, who put their own saddles onthem. These white soldiers mounted the ponies on the wrong side, andtired as the horses were, they jumped like rabbits under them. Though Iwas afraid of the enemy, I had to laugh, father.
"When we were ready, we charged the enemy, and they fled before us; wefollowed them until they gained the rough hills. We fired at theDakotahs, and they fired at us, they always working backward in therough canons, where we were afraid to follow on horseback becauseLong-Horse said they were trying to lead us into an ambuscade. All daywe fought, although very few were killed. At night the white soldiersand many Absaroke rode swiftly back to the camp. Long-Horse with half ofthe Absaroke stopped in the strong woods high up on one side of aravine, and I stayed with them. I had only four cartridges left. Allnight we lay there and allowed their scouts to go down the canon withoutfiring on them. In the early morning we heard the Dakotahs coming; theyrode down the cut before our faces, not knowing we were there. WhenLong-Horse gave his war-whoop, we all fired, and jumping on our poniescharged into them. The ground was covered with dying horses and men. Myheart grew big, father; everything before my eyes swam red, and I do notremember much except that I rode behind a big Dakotah and shot him inthe back. He fell from his horse to the ground and tried to gain hisfeet, but I rode the pack-pony over him, knocking him down so that helay still. I turned round and shot him again before he died, and then Itook his hair. He had a beautiful head-dress of feathers, which I took,but I left his gun, for it was heavy and a poor one. I chased his pony,the fine war-horse which is out in the stable. The Dakotahs who were notkilled had all run away, so I ran the dead man's pony back to camp,where with the help of other Indians I caught him. Long-Hors
e waskilled, and a few Absaroke wounded, but we got many scalps, one of whichis mine.
"The white soldiers took me to their lodge and gave me coffee which washeavy with sugar. They spoke your language to me, but I could notunderstand much of it. A half-Indian man talked the Absaroke for me intheir tongue, and when I said I was a Crow,--for that is what the whitemen call us,--they laughed until my heart grew bad. They asked me ifthere were any more Crows whose hair was the color of the dry grass, andthen they continued to laugh. They said I must have been born on afrosty morning. I did not know what to say, but I saw their heartswarmed to me, and I did nothing. They gave me cartridges, blankets,sugar, and coffee, until the old pack-pony could carry no more. The bigchief of the white men wanted me to stay with him, and promised to giveme anything I wanted from the wagons. He talked long with the warriors,asking them to leave me with him, and the Absaroke said he could haveme, but I did not want to stay. At one time I thought the white soldierswere going to make me stay, for they took me on their shoulders andcarried me about the camp, laughing and yelling. I was afraid. Those menwere bigger than Indians, and, father, their arms were as hard andstrong as the gray bear's. They were always laughing; they roared likethe buffalo bulls.
"My color is the same as theirs, father; many of them had hair likemine, though they cut it short. I am a Crow, but I do not understandthese things." Whereat the boy fell into a deep meditation.
Cautiously the hermit approached. "Your heart warms to the white man,does it not, my son?"
"Yes, all white men are good to me; they give me everything I want; theyare rich, and their hearts are big. They do not know how to keep theirhorses; they are fools about them, and they mount from the wrong side. Inever heard a white man speak to a horse in that camp. When they walk upto a pony, the pony does not know whether they come as a friend or anenemy. Some day I am going to Ashar-Ra,[6] where the white soldierslive. They told me that when I came they would load my pony down withgifts. But I must first learn to talk as you do, father."
[6] Fort Ellis.
Here, at last, was light to brighten the hopes of the hermit. The boy'sambition had been aroused. What if he had gone to war, and what if hedid have the much-treasured scalp in his possession? He had onlyfollowed the hermit's advice to his tribe concerning war. Then, too, theold man had picked up newspapers at the traders' which told of theinvasion of the Black Hills by the white miners. He knew this wouldprovoke war with the Sioux, and it occurred to him that the bestpossible way to introduce White Weasel to his own people would bethrough contact with the army. He could go with them, and they mightreclaim him. He could not possibly go through the industrialinstitutions, but he must speak English. There was plenty of time forthat, since he could kill elk within a mile of his door with which tomaintain himself. He would begin.
"Yes, you must work hard with me now to speak as the white men do. Youwill soon be a man; you are no longer a boy. You are a white man, butyou were brought up by the Absaroke, and you will go back to your ownpeople some day. The more you see them, the better you will like them."
"Why must I go to the white people, father? You do not go to them, andyou are a white man."
The hunchback hermit leaned with his head on his hands for a long time;he had not foreseen this. Finally, "You will go because they are yourown people; you will join them when they fight the Sioux. You thinkthere are not many of them. Weasel, I am not a liar, and I say there aremore white men on the earth than there are buffalo. You are young, youare brave, and you are straight in the back; their hearts will warmtoward you. You will grow to be a white chief and own many wagons ofcoffee and sugar. Some day, Weasel, you will want a white woman for awife. You have never seen a white woman; they are not like these redsquaws; they are as beautiful as the morning, and some day one of themwill build a fire in your heart which nothing but death can put out.
"From now on I shall no longer call you White Weasel, but will give youa white name which you must answer to. There shall be no Indian mysteryabout it, and you shall bear it all your life. I will call you,"--andhere the hermit again relapsed into thought.
"I will call you John Ermine; that is a good strong white name, and whenyou are asked what it is, do not say White Weasel,--say, 'My name isJohn Ermine.' Now say it!" And the young man ran the thing over histongue like a treble drag on a snare-drum.
"Now again, after me: 'My--name--is--John Ermine.'" And the prophet cutthe words apart with his forefinger.
John Ermine tried his name again and again, together with other simpleexpressions. The hermit ceased almost to address him in the Indiantongue. The broad forehead responded promptly to the strain put upon it.Before the snow came, the two had rarely to use the harsh language ofthe tribesmen. Gradually the pressure was increased, and besides wordsthe hermit imposed ideas. These took root and grew in an alarming wayafter battling strenuously with those he had imbibed during his youth.
"And why is your name Crooked-Bear, which is Indian, while you arewhite?"
"My name is not Crooked-Bear except to the Indians; my name is RichardLivingston Merril, though I have not heard the sound of it in many snowsand do not care to hear it in many more. You can call me 'Comrade'; thatis my name when you speak."
Sitting by their cabin door in the flecked sunlight which the pine treesdistributed, the two waded carefully across the lines of somewell-thumbed book, taking many perilous flying leaps over the difficultwords, but going swiftly along where it was unseasoned Saxon. Theprophet longed for a paper and pencil to accelerate the speed, but wasforced to content himself with a sharp stick and the smoothed-out dirtbefore him. At times he sprinkled his sensitive plant with some simplearithmetic; again he lectured on the earth, the moon, and the stars.John Ermine did not leave a flat earth for a round one without astruggle, but the tutor ended up by carving a wooden ball which hebalanced in his hand as he separated the sea from the land; he averredthat he had known many men who had been entirely around it--whichstatement could not be disputed.
White Weasel had heard the men speak about the talking-wire andfire-wagon, but he did not believe the tales. John Ermine had morefaith, although it puzzled him sorely. Raptly he listened to the longaccounts of the many marvels back in the States, and his little Siouxscalp took a new significance as he tried hard to comprehend tenthousand men dying in a single battle of the Great White Man's war. Tenthousand dead men was a severe strain on his credulity when Crooked-Bearimposed it upon him. The ships which fought on the water he did notattempt at all; they were not vivid enough for his contemplation.
When were the white men coming to the Indian lands?
"Before you have a mustache, John Ermine, they will come in numbers asgreat as the grasshoppers, but you will not care; you are a white man."
Last but not least the prophet removed himself from his Indian pedestalin full sight of his ward. He was no prophet; he was only a man, and apoor specimen at that. Simply, and divested of much perplexity, hetaught the Christian religion; told the story of Jesus, and had JohnErmine repeat the Ten Commandments, which last the teacher could onlymarshal after many days of painful reflection, so vagrant are most men'smemories as age creeps on.
John Ermine of the Yellowstone Page 10
