John Ermine of the Yellowstone

by Frederic Remington

  CHAPTER IV

  CROOKED-BEAR

  White Weasel's tough body soon recovered from the freezing night'sbattle between the animals. It had never been shielded from theelements, and was meat fed. The horses ate grass, because their stomachswere so formed, but he and the wolves ate meat. They had the canines. Injustice to the wolves, it must be said that all three animalsrepresented in the fight suffered in common; for if the boy had chilledveins, and the ponies torn flanks, many wolves were stiffened out on theprairie with broken ribs, smashed joints or jaws, to die of hunger.Nature brings no soup or warmth to the creature she finds helpless.

  The boy's spiritual nature had been exalted by the knowledge that theGood God had not only held him in His saving arms during the long, cold,snarling night, but He had guaranteed his continual protection andultimate salvation. That is no small thing to any person, but to thewild man, ever in close communion with the passing of the flesh, to beon intimate terms with the something more than human is a solace thatdwellers in the quiescent towns are deadened to. The boy was not taughtphysical fear, but he was taught to stand in abject awe of things hispeople did not understand, and, in consequence, he felt afraid instrange places and at inopportune times.

  One evening, as the family to which White Weasel belonged sat about theblaze of the split sticks in their lodge, Fire-Bear, the medicine-man,entered, and sat down to smoke his talk with the foster-father. Betweenthe long puffs he said: "Crooked-Bear wants us to bring the whiteAbsaroke to him. The hot winds have come down the valley, and the snowhas gone, so we can go to the mountains the next sun. Will you go withme and take the boy? The Absaroke must do as the Crooked-Bear says,brother, or who knows what may happen to us? The old man of the mountainis strong."

  After blinking and smoking for a time the foster-father said: "The boy'sand Crooked-Bear's skins are of the same color; they are bothSparrowhawks in their hearts. His heart may be heavy out there alone inthe mountains--he may want us to leave the boy by his fire.Ba-cher-hish-a would mourn if this were done. I fear to go, brother, butmust if he ask it. We will be ready when the morning comes."

  When the dark teeth of the eastern mountains bit into the gray ofapproaching day, the two old Indians and the boy were trotting along,one behind the other. The ponies slithered in the pools and littlerivulets left by the melted snow, but again taking the slow, steady,mountainous, stiff-legged, swinging lope across the dry plain, they atethe flat miles up, as only those born on the desert know how to do.

  The boy had often heard of the great Crow medicine-man up in themountains near where the tribe hovered. He seldom came to their lodges,but the Indians frequently visited him. Weasel had never seen him, forthe boys of the camp were not permitted to go near the sacred placeswhere the old man was found. He had requested this of the chiefs, andthe Absaroke children drank the mystery and fear of him with theirmothers' milk. He was one of the tribal institutions, a matter ofcourse; and while his body was denied them, his advice controlled in thecouncil-lodges. His were the words from God.

  Weasel was in the most tremendous frame of mind about this venture. Hewas divided between apprehension and acute curiosity. He had left hismother sobbing, and the drawn face of his father served only to tightenhis nerves. Why should the great man want to see White Weasel, who wasonly a herd-boy? Was it because his hair and his eyes were not the colorof other boys'? He was conscious of this difference. He knew the traderswere often red and yellow like him, and not brown and black as theother people were. He did not understand the thing, however. No one hadever said he was anything else than an Absaroke; he did not feelotherwise.

  Approaching the mountains, the travellers found the snow again, andclimbed more slowly along the game-trails. They had blinded their pathby following up a brook which made its way down a coulee. No one leftthe road to Crooked-Bear's den open to the prowling enemy. That wasalways understood. Hours of slow winding took them high up on themountains, the snow growing deeper and less trodden by wild animals,until they were among the pines. Making their way over fallen logs,around jagged boulders, and through dense thickets, they suddenlydropped into a small wooded valley, then up to the foot of the toweringterraces of bare rock, checkered with snow, where nothing came inwinter, not even the bighorns.

  Soon Weasel could smell fire, then dogs barked in the woods up in front.Fire-Bear called loudly in deep, harsh Indian tones, and was answered bya man. Going forward, they came first to the dogs,--huge, boldcreatures,--bigger and different than any Weasel had ever seen. Then hemade out the figure of a man, low in tone and softly massed against thesnow, and beside him a cabin made of logs set against the rock wall.

  This was Crooked-Bear. Weasel's mind had ceased to act; only his blueeyes opened in perfect circles, seemed awake in him, and they werefixed on the man. The big dogs approached him without barking,--a badsign with dogs. Weasel's mind did not concern itself with dogs. Inresponse to strange words from the white medicine-man they drew away.Weasel sat on his pony while the older men dismounted and greetedCrooked-Bear. They did not shake hands--only "hat-wearers" did that. Whyshould an Indian warrior lose the use of his right hand for even aninstant? His hand was only for his wife and children and his knife.

  In response to the motion of his father's hand, the boy slid off hispony. Taking him by the shoulder, the father drew him slowly towardCrooked-Bear until they were directly in each other's presence. Weasel'seyes could open no farther. His whole training was that of an Indian. Hewould not have betrayed his feelings under any circumstances; he wasalso a boy, and the occasion was to him so momentous that he wasreceiving impressions, not giving them. A great and abiding picture wasfast etching itself on his brain; his spongelike child-mind drank upevery drop of the weird situation.

  He had seen a few white men in his life. He had not forgotten VirginiaCity, though terror had robbed him of his powers of observation duringthat ordeal. He had seen the traders at the post; he had seen the fewwhite or half-white men who lived with his people, but they were notlike this one.

  The old man of the mountain[4] was crooked as his name implied. He alsosuggested a bear. He looked rude even to the Indians. It seemed thatNature had laid her hands on his shoulder and telescoped him together.He was humpbacked. His arms and legs were as other men's are, though hisshortened body made his hands fall to his knees.

  [4] Old timers in Montana may remember a deformed man of wild mien andpicturesque apparel who used to come into the mountain towns (there werenone on the plains then) at rare intervals to do a little trading, withgold dust in payment. He would then depart for the Indian country, whichwas almost totally unknown to the mining people, and was often followedas far as white men dared to go. He was always a mystery. The Indianshad driven the old trapping-men from the country, upon the approach ofthe white tide, and as yet the buffalo-hunter and cow-boy had not madetheir appearance.

  He was dressed in Indian buckskin, greased to a shine and bronzed bysmoke. He leaned on a long breech-loading rifle, and carried a hugeknife and revolver in his belt. His hat was made of wolfskin after theIndian fashion, from underneath which fell long brown hair, carefullycombed, in profuse masses. Seen closely he was not old--merely pastmiddle life. His strong features were weather-stained and care-hardened.They were sculptured with many an insistent dig by Nature, the greatartist; she had gouged deep under the brows; she had been lavish in thetreatment of the nose; she had cut the tiger lines fearlessly, but shehad covered the mouth and lost the lower face in a bush of beard. Moreclosely, the whole face was open, the eyes mild, and all about it wasreposeful--sad resolution dominated by a dome of brain. Weasel warmedunder the gaze of the kind face--the eyes said nothing but good; theydid more than that: they compelled him to step forward toward thestrange figure, who put his hand on Weasel's shoulder and led himtenderly in the direction of the cabin door. Weasel had lost his fearand regained the use of his mind.

  As the men stooped almost on hands and knees to enter the den ofCrooked-Bear, they were greeted by the acrid
smell of smouldering ashes,and probably by other odors native to their noses. Crooked-Bear stirredthe ashes and laid split wood on them. It was pine which spat and brokeout in a bright flame, painting the wild figures against the smoked logsand rock wall. It illumined a buffalo-covered bunk, piles of _parfleche_full of dried meat, a saddle and pack panniers, cooking pots and pans onthe hearth, all deeply sooted, a table and chair made with an axe, andin one corner some shelves, equally rude, piled with brown and dirtybooks. Many small knick-knacks intruded their useful presence as onelooked with more care, but the whole was the den of a man of some remotecentury. The sabre-toothed tiger might snarl at the door but for theSharp's rifle standing in the corner; that alone made time and distance.

  "Your ponies must starve to-night, brother," spoke Crooked-Bear. "Go putthem in my house where the horses live in summer-time. It is cold uphere in the mountains--we have even no cottonwoods for them to eat. Thebear and the wolves will not spring on them, though the big cats areabout." All this said the white man in the language of the Absaroke,though it may be said it sounded strange in Weasel's ear. When he spoketo the dogs, the boy could not understand at all.

  While the Indians looked after their ponies, the white man roasted meatand boiled coffee. On their return, seeing him cooking, Fire-Bear said:"Brother, you should have a squaw to do that. Why do you not takeBe-Sha's daughter? She has the blood of the yellow-eyes in her. Shewould make your fire burn."

  "Tut, tut," he replied, "no woman would make my fire burn. My fire hasgone out." With a low laugh, Crooked-Bear added, "No woman would staylong up here, brothers; she would soon run away." Fire-Bear saidnothing, for he did not understand. He himself would follow and beat thewoman and make her come back, but he did not say so.

  Having eaten, and passed the pipe, Fire-Bear asked the hermit how thewinter was passing--how the dry meat was lasting--what fortune had he inhunting, and had any enemies beset him? He was assured his good friends,the Absaroke, had brought him enough dry meat, after the last fall hunt,to last him until he should no longer need it. The elk were below him,but plentiful, and his big dogs were able to haul enough up the hills onhis sleds. He only feared for his tobacco, coffee, and ammunition; thathad always to be husbanded, being difficult to get and far to carry.Further, he asked his friend, the Indian, to take some rawhides back tothe women, to be dressed and made into clothes for his use.

  "Has my brother any more talking papers from the yellow-eyes? Do thewhite men mean to take the Sioux lands away from them? The Sioux askedthe Absaroke last fall to help drive the white men out of the country,saying, 'If they take our lands to dig their badger-holes in, they willsoon want yours.' The Absaroke would not help the Cut-Throats[5]; forthey are dogs--they wag their tails before they bite," spoke Fire-Bear.

  [5] The Sioux.

  "Yes, brother," replied Crooked-Bear; "if you should, by aiding theSioux, get rid of the white men, and even this you would not be able todo,--you would still have the Sioux, who are dogs, always ready to biteyou. No, brother, have nothing to do with them, as I have counselledyou. The Sak-a-war-te said this to me: 'Before the grass on the plainsshoots, send a strong, fat-horse war-party to the enemy and strike hard.Sweep their ponies away--they will be full of sticks and bark, not ableto carry their warriors that moon; tear their lodges down and put theirfires out; make their warriors sit shivering in the plum bushes. That isthe way for the Crows to have peace.' The Great Spirit has said to me:'Tell the Absaroke that they can never run the buffalo on the plains inpeace, until the Chis-chis-chash, the Dakotahs, and the Piegan dare notlook them in the face. That, and that only, is the path.'"

  Far into the night the men talked of the tribal policy--it wasdiminutive statesmanship, commercial politics with buffalo meat formoney. As Crooked-Bear sat on his hewn chair, he called the boy to him,put his arm around him, and stood him against his knee. The youth's headrose above the rugged face of the master of Indian mystery; he was inhis first youth, his slender bones had lengthened suddenly in the lastfew years, and the muscles had tried hard to catch up with them. Theyhad no time to do more than that, consequently Weasel was more beautifulthan he would ever be again. The long lines of grace showed under thetight buckskins, and his face surveyed the old man with boyish wonder.Who can know what the elder thought of him in return? Doubtless hedreamed of the infinite possibilities of so fine a youth. He whose firehad gone out mused pleasantly as he long regarded the form in whom theywere newly lighted.

  "HE CALLED THE BOY TO HIM AND PUT HIS ARM AROUND HIM."]

  Slowly he began to speak, using the Indian forms of speech, andsupplementing them with the gestures which only Indians can command."Brother, we have lived a long time. We have made the medicine strongfor the Absaroke. We have taken the words of the Good Gods to thecouncil-lodge when the tribe ran wildly and knew not which way to turn.We will follow soon the others who have gone to the Shadowland. TheAbsaroke will be left behind, and they must have wise men to guidethem when we are gone. This young man will be one of those--I have seenthat in my dreams. He must stay here with me in the lonely mountains,and I will teach him the great mystery of the white men, together withthat of the people of his own tribe. He will visit his father's lodgewhenever his heart is hungry. He owes it to himself and to his people togrow strong in the mystery, and then some day the tribe will lean onhim. Shall he stay, brothers?"

  White Weasel, with arms dropped to his side, made no move. The flamefrom the hearth lighted one of his starlike eyes as it stood open,regardful of the strange old man. The Indians passed the pipe, and for along time there was no sound save the snapping of the fire and the pinesoutside popping with the cold.

  At last Fire-Bear spoke: "We have had our ears open, brother. Your talkis good. The Sak-a-war-te demands this. The boy shall stay."

  Weasel's foster-father held his peace. His was the sacrifice, but theGreat Spirit could not ask too much of him. In reply to another inquiry,he said that the boy should stay; then wrapping himself in his robe, helay down before the fire to hide his weakness.

  "Will you stay with me?" asked the Wonder-Worker of the boy, strokinghis yellow hair and pouring the benevolence of his fire-lighted face ina steady stream on the youth.

  "You have no ponies to herd, father. What shall I do?" he asked.

  "I have no ponies for you to herd, but I have many mysteries here,"tapping the boy's forehead with his finger, "for you to gather up andfeed on, and they are greater than ponies."

  "I will stay, father."