The boys started off for the woodland and their big game hunt. They had not gone very far when Running Dog glanced up toward the high rock formations. He did not know what caused him to look in that direction, but suddenly he stopped and called to White Cloud who had been riding a little ahead, anxious to reach the woods.
“Wait, White Cloud. Look, look to the north, beyond that formation of rocks.”
White Cloud turned and gazed in the direction Running Dog pointed. There rising above the rock formation were puffs of smoke. “Maybe it is the campfire of another hunting party, Running Dog?”
“No,” said Running Dog, “that is not campfire, those are Kiowa smoke signals. I will try to make them out.”
“Are you sure they are Kiowa smoke signals, Running Do?”
“Oh yes, White Cloud, many moons ago my father taught me of the Kiowa smoke signals. Though all tribes use this method the Kiowas have a definite series of signals before their message. Look, White Cloud. See that series of short puffs of smoke? That is peculiar only to the Kiowas. Let me see if I can make out what they are sending.”
The two boys sat astride their ponies watching the signals of smoke rise in the distance. Running Dog studied the signals as diligently as he could and seeking back into his memory for everything his father had taught him about smoke signals.
Then he turned to White Cloud, “Come, my friend, we must hurry. Those signals are to a band of Kiowas to the south that we are here in their hunting grounds and therefore have broken the law of the Kiowa and must die. They are calling to this band to bring our scalps on their war lances triumphantly to the village. We must hurry, White Cloud. There is no telling how long that message has been playing in the sky. We did not notice it until now but that does not mean that it has not been sent before just now. We must ride to camp and take our other horse and start for home.”
The two boys wheeled their ponies about and sped back for the camp. They entered the camp and quickly gathering their possessions together they put them aboard the pack horse and climbing upon their own ponies they started swiftly southward. They rode steadily for about an hour, and then Running Dog pulled up his pony.
“Wait, White Cloud, we are doing just what they wish us to do. We are running and we have a long hard trip to make. Besides, that signal was evidently for a band to the south of our camp. If we are not careful we shall find that we have ridden right into a trap. Let us plan our trip more carefully. First we must stay away from the main trails. We must take to the foothills and work our way south that way. It will take us longer, but there will be less chance of being ambushed, I believe, if we stay away from the well-used main trails. The Kiowas are a very tricky people and we would be in a trap before we knew it. They will be sure to be covering the water holes for they know we must have water. As far as I know there are but three between here and our village. How much water do you have in your pouch?”
“My pouch is about empty, Running Dog, but surely we will find water elsewhere than at the three water holes.”
“There is a good chance that we will, but I do not want to count on it. After all, our hunters are the ones that are familiar with this land. We are strangers here and not acquainted with the good and bad points. Come, our horses have rested. We will leave the main trail now and continue cross country. It is going to be a hard journey, White Cloud, but we are racing death.”
With that the two boys steered their ponies from the main trail and began to travel in a southeasterly direction. Here there was no clear trail, and they had only the uncanny sense of a homing pigeon to guide them. They pushed their ponies easily for the first couple of hours, but finally the steady pace began to tell and they had to come to a stop.
They had entered a green valley and as they rode they noticed an abundance of game. “Too bad that we are in a race,” remarked White Cloud, “for here is a paradise of game.” Running Dog said nothing, and the two boys brought their ponies to a stop. They stepped from their ponies and rested, allowing the horses to crop grass.
As they lay there, White Cloud glanced back in the direction from which they had come. Again he could see the ominous puffs of smoke rising from behind the small hills that separated them from the main band of Kiowas.
After resting a short while and allowing their ponies to blow, they mounted again and continued their gallop toward their village and security. Night was approaching now and the boys were glad for they knew that they could travel much more swiftly at night because it would be cooler. Besides, they knew that the Kiowas would not attack unless they were sure they could kill both the boys.
They rode more swiftly now, and suddenly Running Dog’s pony whinnied aloud and swerved to one side. Running Dog tried to pull him back but the pony galloped off in a slightly different direction from the one in which they had been traveling. Then Running Dog understood why, for suddenly he heard the hoofs of his horse splashing. The horse had found water. What a break! The boys threw themselves from their horses and lay flat in the water. Suddenly Running Dog lifted himself from the water and grasping White Cloud’s arm he said:
“We are foolish. Suppose they are watching this water hole. We sit here like two fat frogs waiting for the hook. Come quickly, we must leave this place.” The two boys mounted once again and rode on. Suddenly the pack horse stumbled and fell. The boys stopped their ponies and returned to the side of the pack horse. “He will be all right,” said White Cloud, “he is just winded.”
“We must leave him,” said Running Dog. “We cannot wait for him to regain his breath and his strength. We must ride.”
Now the two boys could travel a little faster without the pack horse to slow them down, although they hated the thought of leaving a pony for the blood-thirsty Kiowas. Finally they brought their ponies to a halt and dismounted.
“We must rest several hours or our ponies will die underneath us. Try to sleep, White Cloud. I will stand guard. I will wake you in a short time and then I will sleep. Do not worry, I am tired, but my eyes and ears are sharp.”
White Cloud was exhausted and in a matter of seconds he was asleep. Running Dog kept careful watch and a short time later he wakened White Cloud. Then Running Dog slept and shortly just as dawn was breaking White Cloud shook his friend and the two thrust some dried venison into their mouths to chew and each one taking a long drink of water they mounted and were soon on their way once again.
They had been riding for about an hour when Running Dog glanced back in the direction they had just come and there on a hillside a few miles back he saw a small band of Kiowas. They were evidently looking for something or someone.
It was not a puzzle to Running Dog long, for he saw the band of Kiowas break from the hillside in their direction. “They have seen us, White Cloud! Ride as you have never ridden before. We are near to our land, but it is still a hard ride and the worst is yet to come. I cannot be sure if that is a band that is pursuing us or whether it is the band from the south. In any case, we must keep going. Ride, White Cloud, ride for your life.”
The two ponies thundered on. Soon they had entered a series of hills. The second day was fast drawing to a close. Then it happened.
White Cloud’s pony caught his foot in a gopher hole, and down went pony and rider.
Running Dog pulled his pony to a halt and rode back to where his friend had fallen. Both boy and pony were down. The pony had evidently a broken leg and White Cloud had hit his head upon a stone and was unconscious. Running Dog took his knife and put the horse out of his misery and then he dragged his friend to the shelter of a rock and poured some water on his face. Soon White Cloud shook his head.
“What happened?”
“Your horse stumbled. I have had to use my knife on him, his leg was broken. But how do you feel?”
“Oh, I am a little dizzy and very tired. But go, Running Dog, you must ride to the village for help.”
“Yes, White Cloud, I must do that, but I am lost. I do not know where we are and the sky is black tonight. We must stay here until dawn. My pony is all done in anyway. He would not get very far tonight. We will rest. I will stand guard first.”
With that, Running Dog moved off to a small crevice of rock and settled down to keep watch. But the grind had been too much even for him, and before too long his head hung low upon his chest and both boys slept.
Suddenly Running Dog woke with a start, hands of steel were holding his arms and legs, pinning him where he sat. He struggled and then he heard a familiar voice, “Why do you struggle so hard, my son?”
“Father, it is you. Oh father, I am so glad to see you. But tell me, how did you find us?”
“Well,” said Running Dog’s father, “we too have eyes and saw the Kiowa signals while off gathering some horses that had strayed. We rode to meet the invader, for we knew that they would have come far into Apache territory to catch those that they pursued. So we rode to attack the band. We were able to defeat them and send them running for their homes, but before that we were able to learn from one of their dying braves that you, their quarry, had ridden in this direction.
“I am sorry we were holding you when you awoke but you are mighty fast with the knife and I did not want to take the chance of being killed by my own son.”
They laughed and then the party returned without further incident to the safety of their village.
* * * * * * * *
“Here my story ends,” said Running Dog, “but I shall long remember the events of that Race with Death.”
In the Algonquin tribe, Masequah had grown to manhood through the many winters and summers that his tribe lived in peace. He was a very tall, strong and good-looking Indian brave. He was bravest of all in battle, a good hunter, and a good husband to his wife, Senan, and their son, Pyan. Masequah was very proud of his son. As the baby grew, his mother no longer had to carry him upon her back. Soon Masequah was able to walk hand in hand with Pyan through the forest.
As his son grew older, Masequah began to train him for manhood. One day Masequah and Pyan stepped into a canoe and paddled across the wide lake to look for berries and nuts. Pyan was now seven years of age, and his training had begun in earnest. While they were on the other shore, a great storm arose, and the wind brought huge angry waves to the lake. Masequah feared that their light canoe would be broken by the waves. He told Pyan that it would be much safer to stay where they were until morning.
They found a small cove that would give them some shelter. Then they started hunting for food, while the rain beat down on them. Pyan spotted two rabbits, and his father shot both of them. Then they went back to the cove, found dry wood, and built a fire to cook the rabbits. Masequah and Pyan settled themselves as comfortably as they could for the long night.
The winds began to blow even harder and the rain began to fall more heavily. Pyan snuggled closer to his father’s side to keep warm. As the warrior looked at his son, he saw fear in his son’s eyes. Masequah had taught his son that Indians were never afraid, but suddenly he realized that lessons were not enough. Even an Indian needed to understand the thing he feared in order to drive fear away.
“Don’t be afraid, Pyan,” he said kindly. “The rain that falls around us brings strength to food we have planted and to the trees in the forest. At the worst, it can only wet us. We are too wise to battle the wind on the lake. The bright bolts of lightning could not strike us here easily in this cove, and the thunder is only a loud noise like a war drum. There is nothing to fear.”
As Masequah watched his son’s face in the flickering light of the fire, he knew that his words had been of little comfort. “I want to go home,” said Pyan, “I want my mother and the warmth of my bed. I am afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, Pyan,” Masequah said, “your father is with you.”
“Can you stop the lightning?” asked Pyan. “Can you stop the rain? That will stop my fear. The wind that is blowing so strong frightens me.”
Masequah picked up his son and carried him to the shelter of a cave and after placing his son in the cave he said, “Wait, I shall return. I must get an answer to your questions.” Masequah walked to the edge of the lake and, facing straight into the wind, shouted, “O great storm, tell me what answers I should give my son! He is afraid and I have told him not to be afraid. The wind, the lightning, and the rain frighten him and he wants to return to his home. To try to paddle our light canoe across the rough waters of the lake could mean death for my son and me. I am not afraid to die, but my son is young and his whole life lies before him. Tell me what I can do to stop his fear. He has asked me to stop the rain and the wind. This I cannot do, but you, great storm, hear a father’s plea and blow away from our land!”
Masequah shivered, for the storm seemed to be getting worse. He turned from the lake and walked back to the cave. Taking his son’s hand, he said, “Pyan, come, follow your father. We are going home.”
“But, father,” said Pyan, “the winds and the rain and the lightning have not stopped. The water is rough and our canoe is light. We will be drowned.”
Pyan held back as his father took his hand. His father spoke kindly and firmly: “Come, Pyan, do not be afraid. Your father will protect you.”
As they reached the shore Pyan began to tremble and felt heartsick because he was cowardly while his father was so brave. Pyan stepped into the canoe and his father followed. Masequah pointed to the sky.
“Look, Pyan, the sky is beginning to brighten. Now the storm will halt long enough for us to reach the safety of our village.”
There was a blinding flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder. The rain stopped suddenly, the winds died down, and the waves on the lake became calm. Masequah pushed the canoe from the shore and paddled swiftly across the lake.
When they reached home, Pyan told his mother excitedly how the storm had stopped when his father ordered it to halt. Pyan’s mother turned slowly to Masequah.
“My husband,” she said with wonder in her voice, “until just now as you and Pyan arrived, the storm hasn’t paused once tonight.”
For many years until Masequah’s death, the members of his tribe looked upon Masequah as a brave gifted with mysterious powers. They would tell of a hunting party that had reached the lake at the same time that Masequah and Pyan had started for home; the hunters had been whipped by the raging storm while they stood on a hill top overlooking the lake; suddenly they had seen the storm stop and the lake below them grow calm; and then they had watched a small canoe, with a man and a boy in it, glide swiftly across the peaceful waters. To them it was a miracle, but Masequah knew better.
Masequah would always deny that he had any mysterious powers. Over and over again, he would remind his friends that no storm covers all the earth, and that every storm has its edges just as the lake does, or like the shadow of a fleecy cloud on a sunny day.
No matter how often he told them that the edge of the storm had moved away from the lake, most of his friends still insisted that it was a miracle. Even Pyan, who believed that his father was wise and truthful, sometimes wondered.
This story was told to the author by Barney Mason, a Canadian Scout, who had learned it from living descendants of the Algonquin Tribe.
This story was told to the author by Barney Mason, a Canadian Scout, who had learned it from living descendants of the Algonquin Tribe.
The Montagnais village of the great Northern forest was large with many fine wigwams. The village had been built in a meadow near a great lake, and the smell of woodfires was always in the air, as the smoke curled skyward from each wigwam. It was a busy time of year for the Montagnais because winter would soon be upon them. Families were repairing their homes and making new clothing for the winter months.
It was on one of these busy days that Bald Eagle informed his family that he believed they should build a new wigwam. So the work was organized. First Bald Eagle selected a good place to build it. Then he scratched lines on the ground to show where the frame would be set. Having cut saplings and put them in place, bending the ends to make arches for the roof, he bound them together with withes made from a peeled basswood sapling about three fingers thick that bent very easily. The making of these withes had fallen to Sleeping Bear, Bald Eagle’s son. It is about this job that our story is concerned.
When Sleeping Bear was asked to make the withes, he was proud. This was the first time his father had ever asked him to do such an important job. Dashing off into the forest, he came upon a young basswood sapling about three fingers thick. Taking his knife from its beaded sheath, he proceeded to cut the sapling. The flint blade of his knife did a very neat job and he soon had the young sapling down and trimmed.
Then Sleeping Bear set to work to strip the bark from the sapling. When he had all the bark peeled away, he dashed home to show his father what good work he had done.
Bald Eagle smiled. “That is fine, my son, but now we must have the withes to tie the ends of the frame together.”
Sleeping Bear squatted upon the ground and began to cut thin strips from the basswood. He worked very carefully until he had cut a very, very thin strip from the sapling. Then he cut another and another, until he had a good supply. Picking them all up, he walked to where his father was working and proudly he said:
“Here, father, are the strips you can use for withes.”
Without looking up, Bald Eagle said, “That is fine, my son. How many have you cut for me?”
“I have cut about thirty,” said Sleeping Bear.
Bald Eagle looked up. Reaching toward his son’s outstretched hands, he grasped the basswood strips.
“These will make very fine fishing lines, my son, but they are much too thin for withes. You must make them thicker, so that they will hold the frame in the position we want.” Handing the strips back to Sleeping Bear, Bald Eagle smiled and continued to work upon the frame of the wigwam.
Sadly, Sleeping Bear turned and headed back into the forest to find more basswood saplings. As he walked along, he was not thinking about the basswood, but about how foolish he had felt when his father told him that the strips he had cut were too thin. He kicked at the pebbles and was very angry with himself. He did not realize that he had walked quite a distance from the village, until suddenly it got very dark.
Looking up, Sleeping Bear realized that he was close to the swamp area and that he must have come quite a distance. Slowly, he turned and started back along the trail looking to either side for basswood saplings. Finally, he saw two or three set back in the forest a short way. Leaving the trail, he reached the saplings and started to cut them down and trim them. He had out two when there was a low growl behind him. Turning, he saw a bear standing on his hind feet and testing the air for scent with his snout.
Sleeping Bear was suddenly very frightened. Crouching low to the ground, he began to edge his way toward the path again. Soon he reached the path. Then he began to run until he was safe in the camp once again. Dashing up to his father he stood a minute catching his breath, and then he blurted out the story of the bear.
Bald Eagle put his arm around his son’s shoulders and said:
“You see how much trouble can be brought on by one foolish mistake? If you had watched your father carefully, you would have known how to make a withe the right thickness. Because you were angry, you did not look for basswood saplings close to home, but wandered deep into the forest and almost became the dinner of brother bear. Rushing to escape the bear, you left your basswood saplings behind. So the task of making withes begins all over again. Be careful, my son, that when you do something, you do it right, or if you make a mistake, you do not waste time brooding over it. Better to accept it and go forth to do the job better.”
And so Sleeping Bear learned a great lesson that day.
A small Cherokee lad by the name of White Eagle lived with his father and mother on the shores of a large lake in the Appalachian Mountains. He was a lad of about eleven years. His father, Great Eagle, was known in the tribe as one of the bravest of warriors. In this Cherokee tribe there was much talk of war with other tribes, and the tribe’s highest honors and respect always went to the bravest and most daring warrior.
Not many suns away lived another woodlands tribe, the Eries. This story concerns a young captive from this Erie tribe and White Eagle, the Cherokee boy.
Very rarely did any tribe go so far afield in its hunting, but this one winter food was very scarce for the Cherokees and they traveled quite a distance north in search of additional game. They moved into the hunting grounds of the Iroquois, quickly made their kills, and started for home. On their way, they came upon an Erie boy whom Great Eagle decided to bring home to his tepee as a brother to his son.
The Cherokee tribe lived in a sentry-patrolled, fortified village. When Little Frog, as the Erie lad was called, first saw the village, he was frightened. He realized that he was near the entire tribe of fearful Cherokees whose wars his father had often recounted to him. Great Eagle sensed the boy’s fear and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. Great Eagle took him to his home and introduced him to White Eagle. White Eagle was pleased to have a boy of his own age to play with in his own wigwam. That night there was much dancing and merry-making to celebrate the successful hunting raid into the Iroquois lands.
The following morning Great Eagle roused the boys to tell them that today they would go in search of small game to improve their shooting ability. Each boy was given a small amount of food, and they started off for the forest with Great Eagle. Little Frog began to look upon Great Eagle as his father and felt happy. His own father had been killed in an early tribal raid.
As they padded through the forest, they could hear the cry of wild birds and every now and then the snapping of a twig. Great Eagle signaled with his hand for the two youngsters to wait. Then he moved off to the side to investigate the noise; but once again he returned to the trail, indicating that the game they were after was not to be seen.
When the sun had risen high in the heavens, Great Eagle decided they would sit and rest and eat some food. As they were eating, Little Frog asked White Eagle, “Do you often travel with your father?” White Eagle replied, “Right now I am being trained by my father to become a great warrior.”
The Erie boy was very much impressed with this and thought of himself how wonderful it would be if he had a father. White Eagle then asked Little Frog, “Do you miss your village and your people?” “No,” Little Frog replied, “because in my village I was not wanted by anyone. My father had been killed in battle. My mother died of a great sickness and I was cast out of my father’s wigwam by a new brave. I was made to work for myself to get food and to live as best I could.” White Eagle realized then how lucky he was to have such a fine warrior father as Great Eagle.
After drinking some water to wash down the dried deer meat, Great Eagle arose and the boys stood up quickly, and they started forward. The brave signaled the boys to follow him more softly now. Little Eagle noticed that they were approaching a stream where beaver had built their dams and homes. As they approached the stream, Great Eagle pointed to the brush where the boys should wait while he looked about for the beaver. Not having seen any, Great Eagle returned to where the boys were hidden and told them they would start back to the village and search for wild turkeys and rabbits. White Eagle felt a slight disappointment at not having been able to try out his new arrows on the beaver, but he trusted the wisdom of his father. So he and Little Frog returned along the trail with Great Eagle.
When they had almost reached the edge of the forest, Great Eagle stopped and pointed into the brush at the side of the trail. There, crouching in hiding, was a small cotton-tail rabbit. Quickly, White Eagle raised his bow and let fly an arrow. The rabbit took one leap and fell dead. White Eagle was so excited that he danced up and down, shouting at the top of his lungs that he had made his kill. Great Eagle quieted his son and then looked slowly in Little Frog’s direction. Approaching the rabbit, Great Eagle noticed that two arrows had struck it. He knew that Little Frog must have shot his arrow at the same time as White Eagle. White Eagle and Little Frog began to argue about whose arrow had really killed the rabbit. Naturally, each claimed that his arrow had made the kill.
Great Eagle was at a loss as to just what to do. He was always fair in his decisions and did not want to favor one boy over the other, especially because it involved his son. So Great Eagle said, “Let us agree; say that each of your arrows shared in killing the rabbit, for I can see that you are both like stubborn elm trees—and you are both better with your bows than I had thought.”
With that, Great Eagle picked up the rabbit and put it in his pouch and the three of them started for home. Both boys seemed quite happy now that Great Eagle had made the decision. However, that night Little Frog leaned over in his bed and tapped White Eagle’s shoulder. “White Eagle,” he said, “what does your father mean when he says we are like the stubborn elm?” “Tomorrow morning,” said White Eagle, “I will show you what my father meant.” With that the boys went to sleep.
The following morning when they arose, Little Frog was impatient to learn why Great Eagle had called them stubborn like the elm, and he quickly reminded White Eagle of his promise of the night before. Hand in hand, they started for the great forest. As they went along, White Eagle kept breaking branches of the different trees along the way. Little Frog was imitating White Eagle as they walked until they came upon a small young elm tree. White Eagle did his best to break the elm tree, but all it did was bend. Then Little Frog tried to help him break the tree; but despite their weight and strength, it still only bent.
Just then they heard a voice behind them and Great Eagle stepped up and placed his hands on the shoulders of both boys.
“Now,” he said, “you have found the reason why I called you stubborn as the elm. Many, many of the trees of the forest can be broken and forced to the earth. But the elm tree will bend and not break unless the strength of several braves is put upon it. So it is with two proud young Indian boys who both believe they are right, putting their equal strength against each other in an argument. Neither gives way, just as the elm will not give away. If I attempted to add my strength on either side of the argument, the other might have bent to the earth like the elm if we all put our weight upon it. So remember this tree. As long as you believe honestly that you are right, you can be strong and straight like the elm tree; but once you leave the path of truth and wisdom you become weak and brittle, and your enemy can bow you to the ground in shame and defeat.”
This story was told to the author by James Ariga, a boy of part Cherokee blood, at the Ten Mile River Scout Reservation in the year 1947.
This story was told to the author by James Ariga, a boy of part Cherokee blood, at the Ten Mile River Scout Reservation in the year 1947.
Winter had come to the many Indian villages in the northeastern woodlands, and with it, the snow, the wind, and the cold. The winter was so severe that even the strongest braves hesitated to wander far from their villages, knowing that death could overtake an adventurous brave if a sudden blizzard should catch him far from familiar ground.
This story is about two such adventurous young Oneida Indians that winter. Naltan and Ceysoda were outstanding young boys of their tribe. Time and time again before winter set in, they had taken part in the games and contests of the tribe, and one or the other had won each time. This had continued until the other young boys in the village decided that Naltan and Ceysoda were just too good for them, and that something must be done to prevent their running away with all the prizes.
So one fall day, when they were sure that Ceysoda and Naltan were not around, all the youngsters gathered to discuss a plan. On the following day, there were to be foot races in the village. The group plotted that at the start of the foot race, two of the faster young braves would trip Naltan and Ceysoda so that they would fall and thus be put out of the race. The boys who had tripped them would be scored out of the race, too, but at least they would have the satisfaction of knowing that someone besides Naltan and Ceysoda would win the foot race for a change.
Just at that moment they saw Naltan coming around one of the wigwams, and they all started walking away in different directions. Naltan walked up to one of the leaders of the group and asked:
“What have I missed, friend Beartooth? Ceysoda and I have been busy repairing and sharpening our hunting weapons. We did not know that there was to be a meeting of all the boys of the village.”
Beartooth was quick to recover from his surprise and then in a very calm voice said:
“Oh, Naltan, that was no meeting of all the boys. It was merely a few of us talking about the foot races tomorrow and the weather. It has been very cold, and soon winter will be here with her snow and winds and bitter cold. Tomorrow we are going to have the foot races. So we were talking about who we thought would be victorious.”
“Do you think there are any among you who can defeat Ceysoda and me in the foot race, Beartooth? If you do, you had better forget about it,” Naltan boasted. “Ceysoda and I will win the race tomorrow, as we always do.”
“We shall see,” said Beartooth with a note of warning in his voice. “We shall see.” Then he turned and walked away from Naltan toward his father’s wigwam.
Naltan shrugged his shoulders and, thinking no more about it, dashed off to find Ceysoda. He looked all around the camp and finally found him practicing with his bow and arrow a short distance from the village. Naltan told him what Beartooth had said. Ceysoda was silent for a few moments, thinking.
“Naltan, my friend,” he said, “I have a strange feeling that our brothers plot against us. I have no good reason for feeling this way, but I can’t help it. For some reason our friends have planned a way to make us lose the race. What it is and how I know I cannot tell you, but the feeling is upon me.”
“You are foolish, Ceysoda. The fact that we have won many contests and games from our friends surely wouldn’t give them a reason to plot any harm.”
“I do not say that they want to harm us; but in some way they will try to make sure we do not win the foot races tomorrow. Wait and see, Naltan.”
The two boys spoke no further and soon it was time to return to their wigwams for the evening meal. When Naltan and his father had finished eating, Naltan told his father that he would like to get his advice. So father and son sat down by the blazing coals of the fire in the middle of their wigwam.
“Father,” Naltan began, “today Ceysoda told me that our friends were planning some trick to make us lose in the foot race tomorrow. He also said that he did not know why he had this feeling, but he did have it. Surely, father, our friends would not try to harm us?”
“No, my son, I do not believe that your friends would want to harm you, but is there any reason that you would have to believe that what your friend Ceysoda tells you might be true?”
“No, father, there isn’t anything—yes, wait a minute! There might be. Late this afternoon when Ceysoda and I had finished working on our bows, I went down to Beartooth’s wigwam to borrow some thongs for my moccasins. Just as I reached the small clearing near Beartooth’s home, I saw almost all of our friends gathered together talking; but when they saw me they scattered, each one heading for his own home. When I questioned Beartooth about it, he said that they had been talking about the coming winter and the foot races tomorrow, and had just finished when I arrived.”
“Well, do not worry about it, my son. Whoever is strongest and fastest will win tomorrow. It will soon be time for bed. Go out and play for a little while, but when your mother calls, come to bed, for you will need your rest for the foot races.” With that Naltan’s father rose to leave.
“You know, father, my thoughts became so confused when I saw the crowd of boys that I forgot to ask Beartooth for the thongs. I will go down now before he goes to sleep so that I may work a little more on my bow tonight before I go to sleep.”
Naltan left his home and walked quickly to Beartooth’s home. As he neared Beartooth’s wigwam he heard voices. Beartooth was talking to one of the other young braves. “Yes, that’s right,” he was saying, “make sure that you are next to Naltan at the start of the race tomorrow. When the signal is given, pretend to trip so that you will fall against Naltan and tumble him to the ground. I will do the same to Ceysoda. Then we can be sure that someone else will win the race.”
Naltan decided that he did not need the extra thong that night, but hurried to see his friend, Ceysoda. Reaching the wigwam where he lived, he called until Ceysoda came to the entrance.
“What do you want, Naltan? It is late and I am tired. I was just about to go to bed.”
“Ceysoda, I have discovered what our friends plan for us tomorrow.” Naltan repeated what he had heard at Beartooth’s wigwam. When he had finished, he waited to see how Ceysoda would take the news. He did not have to wait long, for suddenly Ceysoda’s face took on an angry look. “Those crawling mud worms,” he cried. “Have they become so jealous because they cannot win at the games and contests that they have to use trickery against us? I knew that the feeling I had was a true one. Now we know exactly what they are going to do. But how can we prevent this from happening tomorrow, Naltan?”
“I have a plan,” said Naltan. “Tomorrow when we line up for the race we will ask that the others be given a slight lead over us because we have won so many races. We should be able to tell by what they say to that whether or not they would still try to carry out such a plan.”
“That is a very good idea, Naltan,” said Ceysoda, yawning. “Now I must say goodnight, for I am tired, and we have some hard running ahead of us tomorrow.”
The boys said goodnight. Ceysoda turned back into his wigwam and Naltan started to go home to his own bed. On the way, he wondered whether he should tell his father what had happened. He decided to handle this in his own way, without the help of any adults.
The following day was very crisp and cool. Off to the northwest clouds warned that a snowstorm might be building up. But everyone was too excited to take much notice of anything besides the preparations going on all around for the big foot race. Fathers and sons together made the final inspection of the boys’ clothing for the big race. The boys’ moccasins especially were looked over carefully for any weak spots where the leather might break. A torn moccasin could mean lost time and a lost race.
At last, the call went up through the village for all who were entering the race to gather at the starting line just outside the village on the border of a great meadow. The young boys gathered, joined by their proud fathers, each of whom hoped that his son would cross the finish line first and win the beautiful bone-handled hunting knife which the tribe’s medicine man had offered as the first prize.
When all the contestants had gathered at the starting line, the warrior in charge of the race began to give instructions. He called for the attention of all the runners. At that moment, Ceysoda and Naltan stepped forward and asked that they be allowed to start ten paces behind the others so that this could be a more even race. There were many shouts from the other boys that Ceysoda and Naltan were only boasting. They said that they wanted the two boys to start with them. If Ceysoda and Naltan won the race, all well and good! But if they had to start back and lost the race then someone would always complain that it was not an even race. The warrior in charge then made his decision.
“I believe,” he said, “that Naltan and Ceysoda are being very fair. So far they have won all foot races by a great margin. Now they offer to start late in order to give every one of you a better chance to win. I have no doubt that many of you have been practicing hard for this event, but these two have been practicing just as hard. So it would be a very unfair race unless I did give them a handicap to even up the chances for you all.”
Beartooth knew that if they argued against this ruling, suspicion might be aroused. So he bade his friends be quiet and line up again for the race.
The course for the race this year had been chosen very carefully. The boys were to run across the meadow and into the woods up the game trail until they reached the blaze marked on a fallen birch. Then they were to turn off the trail and head east until they came to the singing rock. That, Naltan knew, was the rock from which water trickled during and after a heavy rain, and made an unusual, almost tinkling sound. At the rock the boys would turn south, break from the forest, cross the meadow, and head for home. The first one to cross the finish line would be declared the winner and receive the coveted hunting knife.
The instructions were clear. The boys waited eagerly. When the warrior had made sure that all were lined up correctly, he gave them the starting signal. Instead of leaping forward, the racers began to mill around. Then several boys broke from the group and started to run along the course. Five young Indian braves, including Beartooth, Naltan, and Ceysoda, could be seen lying on the ground. Naltan and Ceysoda leaped quickly to their feet and began running. They had already lost a great deal of valuable ground, but the desire to win this race now burned especially bright in their hearts. They ran swiftly across the meadow in pursuit of the fast-disappearing figures of the leading braves, while others trailed behind them.
As they reached the woods, they began to overtake the other boys one at a time, because the running became harder as they got deeper into the woods. There were rocks and branches to hinder their way, and the footing was often unsure. As the two boys reached the blazed birch tree they turned eastward and continued swiftly on their way. They soon passed more of the young braves. As they reached the singing rock and turned for home only two boys were still between them and the finish line. When they broke into the open and reached the meadow, the gap between the boys narrowed rapidly, and they were greeted by cheers. It was clear to all that Naltan and Ceysoda would overtake the two leaders. The cheering grew louder when, with a sudden burst of speed, Naltan and Ceysoda passed them and sped across the finish line at exactly the same moment. They were declared winners in a tied race, and each was given a beautiful knife.
After the award was made, Naltan looked around for Beartooth, but could not find him. On the way home, Naltan asked his father if he had seen Beartooth.
“Why, my son,” his father said, “he was standing close to me as you and Ceysoda broke from the woods into the meadow on the last part of the race. Then he disappeared. Why are you so concerned. When you had picked yourself up from the ground and started after the other boys, the warrior in charge of the race spoke to Beartooth. Beartooth confessed his plan which, it seems, did not work out successfully. He will be punished for his plot. There is no need for you to be worried.”
“But I am worried, father, for there is no need to punish Beartooth. What he did was wrong, but I am sure he is sorry. And after all, no harm was done. I will go to him and speak with him and show him that I am not angry. Then I will talk to the warrior who started the race?”
Naltan left his father and went to Beartooth’s house. He called to his friend but there was no answer. When he called again, Beartooth’s mother came out of the wigwam and told him that her son had not returned from the foot race.
“But all the contestants have finished in the race and are home by now. Where could Beartooth have gone? I will look for him.”
Naltan left to find Ceysoda, who was showing his beautiful knife proudly to his many friends.
“Ceysoda,” Naltan called as he drew near. “Come, I must talk with you.” When he finished telling Ceysoda about Beartooth’s not returning home, the two boys went in search of him. They looked all through the village but could not find him anywhere. They asked all the children but they had not seen him. Finally, they found the boy to whom Beartooth had spoken about the plot and who was to have helped him. At first the boy denied knowing anything about where Beartooth might be; but finally after continued questioning from Naltan, the boy told them.
“Beartooth was afraid when the warrior at the racing field told him that he would have to be punished. So while everyone was milling around and shouting at the end of the race, he stole off and ran into the wood. He feared not only the punishment of the warrior and council, but also the punishment that you and Ceysoda would bring down upon him for playing such a trick.”
While they were talking, a few snowflakes began to fall.
“Come,” said Naltan, “we must go after him quickly. From the looks of the sky and this snow, there will be a heavy storm. Beartooth has had little experience with snow. His days alone in the forest have been few. If we do not go after him, he may be lost in the storm and threatened by the wild animals of the forest.”
“I cannot go,” the boy answered. “My father would not allow it. Besides, how would we know where to look?”