Brush, Edwin, and the rest of my companions lingered awhile in the schoolroom to keep me company; but as they had work to do they could not stay long, so I was left alone to struggle with a lot of ugly fractions. My thoughts ran in every direction, off to my home, to the boys at play, and anywhere but on my task. I made a desperate effort to bring myself around to the problem that held me a prisoner by keeping a steady gaze into the deep blue sky through the open window, and then slowly the solution of that detestable sum came to my mind, and I had it. I put it on my slate, compared it with the answer left me by Graybeard, found it correct, and my work was done.
I arose, put my books away, and stood near the teacher’s desk wondering what to do next, when all of a sudden the door burst open and in rushed a little boy, crying. He was without his hat, his coat unbuttoned, and shoestrings untied. Following swiftly on the little chap came a large boy who, for some reason, was angered at the fleeing lad, and was now pursuing to punish him. The little boy ran around the stove, then toward me and got behind me. The big boy pushed on in his vengeful pursuit, and reached to grasp the object of his anger when I struck at him with my fist. The blow fell on his forehead, he stood for a moment stunned; then he sprang at me; we dealt each other blow after blow, and in our mad charges we knocked over benches and desks. How it happened I do not know, for in my excitement I could not tell where I struck him, or where he struck me, but suddenly my antagonist put his hands to his stomach, doubled over and could not breathe. I became frightened. At length, with a succession of hiccups, the boy recovered his breath, picked up his hat, and went out.
I straightened out the benches and desks that we had knocked over, and then sat down to cool off. When I had rested, I called to the round-headed little chap who stood trembling in the corner holding up his trousers, for in his attempts to escape he had lost the buttons to his pants, “What did you do to that boy; what did he want to hit you for?”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” he answered, hitching up his garments as he came toward me.
“What’s your name?”
“Robert Brown.”
“Where you live?”
“In your village, in that little house near Ou-ni-ja-bi’s.”
“That’s Ne-ma-ha’s house.”
“Yes, that’s my father.”
And so it was the son of that man for whom I was all bruised up.
Ne-ma-ha was the poorest man in my father’s village, and had no recognition among the prominent men of the tribe, although he had been the priest or hereditary keeper of the sacred tent of war. It was only by the performance of valorous deeds that men won honors in the tribe; but this man had no ambition to win such honors. As a hunter he was also a total failure, consequently his worldly possessions were not such as could give him distinction. Like his brother, who was struck by lightning, he deserted his sacred charge through craven superstitious fear, and, having lost his priestly position, he had become a useless member of the tribe.
“What’s your Omaha name?” I asked, as I pinned his trousers to his suspenders with sharp sticks and nails.
“They call me Hae-th’naʻ-ta,” he replied, wiping his face with the end of his coat sleeve.
The youngster belonged to the Elk band of the tribe, hence the boy’s name, the English translation of which is, horns forked, meaning the forked-horned elk. How he came by his English name I do not know.
From this time on the lad was always near me, and gradually became my devoted follower. Although at first I did not care for him much, he finally won my friendship by his faithfulness and good nature. He always assisted me as far as his strength would permit in the work assigned me about the school; thus it was that Little Bob, as he was familiarly known, became a satellite to the group to which I belonged, and so safe from the attacks of the other boys.
Brush, Edwin, Warren, Lester, and I were now recognized by all the boys of the school as a gang, and were spoken of as “the Middle Five.” We had fallen into this close companionship without any formal arrangement, and we were regarded as the strongest group between the Big Seven and the other gangs.
V
Warren
Brush was a genius as a whittler. He had only one tool, and that was a rusty jackknife with a single broken blade, and that blade was kept sharp almost to the keenness of a razor. He would take a shapeless piece of wood, out here, out there, scrape at one place, then at another, and go through a series of twists and turns of his strong, deft hands, and at last, with a triumphant smile, hold up to view a wooden horse, buffalo, or some other animal. He had just now finished a little plough which he had been carving for some time, and we, the Middle Five, sat in the shade of a tree noisily discussing the accuracy of the work.
“Brush, that’s pretty good, it’s just like the ploughs I’ve seen,” I remarked as I passed the toy to Edwin.
“ ’Tain’t good,” said Edwin, after he had examined it a while. “I think the handles are too straight.”
“This ought to be kind of crooked, come down like this,” put in Lester, indicating with
