CHAPTER III
JOHN LIPSKY'S SIGN
After supper, Stafford, feeling clamorously the need of a cigar,strolled back into the smoking compartment. It was already well filled,among the occupants being a Colonel Livingstone, a genial character withwhom Stafford had already become acquainted. He was greeted warmly andseated himself to engage idly in the desultory conversation which wasgoing on.
"I wonder what breed of Indians once inhabited this region?" queried oneof the smokers. "They must have had poor picking."
"I don't know," said the colonel, "Apaches, I imagine."
A drawling voice broke in, the owner of which was a young man, a personof such self-confidence, nerve and general up-to-dateness, that Staffordwhimsically christened him "The Gallus Youth."
"I know an Indian story which is true," said the Gallus Youth. "Do youwant me to tell it?"
There was a general assent, the smokers subsided comfortably in theirseats, and from clouds of smoke the voice proceeded, the whole grouplistening, or at least, if not listening, keeping silence:
JOHN LIPSKY'S SIGN
Probably nothing more strange and puzzling has ever happened, either ina great city or in the country, than what is to be told of here, andwhich relates to both.
When John Lipsky bought the small barber shop on South Clark street itoccurred to him that he might increase his receipts a trifle by puttingin a modest show-case containing cigars and cigarettes and tobacco; forLipsky, while a man with no vices, has a large family to support and iscompelled not only to economize but to devise all means for adding tothe defenses against the wolf at the door. When he bought the barbershop, which contained only two chairs, he was forced to make theinvestment on credit, as was also the case with the cigar and tobaccooutfit. He was forced also to make certain repairs inside the shop, andfound himself then without money and with a business not yetestablished, while the little Lipskys kept on eating and wearing outclothes. He could not afford a barber's pole, though the stripespainted on the door jamb had practically disappeared under the influenceof wind and weather, and, at the same time, put out a sign to make itknown to passers-by that he had cigars for sale. He might afford one ofthe signs, but, assuredly, not both. Then to thrifty John Lipsky came asudden inspiration. Why not combine the signs in one?
And here comes in what seems a key and yet may not be a key tohappenings too remarkable for belief.
Oswald Shornstein is a sculptor working in a great establishment on theWest Side. His specialty in the sculptor's art is the making of woodenIndians. Shornstein's vacation last summer was spent in Wisconsin, wherehe spent much of his idling time in the vicinity of an Indian settlementnear Green Bay. He formed the acquaintance of a prominent member of thedwindling tribe, a tough old hunter known as Keeshamok--which,translated, means "Bounding Bear"--and they were often together, fishingand smoking and loafing throughout the pleasant summer days. WhenShornstein returned to town he entertained a feeling of decidedfriendship for the lazy but interesting Winnebago.
The sculptor's vacation had done him good, and he plunged with vigorinto his work again, the more so because the supply of wooden Indians atthe time was hardly equal to the demand, and within a week he hadproduced a masterpiece.
Shornstein had genius, but, in this case, genius had an inspiration.Ordinarily Shornstein made just an Indian, but now it was different. Itwas a particular Indian which came forth from the wood in response tohis practised handiwork. Fresh in the mind of the artist were the faceand figure of the swarthy Keeshamok, and, almost unconsciously, hereproduced them. The work was done. There upon his pedestal stoodKeeshamok of the Winnebagos!
Meanwhile what of Lipsky? He had resolved to advertise shop and cigarsat one fell swoop; he would buy a wooden Indian and have him paintedgloriously in colored spiral stripes from head to heel! He carried outhis idea promptly and fate ordained it that the wooden Indian bought byLipsky was the image of the Winnebago, Keeshamok. It was paintedaccording to the barber's wildest design, and never was seen such a signbefore! Holy Moses! It would have scared a wolverine! Lipsky had beenwiser than he knew. From failure he had plucked success. The terrifyingsign brought curious customers in scores; cigars sold rapidly and thebusiness of the barber shop required at once another chair.
Meanwhile had come November and hunting was good in the Wisconsin woods.The Indians were alert. Keeshamok and a companion one day killed a deerand dragged it to the nearest village, where they made a sale. Theystaggered forth at dusk each whooping gutturally but joyously, and eachcarrying a mighty jug. They took the forest path for camp and pursued itweavingly but far, until, at last, Keeshamok, somewhat the drunker,proposed a camp upon the spot and consumption of firewater all throughthe deepening night. His companion refused and left him to his owndevices.
Obtruding almost into the roadway projected the end of a mighty hollowlog lying beneath a mountain of smaller logs and brush, and to Keeshamokcame, as he stood there undecided, a novel vision of beatitude. Therewere warmth and shelter. He would creep into the log, and there, withhis jug to comfort him, pass such a night as Indian never passed before!He acted on the glorious impulse.
He crawled far in and stretched himself out upon the soft, dry flakesof rotten wood and took deep draughts of whisky and defied the outsideworld! It was a solitary but a grand debauch. The hours passed and theIndian became almost torpid. He slept a little. The cold intensified andhe awoke and drank again, but was still cold. He comprehended but dimly,yet another idea came to him. He would build a little fire and thatwould warm him! He scraped together a mound of the dry debris beyondhim, and, after many efforts, got a match alight and applied it to theheap, which blazed at once. It warmed him. He took another drink and laydown again and slept.
There appeared next morning beside the wood road a vast gray patch ofsurface upon which could be seen no object larger than a hand. The ashesof the great hollow tree and of the dead trees upon it were siftingthrough the forest with every wind, and with them were blown the ashesof the Indian Keeshamok. He had no body!
That night something happened in South Clark Street in Chicago,something so inexplicable and startling as to pass beyond the realm ofcredibility. At precisely midnight, the striped Indian in front ofLipsky's barber-shop stepped from his pedestal and fled northward,without a sound. So silent and so swift his flight that those whom hemet or passed felt, rather than saw, a flitting thing. The city was leftbehind and still northward across the frozen fields and through thewoods he went. The medicine moccasins of Hiawatha never carried one morewondrously. The farms and forests of far Wisconsin were reached at lastand faded by, and at last before the runner's eyes appeared the cabinsof his kinsmen. What life came to him now! He bounded upward inexaltation! He burst in among the clustered habitations with the wildpiercing whoop of the returning warrior!
"Owannox! wah quah-quah! Kinniwa! Wow, wow, wanny-wanny-Yook! Ek-ek!Laroo!"
Cabin doors burst open, dogs rushed forth, men and squaws dashed out andall was wild commotion. The voice of Keeshamok had been recognized onthe instant. He leaped in among his people joyfully.
Then arose such yells and shrieks as made the very woodland quiver!There was a rush for cabins whose doors were closed and barred within aminute's space. The very dogs, yelping with every leap, fled to theforest. Even they were appalled and recognized but as a spectre themissing Keeshamok. Within the Indian village all was frightful silence.
With bowed head stood the striped wooden Indian in the midst of thecabins. Then he turned his face toward the south and the silent runbegan again. In the morning he stood once more upon his pedestal infront of Lipsky's barber shop.
How can it be accounted for? What psychologist or scientist can explainit? The spirit of Keeshamok lacks, of course, the usual form in which toreappear and do any haunting anywhere, for good or evil, since his bodywas consumed entirely. Does it seek the marvelous imitation made byShornstein as the only substitute? Who, indeed, shall say? There aremany things unknown to us.
And still, each night, the striped Indian runs his futile race and makeshis sad return.
The Cassowary; What Chanced in the Cleft Mountains Page 3