Amidst his surprise and confusion White Eagle’s first thought was for Shining Star. He heard the girl sputtering and coughing. He looked to see her head just appearing above the water beside the canoe. Reaching his hand out, he grasped her arm and pulled her to him. Then grasping the underside of the overturned canoe, he pulled Shining Star so that her arms rested on the canoe and she was able to grasp the keel.
Thus the two children hung on for what seemed like hours but actually was only a few minutes. The water was cold. White Eagle began to shiver, not so much because the water was cold, but because the rain was colder and the biting wind made it even worse.
And then as quickly as the storm had come, it was gone. White Eagle tried, but did not have the strength to hold on to Shining Star and turn the canoe. Just when he was giving up any chance of getting to shore, strong hands gripped his arms. It was then that White Eagle realized that he was losing consciousness. Everything went black.
When he finally woke, he found that he was in his bed in his own wigwam. His mother was kneeling by him with a cup of hot broth. Slowly he sipped. And then he could hold back no longer.
“My mother, what of Shining Star?”
“She is all right, my son. You have done well this day. It was feared that you children would be caught in the storm, so your father and Shining Star’s father set forth in their canoes and reached you both just as you were slipping from the canoe. You are a brave lad, White Eagle, and your father is proud as is the father of Shining Star. You saved her life and she was brave, as you were.”
Tani was a small Cherokee lad who lived during the great Hundred Years’ War between the Northern and Southern tribes. When he was twelve years old, Tani’s only wish was to own a bow like his father’s—a strong hickory bow with a stout hide thong and a quiver of straight strong arrows.
Each time he would approach his father about owning such a bow, his father would laugh, and placing his hand on his son’s head, tell him in a kindly voice that he was still a little too young to handle a man-sized hickory bow. This always made Tani feel a little sad because, being a boy of twelve, he thought he was man enough to own one.
One day Tani’s father called Tani to him and told him they would be going on a hunting trip and asked if he would like to go along. Tani was overjoyed and all he could think about for the next three days was the forthcoming trip with his father. When the time finally arrived, Tani prepared for the trip just as his father did and noticed his father place war paint on his face and chest and arms. Tani said good-bye to all, and when he said good-bye to his mother he noticed she was crying. He did not understand, for his father had not told him that the hunting trip they were going on was to seek out Talitanigska, one of the great Cherokee Chieftains, and report to him the movements of a large band of Seneca Indians. This was a very dangerous journey, for the Seneca Indians were deadly enemies of the Cherokee Tribe.
As Tani and his father traveled swiftly along the back paths of the vast forests toward the encampment of Talitanigska, one thought kept rushing through the little brave’s mind: What great adventure was his father leading him into? Tani soon learned the answer to this question. That evening, as Tani and his father were seated at a small guarded fire off to the side of the trail, Tani’s father told him the nature of their task.
The little brave’s heart pounded as he learned the reason for their journey. That night as they rolled in their blankets and slept, Tani dreamed of many Seneca Indians attacking his father and himself and of his standing back to back with his father, beating off the attackers.
When the dawn broke, Tani and his father were on their way. They were careful to avoid any soft earth that might leave signs for roving Senecas to find and follow.
About midafternoon Tani’s father turned into a shallow stream and started north against the current. Suddenly, his father slipped and fell heavily head first into the stream. Tani reached his father’s side and found his father could not stand. He helped him ashore and seated him against the trunk of a tree on the bank. A gash was red with blood across the forehead of Tani’s father. Tani saw that his father’s ankle was badly twisted. Not a word was spoken, but Tani built a small fire and made his father as comfortable as possible.
For several hours as the sun slowly sank behind the hills, Tani’s father worried about the situation he and his son were in. He was tired and he must have dozed, for he woke with a start as he felt his bow being lifted from his fingers. He watched in silence as Tani fitted an arrow to the bow, pulled back the string and let fly. The arrow buried itself in a near-by bush. There was a thud, followed by a terrifying scream. A Seneca sprang up and fell dead across the path. Tani rushed forward and, having made sure their enemy was dead, returned to his father’s side. Without a word he continued his sleepless watch.
The night passed without incident but as dawn approached, Tani heard a rustle in the near-by bush. He raised his bow ready to fire, but recognized the head feathers of his Cherokee brothers and let the bow drop to the ground. He leaped forward with a happy cry. The two braves were from Talitanigska’s camp. They quickly made a sling hammock to carry Tani’s father and soon the four of them set forth for the great Chieftain’s camp.
Once safely within the camp, Tani’s father was well cared for and soon was able to stand once again on his injured foot. Two weeks after their arrival at Talitanigska’s camp a great council fire was held to celebrate the victory of the Cherokees over their enemies, the Senecas. As the festivities came to a close, Talitanigska stepped to the center of the ring and asked that Tani step forward. Then, in front of the great Cherokee Chieftains, Talitanigska took his stout hickory bow from his shoulder and placed it in Tani’s hands.
“This is for you, Tani,” he said, “for you are a great brave and now a man among men. You stood full of courage in the face of great danger. Because of your quick thinking, you saved your father’s life and made it possible for your father to bring me the valuable information. This information helped our fellow tribesmen to meet and defeat the Senecas, our enemies.”
Tani did not know what to say; but the following morning, as he and his father prepared to leave, he stepped in front of Chief Talitanigska and thanked him for the gift. He said he would always cherish the great hickory bow and remember the great kindness shown him by one of the great Chiefs of the Cherokee nation. Tani had his bow, just like his father’s. There was no happier brave alive as he tramped closely behind his father on the path home.
Singing Waters’ work as an Indian maiden in the Teton-Dakota tribe was typical of the work of Indian maidens across the continent. Each year she would make new clothing for her family and each day of the year she would cook and do the many little things that were the duty of a good Indian squaw. The work was hard but Singing Waters did not mind, for she loved her husband and her children and was very happy and proud to be able to help them.
When she found that she had some free time, Singing Waters would join the other women of the tribe to boast about her husband’s great deeds on the hunt and in battle. This was a favorite pastime of all the squaws. They would spend many hours throughout the years to talk, over and over again about the adventures of their braves. Each time they would repeat the stories with even more enthusiasm.
One day, all the tribe’s braves had left to hunt down a great buffalo herd for food and clothing for the tribe. Singing Waters was seated in front of her tepee, teaching her two daughters how to cook, when the morning sky grew suddenly very black. A great quiet fell upon the village. Even the dogs that seemed to spend their day barking for no good reason were silent. Singing Waters heard only the wind as it whispered through the village.
Then from the distance, there came a rumble that seemed to come slowly nearer and nearer to the village. Singing Waters realized quickly that a dust storm was heading for her village. The other squaws had heard it, too, and were rushing to gather their children into their tepees and bind the skins across the entrances as tightly as they could. The dogs whimpered and scattered for whatever shelter they could find. The village did not have to wait long, for the winds were soon lashing against the tepees, straining their fastenings, and the dust was whipping through the village like a flood tide rushing over the rocks on the seashore.
The dust reached into every opening in Singing Waters’ tepee. It wasn’t long before a fine coating of it covered everything and everyone inside. Her two daughters huddled close to her, crying slightly because of their fear of the storm. But soon the wind blew out of the village, and the last dust clouds settled to the ground. One by one the flaps of the tepees swung back. Mothers, children and old men began to come out. They found that many things, left outside in the haste of escaping from the storm, were covered with coats of light brown dust. Everyone began cleaning up the village and sweeping away the dust which had piled up against the sides of the tepees.
While this was happening a young boy, named Fat Buffalo because he was short and very fat, came running through the village, crying that his mother was lost. Singing Waters halted him and shook him a little to make him stop his screaming. When he had quieted, she was able to learn that Brown Fawn, the boy’s mother, had left the tepee early that morning to seek fresh water. She had been gone only a little while when the storm struck. Now she was not back in the tepee and Fat Buffalo was frightened.
Singing Waters was worried, but did not tell Fat Buffalo. She knew that an Indian woman out in such a storm might easily fall under the stinging pelting of the sand, only to be smothered by it. She might never be found unless, years later, new storms should blow away the dust and reveal the dry bones of a skeleton and a few bits of her clothing. Though Singing Waters felt panic in her heart, she quieted herself and spoke calmly to Fat Buffalo.
“Go back to your tepee, Fat Buffalo, and wait. Your mother probably found shelter from the storm. Now that it has stopped she will be home soon. If it will make you feel better, I will go and look for her. Return now to your tepee. I wouldn’t be surprised if your mother were there already.”
How Singing Waters hoped that Brown Fawn was back in the village by now! It would be almost an impossible task to find her here on the plains if she were dead or even hurt. First, Singing Waters would not know in which direction to start. The water hole that she and most of the tribe used was to the south, but there were many water holes in many directions from the village. Singing Waters decided that she should go to Brown Fawn’s tepee and find out if anyone else in the family knew in which direction she had gone.
After warning her two daughters to stay close to home, saying that she would be back shortly, Singing Waters ran swiftly through the village. Reaching Brown Fawn’s tepee, she opened the tent flap and stepped inside. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, she saw Fat Buffalo kneeling in the far corner of the tepee, crying. Approaching slowly, Singing Waters saw that there was someone else in the tepee and that Fat Buffalo was kneeling next to that person. As she drew near, her heart was happy, for she thought that Brown Fawn had returned and was comforting Fat Buffalo. She was about to turn and leave when she suddenly realized that this woman was not Brown Fawn, but Fat Buffalo’s grandmother, Little Otter, who held the boy’s head on her lap.
Singing Waters approached quietly and spoke softly to Little Otter. “Has Brown Fawn returned yet with the water?” she asked with slight hope in her voice.
“No,” said Little Otter, “and it was because of me that she went in search of water. We have some water here in the tepee. But I have not been feeling well, and Brown Fawn thought that herbs brewed in fresh spring water from the rocks on the near-by hills might make a tea which would help my sickness to leave.”
“But,” said Singing Waters, “the hills where the streams flow are many miles from here. If Brown Fawn left when the sun rose, then she might just have reached the spring when the storm came. She is probably on her way back to the village right now.”
The sad news about Brown Fawn soon reached everyone in the village. Many anxious eyes watched the trail that led from the hills. Each person hoped to be first to catch sight of Brown Fawn and bring happiness to Little Otter and Fat Buffalo.
Later that afternoon, Singing Waters came once again to Brown Fawn’s tepee. She talked quietly with Little Otter and then hurried back to her tepee and placed a warm buffalo jacket across her shoulders. Then taking her two little daughters, she went to her sister’s tepee and asked if she might leave the children there for supper while she went in search of Brown Fawn. Her sister looked at her and asked, “Why do you not wait until the warriors return? They should be coming any time now, and they could go in search of Brown Fawn! You have two little children to think about.”
“Yes,” said Singing Waters, “I have two little children to think about, but we do not know when the warriors will be back. If the hunting is good they may not return for another week. Brown Fawn may not be too far from the village.” Nothing Singing Waters’ sister could say to her would change her mind. So she set out from the village toward the mountain spring known to the members of her tribe as the medicine well. It was getting late in the day, and Singing Waters knew that she must hurry if she were to reach the medicine well before sunset. She knew the trail well. As a girl she had followed it many times, for there always seemed to be some sickness in her village.
Singing Waters finally came in sight of the ridge beyond which lay the medicine well, still having found no trace of Brown Fawn. Tirelessly, she trotted on until she had climbed the ridge and had worked her way to the place from which the water flowed into the medicine well. As Singing Waters approached the medicine well, she called Brown Fawn’s name softly, but heard no answer. Then she began to call more loudly. Suddenly, from far ahead she heard a voice answer. Now Singing Waters began to run, for she feared that Brown Fawn was in serious trouble. She ran until she reached the side of the medicine well, but still did not see Brown Fawn. Then she called again and the voice answered. “Help me, I am over here.”
The voice was coming from beyond the medicine well. Singing Waters ran on further; then she stopped and called again. The voice replied again, and Singing Waters knew that she was closer. Brown Fawn’s voice seemed to be coming from just behind a rise ahead of her. She ran swiftly to the top of the rise, and there she found a water bag. As she looked down the side of the rise through the gathering gloom she could make out Brown Fawn’s figure down the side of the hill. She sat leaning against a boulder, and she called out to Singing Waters to help her. Singing Waters slipped and slid in her haste down the side of the hill until she was at the side of Brown Fawn. Brown Fawn was so glad to see her that she cried, great tears rolling down her now pale cheeks.
Singing Waters could see that Brown Fawn had twisted her ankle. As she began to lift the injured woman, Singing Waters asked her how she had hurt herself and how she had escaped the storm. Brown Fawn told how she had reached the medicine well just as the dust storm had broken. After filling her water bag, she had turned quickly to go and had fallen, twisting her ankle. When she was once again able to rise, putting her weight on her other ankle, she found that she had lost all sense of direction and had started hobbling in the wrong direction.
“Why didn’t you lie down among the rocks until the storm passed?” Singing Waters asked.
“I wanted to rest,” Brown Fawn replied, “but then I would think of my mother and son and I felt I must return to her and Fat Buffalo immediately with the medicine water.”
“But,” said Singing Waters, “you are safe now. Now we must return to the village while there is still a little light or we may become lost out here on the prairie far away from the warmth of our tepees. Come, Brown Fawn, lean upon me and I will help you to walk.”
So Brown Fawn placed her arm across Singing Waters’ shoulders. Together they slowly started back to the village. It was dark by the time they had reached the fringe of the village, but bright fires had been lighted to show them the way home. There was much rejoicing as Singing Waters entered the village half carrying Brown Fawn. Gentle hands grasped Brown Fawn and placed her gently upon the buffalo robe in her tepee. Soon her eyelids flickered and she opened them wide, looking around for a face which meant much to her. But Singing Waters had returned to her own home and her children and was recounting for them the adventure she had just had. They smiled, knowing that their mother was a woman of great courage. They were very proud.
Little Turtle was a young Comanche who lived happily with his mother, father, and two older brothers on the great prairies. His father was well respected by the tribe, above all for having three sons who would grow to manhood and bring honor to the Comanche name.
Each day was a new adventure for Little Turtle and he welcomed each dawn with great excitement. He never knew just what was planned for him or what the other children of the village would decide to do, but he was always ready to take part in whatever would happen.
For some time now, Little Turtle, who had just turned ten, had been in the complete charge of his father. On certain days his father would take him far from the village to hunt and learn how to stalk wild game and find their signs. He learned his lessons well. At night in the tepee, he would sit next to his father because he was the youngest, and he would listen carefully while his father explained many things a young brave must know to become a strong and great Comanche warrior.
Because the Comanche village had been at peace for the last three years, Little Turtle had only love in his heart for everyone he knew or met. Sometimes his brothers and his father would speak to him of the hated Apache and Kiowa and the many reasons the Comanches had for hating them. But this meant very little to the lad. He never let such thoughts of war spoil his fun.
One evening after the three boys were asleep, Little Turtle’s father spoke with his mother.
“Blue Star,” he said, “for many days now I have talked to our youngest son of the Apaches and the Kiowas, but he does not seem to understand. I have told him of their many cruel ways and about our warriors who have fallen under the arrow and the tomahawk of the Apaches and the Kiowas. Still he refuses to speak harshly of such neighbors. Maybe Little Turtle is right. Maybe I am wrong in hating these neighbors to the north. You are wise, Blue Star. Your advice is often sought. Tell me now what I should teach our son. Shall I teach him to hate the horse stealers from the north? Or shall I not speak even their names in our daily talks?”
Blue Star thought for a moment and then said, “My husband and great warrior of the Comanches, hatred is a word which Little Turtle will learn soon enough. Now he is young and innocent. He enjoys the coming of each new day for the adventures that it will bring in his world of dreams. He is a happy child and to us a very wonderful boy. Do we want to change this wonderful boy to a grown warrior filled with hate? He knows nothing but love. Possibly peace will be a long time upon our village. We, his parents, would not want to spoil that happy world in which he lives.”
Great Hawk thought long about his wife’s words. Then he left the tepee to walk alone and solve this problem which lay so heavily upon his heart. Since his early days, Great Hawk had been taught to hate the Apaches and the Kiowas. His own father had lost his life in a battle with the Apaches. His brother’s hair now hung from the tepee of Grey Wolf, the Kiowa chieftain who sat at the head of the council lodge. And Grey Wolf was a cruel leader of a tribe that always looked for enemies to kill.
Great Hawk knew that he had strong personal reasons for hating the tribes to the north. But was it right for him to think of punishing his son for not hating them, too, in the way he did? Until he had talked with Blue Star, he had planned to question his son tomorrow about the Apaches and Kiowas, and if his son did not show a growing hatred toward them, then he would punish him. But now he was not sure. No, he would wait and be patient. After all, as Blue Star had said, there had been peace for three years now. Thoughts of war were kept alive only by the young bucks of the tribe who were eager for battle and glory. War was far from the minds of the older and wiser men of the tribe. They knew that peace had brought them prosperity and happiness, but war made them poor and brought them hunger and pain and the death of friends.
Great Hawk began thinking about Crooked Leg, one of the chieftains. He was the only member of the council of Comanche chieftains who was not happy that war had not come again.
Early in his youth Crooked Leg had fallen into the hands of the Kiowas and had been tortured badly. When his body was found being dragged by a Kiowa pony that had been turned loose, he had been beaten and twisted so badly that he lay close to death for many months. He had lived, but his leg had never healed straight. He always rose in pain and could never run again. Crooked Leg had stayed behind in the village during all later battles. His hate for the Kiowa had grown until he now thought about it all the time. At council meetings, he would always argue that the Comanches should once again take to the warpath against the Apaches and Kiowas. Each time he spoke, only a few council members would agree with him. So Crooked Leg was asked to be quiet while the council talked about tribal business. But the young bucks who thirsted for the taste of battle would carry his words through the village after each council meeting. For many days, the village would talk for war and against war. Soon the wise council members would win out, the bucks would quiet down, and Crooked Leg would be left to grumble in his tepee alone and forgotten for awhile.
Crooked Leg’s life had a lesson for Great Hawk. As he was returning to his tepee, he promised himself that he would not speak of hatred again to his son. He must not allow hatred to run his life as it had run Crooked Leg’s. If he did, even his friends might forget him and he would be of little use to anyone.
The following day promised little peace. Dawn brought a roaring storm that smashed at the Comanche village. The pounding rain had soon churned the ground into deep mud. Families remained indoors and fathers sat around their fires teaching sons how to make stout bows and straight arrows, knives, tomahawks, and other handmade tools a young brave needs to survive. Great Hawk used the time to talk to Little Turtle of the great powers of nature and peace and the Comanche people.
“As you grow,” he told Little Turtle, “remember to stay straight and true and do all things that are right, and you shall live a rich and happy life in our tribe. The Comanches have been favored greatly. We have lived in peace for the past three years and though it has been very dry, we have never been without water. Now the sky has opened and allowed the rains to fall so that we have water for our families and our horses. We have not suffered from great thirst since the great drought visited our land when we were last at war. After two years the supply of water was so small that our people were dying more from the great thirst than from the arrows of the enemy. Before long our chiefs sat down in council with our enemies to smoke the peace pipe. Now peace reigns over our people and they have plenty of food and water.”
Little Turtle had listened carefully while his father was speaking, then turned to his mother and said, “Mother, I am a very lucky boy to be a Comanche and to have such a wonderful family. I have a strong, wise, and kind father. You have cared for me as a baby and given me good food so that my bones would grow strong and straight. And I have two brothers of whom I am very proud.”
Blue Star smiled happily and began to make lunch. While the family was eating, the rain stopped. Soon the sun broke through the dark clouds and began to dry the earth. In the middle of the afternoon, Great Hawk rose and touched his son upon the shoulder.
“Come, Little Turtle,” he said. “It is time you learned to ride a horse. We will go to my string of ponies and pick one that you may ride and call your own. If you are to go on the hunt and take part in the many other riding events in the village, you must learn to ride well.”
Little Turtle’s heart leaped excitedly. He had been looking forward to the day his father would teach him to ride. Slowly Great Hawk and his son walked to where the tribe’s ponies were kept tied. Great Hawk began to look amongst the herd for a special pinto pony he had planned to give Little Turtle. It was small but strong and could run for a long time without getting winded. Great Hawk saw quickly that something was wrong. He began counting and discovered that three of his string, including the pinto, were gone. At first he thought that the storm had frightened them and they had broken loose from the main line which held the whole string. But as he reached the main line where the three ponies should have been tied, he saw the dangling ends of ropes that had been cut by a knife.
The pony guard must have left the herd to seek shelter during the storm. So it was easy for someone to steal his three ponies. Without thinking of Little Turtle, Great Hawk knelt in the mud to look closely at the clear tracks that the thieves had left. He rose to his feet quickly.
“The Apaches have stolen my ponies!” he cried out defiantly. “I shall ride after them and bring the ponies back even if blood must be shed!”
Then he remembered Little Turtle. “Go, Little Turtle,” he ordered. “Return to the tepee and explain to your mother what I must do. The Apaches have stolen three of my best ponies. I must ride fast to catch up with them before they get too far into the hills. I shall not rest until the ponies are back in our village or the scalps of the Apache thieves hang in our tepee.”
Then Great Hawk jumped onto a pony and sped off toward the hills.
Little Turtle ran home and told his mother and brothers what had happened.
Little Turtle’s brothers had been two of the young bucks who had agreed with Crooked Leg’s war talk. So they rushed out of the tepee, happy for this chance to fight. They stopped outside their tepee just long enough to pick up their weapons and shout the news to other young bucks of the tribe. Many of the young braves rallied quickly, grabbed their weapons, and dashed toward their ponies. This was just what Great Hawk had wanted to prevent. He thought that if he could overtake the thieves he would be able to bring them back as prisoners. Then the council of chieftains would decide how their stealing should be punished.
Only three Indians—not a large Apache band—were fleeing with the ponies. Great Hawk saw this clearly from the tracks he was following. He thought it might be three young Apache bucks who wanted to start trouble and had turned to stealing horses as a way of making the Comanches angry enough to fight. He must hurry, for if he did not reach the thieves before they got to the safety of the hills, he would have to report their escape to the council. Even the older Comanche chieftains probably would decide that war was the only answer.
When he reached the base of the hills, Great Hawk lost the trail of the thieves in the rocks. Slowly, he turned his mount and started for the village. This would now mean war. Great Hawk turned back toward the hills. Shaking his fist at the Apaches’ stronghold, he swore vengeance upon them. As he headed for home again, he met the war party of young Comanche bucks, led by his two sons.
“Wait!” he said, raising his hand. “Why do you ride so hard?”
“We ride to avenge the theft of your horses,” Great Hawk’s oldest son replied. “We will catch the Apache party and soak the foothills with their blood. No matter how many they are, we shall defeat them!”
“Wait!” Great Hawk pleaded. “There were only three men. They are already in the hills. We will lose many men if we try to attack them here. We do not know this ground, but the Apaches know it well. We must take this problem to our council.”
Just as Great Hawk spoke of the council, Crooked Leg rode out from amidst the young warriors. Great Hawk had not seen the old warrior who rode up close to Great Hawk.
“Out of the way, old and weak one,” Crooked Leg screamed. “You are afraid of these thieving vultures who steal from us under cover of a great storm. We are not afraid and we will go on until we find them. We have sat back too long getting fat and lazy on the buffalo meat. We have closed our eyes to the Apaches’ great war plans against our village!”
There were many shouts of approval from the young bucks, who were starting to move about impatiently.
“Wait!” shouted Great Hawk above the yelling of the young Comanche braves. “This long-planned war plan against our village was carried out by just three braves, as the trail will show you. They did not attack. They killed no one. They only stole three horses. This was no attack by the Apache tribe. It was probably the work of three young bucks, like many of you here, who could not be held back. They went off on their own to try to stir up trouble between our two tribes. They baited the trap and you are riding right into it. What has happened here must be settled by our council. Do not let Crooked Leg drive you into something you will regret the rest of your lives—if you live to regret it!”
The young men grew quiet as Great Hawk was speaking.
“And now I speak directly to my two sons,” he continued. “I, your father, order you to return with me to our tepee.”
But the fire that Crooked Leg had been building for so long burst into flame again as he urged the young bucks to go on. They surged forward toward the hills. Great Hawk was forced to rein his pony aside to avoid being run into. He knew that if Crooked Leg succeeded in clashing with the Apaches, he, Great Hawk, would lose importance in the tribe. But if Crooked Leg were defeated at the hands of the Apaches, the council would deliver fair judgment and punishment.
The young Comanche men had never fought before and might be defeated easily. So for the sake of his sons, Great Hawk turned his pony and fell in with the young bucks. When they saw that he had joined them, they urged their ponies ahead at a faster pace.
Soon they were deep in the hills of the Apaches. The party halted, and Great Hawk moved to the front. Grasping the bridle on Crooked Leg’s pony he swung the animal around sharply.
“You will ride no farther,” he told the old warrior. “I command you to go back to our village now. We have no idea where the horse thieves are. You are willing to gamble the lives of these brave young Comanches to satisfy a hate that burns deeply in your heart and mind.”
While Crooked Leg watched him angrily, Great Hawk spoke to the young men.
“Your wish to see justice done is good,” he began. “But the Apache has great strength, even greater here in his own home. We are few and most of us have never fought. If we fight here, our scalps will hang in the tepee of the Apaches before nightfall. Do not follow Crooked Leg any longer. What he suggests can bring only death to yourselves and much sadness to your families. We must return to the council and seek the wise advice of our chieftains.”
Great Hawk could see that his words were beginning to have an effect. He continued talking to the young bucks until their ranks began to break as a few turned their mounts toward home. Others followed, and Crooked Leg started screaming at them to come back and follow him to glory in the defeat of the Apaches. Then, just as the last few braves were heading back down the trail, the hills suddenly bristled with Apache warriors, each aiming an arrow at a young Comanche brave. As Great Hawk looked slowly around, he saw that there were twenty times more Apache than Comanche warriors.
The Comanche party was stunned. No one moved. Then one brave made a grab for his tomahawk. Great Hawk slapped his arm, saying, “Do not be a fool. You would be dead before your hand touched the tomahawk handle. Right now at least a dozen arrows are aimed at your body. Your tepee will be unhappy tonight if you are so foolish.”
Then Great Hawk rode out a little apart from the rest of the band. Raising his empty hands, he called to the Apaches.
“Who among you is the leader, for it is with him that I wish to talk?”
A tall, strong brave stepped from behind a boulder and made his way to the circle of warriors.
“I, Maskan, am leader here,” he said. “Why do you ride into our lands in such haste and with such anger on your faces?”
Then Great Hawk explained the events that had led up to this moment. When he finished, the Apache leader signaled, and three young Kiowa bucks were dragged from behind the boulders into plain sight of the Comanche party.
“These,” said Maskan, “are the three who stole your horses and ours. Their blood has run hot with the desire for adventure. So all alone, they set out last evening to invade your land and ours to steal horses. We have waited for them here among the rocks. We have watched you from the time they were taken by our warriors. You who seem to lead here have spoken wisely. The Kiowas will be punished as all Kiowa are in the Apache nation. We have your horses. They will be yours again. We ask you to go in peace from these hills. You have come in anger. Now you can leave in friendship. The older men of your tribe and ours know the trouble we are having with our young braves who want the glory of battle. One day war will come when the chieftains who want it are strong enough to convince the council. That day is not far away. But now return in peace to your village.”
Maskan turned and started for the boulder before Great Hawk could thank him. Maskan told his braves to bring out the stolen horses. At that moment Crooked Leg slipped his tomahawk from his belt and sent it sailing toward the Apache leader. It landed with a thud in the middle of Maskan’s back. Maskan cried out and fell to the ground, rolling in the dust. Immediately, Crooked Leg’s body was filled with arrows as shaft after shaft whined through the air. War whoops split the air as the Comanches rose to attack the Apaches who dodged behind the rocks that had sheltered them before.
Great Hawk realized that it would be useless to attempt any talk of peace now. With a sinking feeling in his heart he, too, joined the battle, struggling to reach his two sons. The great numbers of Apaches, well protected by large boulders, made the victory easy for them. The young Comanches fell under the hail of Apache arrows, and their war cries became screams of pain.
Then Great Hawk yelled to the warriors to retreat. The riddled band rushed toward their village. Sixteen young Comanche braves lay dead on the ground and seven strong Indian ponies were dead or dying. It was a ragged, tired, and bloody war party that entered the Comanche village that night. Badly beaten, their spirit defeated, they understood now that war was not as glorious as they had thought. As Great Hawk entered his tepee alone, Blue Star greeted him warmly but with fright in her eyes.
“Where are our two sons, Great Hawk?” she asked. Great Hawk looked at his wife and then at Little Turtle.
“Little Turtle, you have never learned to hate and you know nothing of war. Now both hatred and war must shatter your world of dreams. Your two brothers lie out there in the foothills, killed by sharp, well-aimed Apache arrows. They and fourteen others will no longer walk this earth with us. Among them lies Crooked Leg, who is to blame for these deaths today. Many Apaches and Comanches will yet die in a battle that never should have begun.”
From that day forward, Little Turtle left his dream world and walked in the real world of warring tribes, learning to hate his tribe’s enemies, to fight and revenge the death of his brothers.
The war continued for some time. Many Apache and Comanche braves were killed and injured. The council of Comanche chieftains met to discuss better ways of fighting the Apaches. Great Hawk, who had led so many attacks against the Apaches, stood in the council to speak. As he spoke, Little Turtle listened from just outside the lodge where he lay hidden.
“I, Great Hawk, have fought many battles with the Apaches. I am tired but I will fight as long as we must. Before this war started, I had great hate in my heart for the Apaches and Kiowas, as many of you know. I tried to teach this to my son. I know now how wrong I was. My son could not bring himself to hate someone or something he had not seen and who had done him no harm. On that unhappy day which could have ended peacefully, Crooked Leg sent a tomahawk into the back of Maskan, a brave and fair-minded warrior who tried to keep the peace. Then the war started. Two of my sons fell dead at my side, but still I fought on. When we who were left managed to escape with our lives and return to our village, I had to break the sad news to my family. Yet from that moment I held no hate for the Apaches.
“My oldest boys had gone from our village to follow Crooked Leg, a man whose whole life has been one of hate. They died because of that hate, though they died bravely, fighting as Comanches should. But now my youngest son has learned to hate as his brothers did and I am worried deeply. War comes with hate and is worse than disease or drought. The Comanches have always fought honorably, but Crooked Leg’s act will always dishonor our tribe. We cannot seek peace until we have cleansed our hearts of hate. We must do this for the happiness and well-being of our children and their children.”
The council was silent for several moments after Great Hawk had spoken. Then one of the head chiefs rose slowly and looked directly at Great Hawk. “You have spoken wisely, Great Hawk,” he began. “We must think this over carefully. If we want peace, it must be genuine and honorable. Let us go back to our tepees. Let us call the council to meet in two suns and make our decision then.”
When Great Hawk returned to his tepee, his son was waiting for him, having run ahead.
“Do not be troubled, father,” Little Turtle said, “for I have driven the hate from my heart. I hope this war will end soon and that there will be no room in anyone’s heart for hate. For hate eats men’s hearts and makes them like Crooked Leg, unhappy and selfish and cruel, bringing death and sorrow to those around them. These things are not for the Comanches.”
Little Horse was a member of the proud and courageous Delaware tribe. He grew up in his tribe among a people who were peaceful. They hunted and fished and sang and danced and celebrated much as most tribes did in the very early days, but there was to come a time when all was not peace and contentment.
Little Horse had been well trained by his father, Running Bear, and he had taken his lessons as a young boy very seriously. Though he had practiced very hard, he had never become very good with the bow and arrow or the tomahawk. But he had become very good at using and throwing the traditional hunting knife which was his proudest possession.
It was spring in the valley of the Delawares and day followed day with the peaceful and warm sun shining down upon the village in which Little Horse lived. Occasionally the soft rains would descend on the forest and hillside making everything wet and a rich green color. All was happiness in the village until that fateful day when Little Horse decided to take his long trip.
Shouldering his stout bow and a quiver of arrows he started out along the forest trail. He desired to go to the upper end of the valley and search out some wild turkey which he had heard many of the returning hunters speak about. The fact that the place where these turkeys lived was almost a day’s journey from his village did not seem to bother him, for he had placed in his food pouch enough dried venison and he would have berries and nuts along the way.
As he walked along, he looked from side to side watching for signs of wild game, not wanting to kill any so close to home but wanting to test his senses of hearing and sight which had been trained by his father so patiently.
Once in a while, Little Horse would stop in his journey to partake of some fresh water or just to rest on a moss patch under some large tree and think about the wonders of nature and the wonderful peace in his tribe.
Then he would rise and continue his journey which took him further and further from home with each step. And not realizing it, he had soon crossed into the land of the Iroquois, for his particular tribe had their village close to the line which separated the lands of the Delawares from the hunting grounds of the Iroquois.
This talk of tribal lands and borders did not mean much to Little Horse, although he had heard his father speak quite often of the Iroquois; and though he had been told never to wander too far from the village, he felt he was grown up enough by this time to take care of himself. One other thing which meant very little to Little Horse was the fact that in this period, neighboring tribes were often at war with each other, for war between tribes was rather common among the American Indians. Stealing and quarreling among individuals and trespassing upon hunting grounds were but a few reasons for this constant state of war and feuding. But to a young lad like Little Horse, who was so wrapped up in his desire to hunt the elusive turkey, war and fighting were the furthest things from his mind.
Meanwhile Running Bear, back at the village, was asking about for his son, for today he was to have taken him fishing in the great lake. No one seemed to know where the boy was until Running Bear asked a group of children playing on the edge of the village, and one of them replied that he had seen Little Horse with his food pouch at his belt and his bow over his shoulder trotting up the trail that led to the north and into the land of the Iroquois.
Fear gripped Running Bear’s heart. Just that morning one of the hunters had returned from the forest to tell of having found three Iroquois painted arrows stuck in the ground in a row, which was a sign of open warfare and he had the three arrows gripped in his hand which had been found close by to the village. This could mean but one thing. For some reason the Iroquois had been aroused, and now no Delaware would be safe alone any great distance from the home encampment. As long as this open warfare lasted, now they would have to travel in groups.
Running Bear feared for his son. So Running Bear gathered a few of his friends, and in a group they started up the trail toward the land of the Iroquois, hoping that Little Horse had not gone too far after all.
But they were to be sadly disappointed, for Little Horse at this moment was deep in Iroquois territory on the trail of wild turkey.