American Indian Stories, Legends, and Other Writings (Penguin Classics)

by Zitkala-S̈a

  “My friend, climb the tree and get the bird. I cannot climb so high. I would get dizzy and fall,” pleaded Iktomi. The avenger began to scale the tree, when Iktomi cried to him: “My friend, your beaded buckskins may be torn by the branches. Leave them safe upon the grass till you are down again.”

  “You are right,” replied the young man, quickly slipping off his long fringed quiver. Together with his dangling pouches and tinkling ornaments, he placed it on the ground. Now he climbed the tree unhindered. Soon from the top he took the bird. “My friend, toss to me your arrow that I may have the honor of wiping it clean on soft deerskin!” exclaimed Iktomi.

  “How!” said the brave, and threw the bird and arrow to the ground.

  At once Iktomi seized the arrow. Rubbing it first on the grass and then on a piece of deerskin, he muttered indistinct words all the while. The young man, stepping downward from limb to limb, hearing the low muttering, said: “Iktomi, I cannot hear what you say!”

  “Oh, my friend, I was only talking of your big heart.” Again stooping over the arrow Iktomi continued his repetition of charm words. “Grow fast, grow fast to the bark of the tree,” he whispered. Still the young man moved slowly downward. Suddenly dropping the arrow and standing erect, Iktomi said aloud: “Grow fast to the bark of the tree!” Before the brave could leap from the tree he became tight-grown to the bark.

  “Ah! ha!” laughed the bad Iktomi. “I have the magic arrow! I have the beaded buckskins of the great avenger!” Hooting and dancing beneath the tree, he said: “I shall kill the red eagle; I shall wed the chieftain’s beautiful daughter!”

  “Oh, Iktomi, set me free!” begged the tree-bound Dakota brave. But Iktomi’s ears were like the fungus on a tree. He did not hear with them.

  Wearing the handsome buckskins and carrying proudly the magic arrow in his right hand, he started off eastward. Imitating the swaying strides of the avenger, he walked away with a face turned slightly skyward.

  “Oh, set me free! I am glued to the tree like its own bark! Cut me loose!” moaned the prisoner.

  A young woman, carrying on her strong back a bundle of tightly bound willow sticks, passed near by the lonely teepee. She heard the wailing man’s voice. She paused to listen to the sad words. Looking around she saw nowhere a human creature. “It may be a spirit,” thought she.

  “Oh! cut me loose! set me free! Iktomi has played me false! He has made me bark of his tree!” cried the voice again.

  The young woman dropped her pack of firewood to the ground. With her stone axe she hurried to the tree. There before her astonished eyes clung a young brave close to the tree.

  Too shy for words, yet too kind-hearted to leave the stranger tree-bound, she cut loose the whole bark. Like an open jacket she drew it to the ground. With it came the young man also. Free once more, he started away. Looking backward, a few paces from the young woman, he waved his hand, upward and downward, before her face. This was a sign of gratitude used when words failed to interpret strong emotion.

  When the bewildered woman reached her dwelling, she mounted a pony and rode swiftly across the rolling land. To the camp ground in the east, to the chieftain troubled by the red eagle, she carried her story.

  Shooting of the Red Eagle

  A man in buckskins sat upon the top of a little hillock. The setting sun shone bright upon a strong bow in his hand. His face was turned toward the round camp ground at the foot of the hill. He had walked a long journey hither. He was waiting for the chieftain’s men to spy him.

  Soon four strong men ran forth from the center wigwam toward the hillock, where sat the man with the long bow.

  “He is the avenger come to shoot the red eagle,” cried the runners to each other as they bent forward swinging their elbows together.

  They reached the side of the stranger, but he did not heed them. Proud and silent he gazed upon the cone-shaped wigwams beneath him. Spreading a handsomely decorated buffalo robe before the man, two of the warriors lifted him by each shoulder and placed him gently on it. Then the four men took, each, a corner of the blanket and carried the stranger, with long proud steps, toward the chieftain’s teepee.

  Ready to greet the stranger, the tall chieftain stood at the entrance way. “How, you are the avenger with the magic arrow!” said he, extending to him a smooth soft hand.

  “How, great chieftain!” replied the man, holding long the chieftain’s hand. Entering the teepee, the chieftain motioned the young man to the right side of the doorway, while he sat down opposite him with a center fire burning between them. Wordless, like a bashful Indian maid, the avenger ate in silence the food set before him on the ground in front of his crossed shins. When he had finished his meal he handed the empty bowl to the chieftain’s wife, saying, “Mother-in-law, here is your dish!”

  “Han, my son!” answered the woman, taking the bowl.

  With the magic arrow in his quiver the stranger felt not in the least too presuming in addressing the woman as his mother-in-law.

  Complaining of fatigue, he covered his face with his blanket and soon within the chieftain’s teepee he lay fast asleep.

  “The young man is not handsome after all!” whispered the woman in her husband’s ear.

  “Ah, but after he has killed the red eagle he will seem handsome enough!” answered the chieftain.

  That night the star men in their burial procession in the sky reached the low northern horizon, before the center fires within the teepees had flickered out. The ringing laughter which had floated up through the smoke lapels was now hushed, and only the distant howling of wolves broke the quiet of the village. But the lull between midnight and dawn was short indeed. Very early the oval-shaped door-flaps were thrust aside and many brown faces peered out of the wigwams toward the top of the highest bluff.

  Now the sun rose up out of the east. The red painted avenger stood ready within the camp ground for the flying of the red eagle. He appeared, that terrible bird! He hovered over the round village as if he could pounce down upon it and devour the whole tribe.

  When the first arrow shot up into the sky the anxious watchers thrust a hand quickly over their half-uttered “hinnu!” The second and the third arrows flew upward but missed by a wide space the red eagle soaring with lazy indifference over the little man with the long bow. All his arrows he spent in vain. “Ah! my blanket brushed my elbow and shifted the course of my arrow!” said the stranger as the people gathered around him.

  During this happening, a woman on horseback halted her pony at the chieftain’s teepee. It was no other than the young woman who cut loose the tree-bound captive!

  While she told the story the chieftain listened with downcast face. “I passed him on my way. He is near!” she ended.

  Indignant at the bold impostor, the wrathful eyes of the chieftain snapped fire like red cinders in the night time. His lips were closed. At length to the woman he said: “How, you have done me a good deed.” Then with quick decision he gave command to a fleet horseman to meet the avenger. “Clothe him in these my best buckskins,” said he, pointing to a bundle within the wigwam.

  In the meanwhile strong men seized Iktomi and dragged him by his long hair to the hilltop. There upon a mock-pillared grave they bound him hand and feet. Grown-ups and children sneered and hooted at Iktomi’s disgrace. For a half-day he lay there, the laughing-stock of the people. Upon the arrival of the real avenger, Iktomi was released and chased away beyond the outer limits of the camp ground.

  On the following morning at daybreak, peeped the people out of half-open door-flaps.

  There again in the midst of the large camp ground was a man in beaded buckskins. In his hand was a strong bow and red-tipped arrow. Again the big red eagle appeared on the edge of the bluff. He plumed his feathers and flapped his huge wings.

  The young man crouched low to the ground. He placed the arrow on the bow, drawing a poisoned flint for the eagle.

  The bird rose into the air. He moved his outspread wings one, two, three times and lo!
the eagle tumbled from the great height and fell heavily to the earth. An arrow stuck in his breast! He was dead!

  So quick was the hand of the avenger, so sure his sight, that no one had seen the arrow fly from his long bent bow.

  In awe and amazement the village was dumb. And when the avenger, plucking a red eagle feather, placed it in his black hair, a loud shout of the people went up to the sky. Then hither and thither ran singing men and women making a great feast for the avenger.

  Thus he won the beautiful Indian princess who never tired of telling to her children the story of the big red eagle.

  Iktomi and the Turtle

  The huntsman Patkas̈a (turtle) stood bent over a newly slain deer.

  The red-tipped arrow he drew from the wounded deer was unlike the arrows in his own quiver. Another’s stray shot had killed the deer. Patkas̈a had hunted all the morning without so much as spying an ordinary blackbird.

  At last returning homeward, tired and heavy-hearted that he had no meat for the hungry mouths in his wigwam, he walked slowly with downcast eyes. Kind ghosts pitied the unhappy hunter and led him to the newly slain deer, that his children should not cry for food.

  When Patkas̈a stumbled upon the deer in his path, he exclaimed: “Good spirits have pushed me hither!”

  Thus he leaned long over the gift of the friendly ghosts.

  “How, my friend!” said a voice behind his ear, and a hand fell on his shoulder. It was not a spirit this time. It was old Iktomi.

  “How, Iktomi!” answered Patkas̈a, still stooping over the deer.

  “My friend, you are a skilled hunter,” began Iktomi, smiling a thin smile which spread from one ear to the other.

  Suddenly raising up his head Patkas̈a’s black eyes twinkled as he asked: “Oh, you really say so?”

  “Yes, my friend, you are a skillful fellow. Now let us have a little contest. Let us see who can jump over the deer without touching a hair on his hide,” suggested Iktomi.

  “Oh, I fear I cannot do it!” cried Patkas̈a, rubbing his funny, thick palms together.

  “Have no coward’s doubt, Patkas̈a. I say you are a skillful fellow who finds nothing hard to do.” With these words Iktomi led Patkas̈a a short distance away. In little puffs Patkas̈a laughed uneasily.

  “Now, you may jump first,” said Iktomi.

  Patkas̈a, with doubled fists, swung his fat arms to and fro, all the while biting hard his under lip.

  Just before the run and leap Iktomi put in: “Let the winner have the deer to eat!”

  It was too late now to say no. Patkas̈a was more afraid of being called a coward than of losing the deer. “Ho-wo,” he replied, still working his short arms. At length he started off on the run. So quick and small were his steps that he seemed to be kicking the ground only. Then the leap! But Patkas̈a tripped upon a stick and fell hard against the side of the deer.

  “Hĕ-hĕ-hĕ!” exclaimed Iktomi, pretending disappointment that his friend had fallen.

  Lifting him to his feet, he said: “Now it is my turn to try the high jump!” Hardly was the last word spoken than Iktomi gave a leap high above the deer.

  “The game is mine!” laughed he, patting the sullen Patkas̈a on the back. “My friend, watch the deer while I go to bring my children,” said Iktomi, darting lightly through the tall grass.

  Patkas̈a was always ready to believe the words of scheming people and to do the little favors any one asked of him. However, on this occasion, he did not answer “Yes, my friend.” He realized that Iktomi’s flattering tongue had made him foolish.

  He turned up his nose at Iktomi, now almost out of sight, as much as to say: “Oh, no, Ikto; I do not hear your words!”

  Soon there came a murmur of voices. The sound of laughter grew louder and louder. All of a sudden it became hushed. Old Iktomi led his young Iktomi brood to the place where he had left the turtle, but it was vacant. Nowhere was there any sign of Patkas̈a or the deer. Then the babes did howl!

  “Be still!” said father Iktomi to his children. “I know where Patkas̈a lives. Follow me. I shall take you to the turtle’s dwelling.” He ran along a narrow footpath toward the creek near by. Close upon his heels came his children with tear-streaked faces.

  “There!” said Iktomi in a loud whisper as he gathered his little ones on the bank. “There is Patkas̈a broiling venison! There is his teepee, and the savory fire is in his front yard!”

  The young Iktomis stretched their necks and rolled their round black eyes like newly hatched birds. They peered into the water.

  “Now, I will cool Patkas̈a’s fire. I shall bring you the broiled venison. Watch closely. When you see the black coals rise to the surface of the water, clap your hands and shout aloud, for soon after that sign I shall return to you with some tender meat.”

  Thus saying Iktomi plunged into the creek. Splash! splash! the water leaped upward into spray. Scarcely had it become lev eled and smooth than there bubbled up many black spots. The creek was seething with the dancing of round black things.

  “The cooled fire! The coals!” laughed the brood of Iktomis.

  Clapping together their little hands, they chased one another along the edge of the creek. They shouted and hooted with great glee.

  “Āhäs̈!” said a gruff voice across the water. It was Patkas̈a.

  In a large willow tree leaning far over the water he sat upon a large limb. On the very same branch was a bright burning fire over which Patkas̈a broiled the venison. By this time the water was calm again. No more danced those black spots on its surface, for they were the toes of old Iktomi. He was drowned.

  The Iktomi children hurried away from the creek, crying and calling for their water-dead father.

  Dance in a Buffalo Skull

  It was night upon the prairie. Overhead the stars were twinkling bright their red and yellow lights. The moon was young. A silvery thread among the stars, it soon drifted low beneath the horizon.

  Upon the ground the land was pitchy black. There are night people on the plain who love the dark. Amid the black level land they meet to frolic under the stars. Then when their sharp ears hear any strange footfalls nigh, they scamper away into the deep shadows of night. There they are safely hid from all dangers, they think.

  Thus it was that one very black night, afar off from the edge of the level land, out of the wooded river bottom glided forth two balls of fire. They came farther and farther into the level land. They grew larger and brighter. The dark hid the body of the creature with those fiery eyes. They came on and on, just over the tops of the prairie grass. It might have been a wildcat prowling low on soft, stealthy feet. Slowly but surely the terrible eyes drew nearer and nearer to the heart of the level land.

  There in a huge old buffalo skull was a gay feast and dance! Tiny little field mice were singing and dancing in a circle to the boom-boom of a wee, wee drum. They were laughing and talking among themselves while their chosen singers sang loud a merry tune.

  They built a small open fire within the center of their queer dance house. The light streamed out of the buffalo skull through all the curious sockets and holes.

  A light on the plain in the middle of the night was an unusual thing. But so merry were the mice they did not hear the “kins̈, kins̈” of sleepy birds, disturbed by the unaccustomed fire.

  A pack of wolves, fearing to come nigh this night fire, stood together a little distance away, and, turning their pointed noses to the stars, howled and yelped most dismally. Even the cry of the wolves was unheeded by the mice within the lighted buffalo skull.

  They were feasting and dancing; they were singing and laughing—those funny little furry fellows.

  All the while across the dark from out of the low river bottom came that pair of fiery eyes.

  Now closer and more swift, now fiercer and glaring, the eyes moved toward the buffalo skull. All unconscious of those fearful eyes, the happy mice nibbled at dried roots and venison. The singers had started another song. The drummers beat the time, tur
ning their heads from side to side in rhythm. In a ring around the fire hopped the mice, each bouncing hard on his two hind feet. Some carried their tails over their arms, while others trailed them proudly along.

  Ah, very near are those round yellow eyes! Very low to the ground they seem to creep—creep toward the buffalo skull. All of a sudden they slide into the eye-sockets of the old skull.

  “Spirit of the buffalo!” squeaked a frightened mouse as he jumped out from a hole in the back part of the skull.

  “A cat! a cat!” cried other mice as they scrambled out of holes both large and snug. Noiseless they ran away into the dark.

  The Toad and the Boy

  The water-fowls were flying over the marshy lakes. It was now the hunting season. Indian men, with bows and arrows, were wading waist deep amid the wild rice. Near by, within their wigwams, the wives were roasting wild duck and making down pillows.

  In the largest teepee sat a young mother wrapping red porcupine quills about the long fringes of a buckskin cushion. Beside her lay a black-eyed baby boy cooing and laughing. Reaching and kicking upward with his tiny hands and feet, he played with the dangling strings of his heavy-beaded bonnet hanging empty on a tent pole above him.

  At length the mother laid aside her red quills and white sinew-threads. The babe fell fast asleep. Leaning on one hand and softly whispering a little lullaby, she threw a light cover over her baby. It was almost time for the return of her husband.