Читать книгу Buddy and the Indian Chief, or, A Boy Among the Navajos - Howard R Garis - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Somewhat to the surprise of Buddy and his father, their three Indian friends did not seem at all alarmed by the shot and the killing of the pony. That the pony was killed was soon evident for it did not get up and the Indian group remained silent around it.

“Why did they kill the pony?” asked Buddy.

“It’s a funeral, an Indian funeral,” said Morzrel.

“Do they have funerals for Indian ponies?” asked Buddy.

“No, but when a Navajo dies it is the old custom to kill his favorite pony and put it in the same grave with him. To some of us younger ones it seems rather cruel and wasteful of a good animal. But it is hard to change the old Indian customs.”

Old Night, or Kotcha, the chief, who had come from his own village to meet his older son, grunted and said something in his own language.

“He says,” translated Morzrel, “that the Indian who has died will need his pony when he gets to the new land where he is going. You cannot change the old customs at once,” went on the young Navajo to Mr. Martyne.

“No, I suppose, you can’t,” agreed Buddy’s father.

They rode slowly to the burial place. There were about twenty Indians, young and old, grouped about an open grave at the bottom of which was a pine coffin. In it lay the body of a young Indian brave. With him in the coffin were his saddle, bridle and quirt. The body was wrapped in new blankets and there were many silver and turquoise ornaments. The dead pony was at the edge of the grave and suddenly some of the burial party, one Indian of whom held a smoking rifle, shoved the animal in with its late master.

“It seems too bad,” said Buddy to Lukah. “Shooting a nice pony like that.”

“I used to think so myself,” remarked Lukah who, having been to the agency school, spoke English as well as did his new chum. The boys had decided on being chums for this new adventure without really making any formal plan about it. Mr. Martyne was glad Buddy would have a companion of his own age on this trip. “Yes, it did seem a little hard at first to have a pony killed every time its master died. But it is what has always been done by my people.”

Lukah spoke rather proudly for he was an Indian boy through and through and he could boast of his ancestors as some of Buddy’s chums back home could boast, of having ancestors who had fought in the Revolutionary war or who had come over in the Mayflower.

“Yes, I guess Indians can’t be like white people,” Buddy agreed.

“In some ways maybe it’s better the Indians aren’t like you white folks—I don’t mean just you and your father but others,” said Lukah, thinking his guest might not like this talk. “The white people are a lot smarter than we are in many ways and they have lots of nice things we haven’t, like airships and automobiles. Most of the white men around here are good to us Indians and do things to help us.

“But after I have learned out of the white man’s books and have gone to his school,” said the Indian boy with a smile, “there are some things I’m glad that I can still be Indian about.”

“What for instance?” asked Buddy.

“Well, one is that I can have my own pony and I can ride around almost as I please and that I can camp out on the desert alone, without being afraid, and I can take care of myself almost anywhere in this reservation country of ours.”

“Yes, that is nice,” Buddy admitted. “I wish you’d teach me some Indian things, like camping out alone and like that. Do you think you and I could take a trip by ourselves?”

“Maybe your father wouldn’t let you.”

“I think he would, with you,” said Buddy. “Does your father, the chief, let you go out alone all night?”

“If I wanted to he would,” said Lukah. “I’ve done it before.”

“Look here, youngster,” said Morzrel, laughing at his small brother, “don’t get too boastful. That isn’t being Indian.” He said something in the Navajo tongue which the old chief heard. He also, spoke to Lukah. Buddy’s new chum listened carefully for a moment, seemed a little put out and then, laughing made reply.

“My father, the chief, told me,” confided Lukah to Buddy, “not to fill you full of big talk about myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think you were doing that,” Buddy said.

“I didn’t mean to,” Lukah answered. “But come on. They’re going and we don’t want to be left behind, even if I do know my way about these foothills.”

The burial was over, most of the Indians who took part in it moving away after the faithful pony had been killed, a few remaining to cover up the dead brave and his mount who, according to the beliefs of the Navajos, would be ready for his master in the distant realm, wherever it is that Indians go after they die.

Mr. Martyne, with the chief and Morzrel, rode on ahead, swinging along the trail away from the grave while Buddy and Lukah brought up in the rear, following the pack animals that carried the camp equipment.

The way was over sandy stretches with, now and then, an outcropping of rocks and some stunted trees and bushes. It was not like traveling in the East where many streams and bodies of water abound. Arizona, in some parts, lacks abundant water.

The Indian agency buildings were soon left behind in a haze of dust, the burial party had been lost sight of amid the low hills and now the five were riding by themselves on the way to several small settlements or villages of the Navajo and Hopi tribes where Mr. Martyne hoped to buy many relics to make up the museum and library exhibit.

Buddy proved to be a very good rider, so much so that Lukah who, like all Western Indians, was almost born in the saddle, complimented him on his ability.

“Do you like horses?” asked the Indian boy.

“I sure do,” said Buddy. “Of course I haven’t ridden so awful much but I want to learn to go fast.”

“You do fine,” said Lukah. “Want to try a little race?”

“Sure!” laughed the red-haired boy.

Away they started, spurring their ponies by clapping their heels against the sides of their mounts. But there were no sharp rowels to wound the animals. No Indian ever uses spurs. But because Buddy wore shoes with hard heels and because Lukah had on soft moccasins, Buddy’s pony received a little harder drubbing than did Lukah’s. So it ran faster and Buddy won the little brush.

“Say, you sure can ride!” declared Lukah.

“I guess I scared my pony with my hard heels, though I didn’t tap him hard enough to hurt him,” Buddy said. “Next time, to make it fair, I’ll use moccasins like yours. Can I get a pair out here?”

“Sure. They’re mighty easy on the feet. I’ll ask my father or brother to get you a pair.”

“Golly! I’ll be like a real Indian!” laughed Buddy. He was beginning to like this trip more and more each moment. It was the sort of life he had long wanted.

Mr. Martyne, riding on ahead, was carrying on a talk with Morzrel and the chief, mostly about the collection to be made and about Indian affairs. Occasionally the chief spoke in halting English but for most of the talk he used Indian and had Morzrel translate.

As Buddy and Lukah urged their ponies back toward the others, following the little race, Buddy heard the chief say:

“Soon we camp.”

“Yes, there’s a good place near a water hole just ahead,” added Morzrel.

“And do we eat then?” asked Buddy.

“Are you getting hungry?” laughed his Indian chum.

“Sure. Aren’t you?”

“I guess I’m always hungry,” admitted Lukah. “It must be the air out here. I don’t any more than get through breakfast than I want dinner and then it seems a long time until supper.”

“I wonder what we’ll have to eat?” Buddy said.

“Nothing very fancy,” was the answer. “You’ll have to get used to plain food when you’re on the march.”

“Oh, I like plain stuff,” said Buddy. “I’ve often cooked for myself and other boys when I’ve been on a hike or camp. I’m not fussy.”

“It’s a good thing,” laughed his dark-faced chum.

They rode in among some low hills and near a small grove of cottonwood trees and bushes the ponies were halted. The riders dismounted, staking out the animals, the pack animals were relieved of their burdens and camp was quickly made. Lukah found an extra pair of moccasins which he gave his new chum.

Almost before Buddy realized it, he saw darkness beginning to gather and then the stars came out, brighter than he had ever seen them before, as they twinkled down on the Indian desert country.