American Indian Stories

turned away in sobs.

“The young people rivet their eyes upon the young woman. She does not stir. With bowed head, she sits motionless. The old warrior speaks to her. ‘Shake hands with the young brave, my little daughter. He was your brother’s friend for many years. Now he must be both friend and brother to you,’

“Hereupon the girl rises. Slowly reaching out her slender hand, she cries, with twitching lips, ‘My brother!’ The trial ends.”

“Grandmother!” exploded the girl on the bed of sweetgrass. “Is this true?”

“Tosh!” answered the grandmother, with a warmth in her voice. “It is all true. During the fifteen winters of our wedded life many ponies passed from our hands, but this little winner, Ohiyesa, was a constant member of our family. At length, on that sad day your grandfather died, Ohiyesa was killed at the grave.”

Though the various groups of stars which move across the sky, marking the passing of time, told how the night was in its zenith, the old Dakota woman ventured an explanation of the burial ceremony.

“My grandchild, I have scarce ever breathed the sacred knowledge in my heart. Tonight I must tell you one of them. Surely you are old enough to understand.

“Our wise medicine-man said I did well to hasten Ohiyesa after his master. Perchance on the journey along the ghostpath your grandfather will weary, and in his heart wish for his pony. The creature, already bound on the spirit-trail, will be drawn by that subtle wish. Together master and beast will enter the next campground.”

The woman ceased her talking. But only the deep breathing of the girl broke the quiet, for now the night wind had lulled itself to sleep.

“Hinnu! hinnu! Asleep! I have been talking in the dark, unheard. I did wish the girl would plant in her heart this sacred tale,” muttered she, in a querulous voice.

Nestling into her bed of sweet-scented grass, she dozed away into another dream. Still the guardian star in the night sky beamed compassionately down upon the little tepee on the plain.

A Warrior’s Daughter

In the afternoon shadow of a large tepee, with red-painted smoke lapels, sat a warrior father with crossed shins. His head was so poised that his eye swept easily the vast level land to the eastern horizon line.

He was the chieftain’s bravest warrior. He had won by heroic deeds the privilege of staking his wigwam within the great circle of tepees.

He was also one of the most generous gift givers to the toothless old people. For this he was entitled to the red-painted smoke lapels on his cone-shaped dwelling. He was proud of his honors. He never wearied of rehearsing nightly his own brave deeds. Though by wigwam fires he prated much of his high rank and widespread fame, his great joy was a wee black-eyed daughter of eight sturdy winters. Thus as he sat upon the soft grass, with his wife at his side, bent over her bead work, he was singing a dance song, and beat lightly the rhythm with his slender hands.

His shrewd eyes softened with pleasure as he watched the easy movements of the small body dancing on the green before him.

Tusee is taking her first dancing lesson. Her tightly-braided hair curves over both brown ears like a pair of crooked little horns which glisten in the summer sun.

With her snugly moccasined feet close together, and a wee hand at her belt to stay the long string of beads which hang from her bare neck, she bends her knees gently to the rhythm of her father’s voice.

Now she ventures upon the earnest movement, slightly upward and sidewise, in a circle. At length the song drops into a closing cadence, and the little woman, clad in beaded deerskin, sits down beside the elder one. Like her mother, she sits upon her feet. In a brief moment the warrior repeats the last refrain. Again Tusee springs to her feet and dances to the swing of the few final measures.

Just as the dance was finished, an elderly man, with short, thick hair loose about his square shoulders, rode into their presence from the rear, and leaped lightly from his pony’s back. Dropping the rawhide rein to the ground, he tossed himself lazily on the grass. “Hunhe, you have returned soon,” said the warrior, while extending a hand to his little daughter.

Quickly the child ran to her father’s side and cuddled close to him, while he tenderly placed a strong arm about her. Both father and child, eyeing the figure on the grass, waited to hear the man’s report.

“It is true,” began the man, with a stranger’s accent. “This is the night of the dance.”

“Hunha!” muttered the warrior with some surprise.

Propping himself upon his elbows, the man raised his face. His features were of the Southern type. From an enemy’s camp he was taken captive long years ago by Tusee’s father. But the unusual qualities of the slave had won the Sioux warrior’s heart, and for the last three winters the man had had his freedom. He was made real man again. His hair was allowed to grow. However, he himself had chosen to stay in the warrior’s family.

“Hunha!” again ejaculated the warrior father. Then turning to his little daughter, he asked, “Tusee, do you hear that?”

“Yes, father, and I am going to dance tonight!”

With these words she bounded out of his arm and frolicked about in glee. Hereupon the proud mother’s voice rang out in a chiding laugh.

“My child, in honor of your first dance your father must give a generous gift. His ponies are wild, and roam beyond the great hill. Pray, what has he fit to offer?” she questioned, the pair of puzzled eyes fixed upon her.

“A pony from the herd, mother, a fleet-footed pony from the herd!” Tusee shouted with sudden inspiration.

Pointing a small forefinger toward the man lying on the grass, she cried, “Uncle, you will go after the pony tomorrow!” And pleased with her solution of the problem, she