Читать книгу Softfoot of Silver Creek - Robert Leighton - Страница 10

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SOFTFOOT had gone through many of the contests and exercises imposed by custom upon the Indian boy in order to test his ability and prove his physical fitness to endure hardship and live by his unaided wits.

He was naturally healthy, pure-blooded and perfect in constitution. His inborn senses were sharp; but his faculties of eyesight, hearing, smell, touch, and memory were made additionally acute by practice in the scoutcraft and woodcraft which were the essential parts of the redskin’s education.

He was hardly more than an infant when he learnt to ride, to swim, to wrestle, and to follow a trail; and as he grew in strength he gained skill in the use of his limbs in foot-races, jumping contests, riding, scouting, and games in which the lariat and the bow and arrow were necessary implements.

He had no knowledge of the great world of civilization. He was a savage, living in savage surroundings. His books were the picture-writings on the skin-covers of the tribal wigwams; his limited language was helped by the use of signs. He could communicate with a stranger without uttering a word.

Living an outdoor life close to nature, he had no need for what we call scholarship. But he was not ignorant. His wits were sharpened by conflict with the wits of the beasts and birds. Constantly watching the animals in their native haunts and trying to learn how they would act in particular circumstances, he knew their habits better than he knew anything else, and so became an expert naturalist.

It was his work in following on the trail of the wild creatures he pursued that made him so astonishingly alert as a tracker, so clever in taking cover and hiding his own tracks, so quick in noticing signs and finding his way unerringly through the uncharted forest and across the pathless prairie.

When Softfoot was still a young boy, he was guilty of an act of disobedience. It was in the season of leaf-falling. He was told by Morning Bird to go out on the prairie with the squaws and their pack-horses to gather buffalo chips for fuel; but he escaped from the task and wandered into the forest glades to play with a family of kit foxes. Disobedience was as grave an offence as telling a lie. His punishment was severe, but it was not an unusual one, and Softfoot only regarded it as a glorious opportunity for the enjoyment of his full liberty.

He was taken out at night to the prairie and there stripped of all clothing—stripped of everything but his knife—and told to go away and fend for himself, alone and unhelped, until someone should come and find him. Naked, and with no weapon but his knife, he was abandoned to his own resources, forbidden to return to the lodges!

Two or three weeks passed. Morning Bird, becoming very anxious lest some misfortune had happened to him, had a search party of young scouts sent out to look for him beyond the prairie. The scouts were not surprised when they discovered Softfoot living in a comfortable wicky-up teepee on one of the distant reaches of Silver Creek. He was wearing rough doeskin breeches and moccasins, eating cooked food, while he pointed the shafts of his newly made arrows in front of his camp-fire.

No one had been near him in the interval. He had done everything for himself, having nothing to start with but his knife, his knowledge of woodcraft, and his resourceful skill as a scout who was compelled by necessity to depend upon his own ingenuity for food and shelter.

Every able-bodied Pawnee boy in Great Bear’s village was expected to be capable of doing as much. They were encouraged to go out into the wilds on scouting expeditions which often lasted many days, during which the young redskins exercised their skill in tracking one another over the mountains, across wide stretches of rolling prairie or through mysterious forest and gloomy cañon where actual dangers lurked. And always they hunted their own food and built their own shelter.

It had been planned before the occasion of the buffalo hunt that Softfoot and three of his companions should make a camping trip down Silver Creek. Weasel Moccasin was to have been their leader. But he was now disabled by his accident. No bones had been broken; but he had lost remembrance of everything. His brain was a blank.

“He will be very sorry,” said Softfoot. “But he would not wish us to lose our scouting game. We will go without him. Little Antelope will come.”

“Why not Wenonah?” suggested Prairie Owl, who was her younger brother. “Wenonah is a good scout. She knows the secrets of Silver Creek. She can use the canoe paddle as well as she can ride a wild pony.”

“She could cook our meat,” added Mosquito Child. “She could mend our moccasins.”

“Wenonah goes out with the other Pawnee women to gather berries and camas roots for the winter,” Softfoot objected. “Little Antelope will come. I have spoken.”

During the warm days of yellow-grass, the boys had built for themselves a stout birch-bark canoe, and Softfoot had painted a big red eye on either side of its tall prow, so that it might find its way through the unfamiliar creeks and keep guard against mischievous water-sprites.

It was a good canoe. Everything about it had been ready before the coming of the buffalo, and now that the herd had disappeared and the camp was crowded with meat and robes, there was no need for any beaver trapping or antelope hunting for the supply of food.

They launched the canoe below the cataract of Rising Mist and loaded it with a small teepee and its poles, some dried buffalo meat and pemmican, their traps and snares, and cooking pots. Each boy took his bow and a good supply of hunting arrows, his knife, tomahawk and blanket; and each had his own fire-stick. Softfoot had wanted to take his wolf-cub, but he decided to leave it for Morning Bird to care for with his other pets.

They did not intend to go beyond the wilds of the Great Bear Reservation, which was their only world, but to pitch their camp in some sheltered woodland glade beside Silver Creek, where they would get fishing, trapping, and hunting to their heart’s content while living a simple, healthy life and pretending that they were an independent tribe of Indians.

Such a pitch was found in the evening of their first day’s absence. They erected their skin-covered wigwam on the high, grassy ground above the laughing water, in the midst of giant pines and grey-boled cottonwood trees.

They gathered soft balsam branches for their beds and kindled a fire of fir-cones and sweet-smelling spruce-wood, over which they cooked their buffalo meat. Softfoot was the responsible chief, and he kept strict order according to the usages and customs of their tribe. He raised his totem pole, made a wakam pit for refuse, and issued laws for keeping the camp clean and wholesome, each of his braves having special duties.

Their outfit contained nothing that was unnecessary. Even their store of food was limited. They were to hunt their own food. But there was a rich abundance. Ripe meenahga and odahmin berries grew in plenty near their lodge. In a hollow fir tree they found a hive of bees with great combs of honey; and the water of the creek was pure and cool for drink. They had everything they needed, everything they could desire. They were happy, and they sang songs, and danced around their fire.

Before nightfall they laid their snares and traps and kindled their mosquito smudge, and as the shadows deepened, they crept into their teepee and were lulled to sleep by the chirping of insects and the loud, clear notes of the whip-poor-will.

After their bathe in the morning, while Softfoot was cooking a salmon caught in the creek, his companions having gone round the line of traps, Little Antelope came running back to the lodge.

“We have caught nothing!” he announced in dismay. “Our traps are empty!”

“Ugh! You did not set them well,” said Softfoot. “Or perhaps it is that the animals get so much food that your bait does not tempt them. The forest is crowded with animals. Their tracks and runways are everywhere. I heard many animals moving and talking in the night.”

“Our traps have been sprung,” said Little Antelope. “But the animals and bait have been stolen. Prairie Owl thinks that some Indian has stolen them.”

“My medicine tells me that we are alone in this forest,” said Softfoot, turning the heavy fish with the tongs he had made of a supple cane of willow. “Let the Pawnees come into camp and eat of this good fish. To-night they will bait only one trap, and set no snares. Softfoot will discover the thief.”

When night came, after a long day’s prowling in the woodland, he bade his braves go to sleep. But he sat with his arm about his knees thinking deeply, watching and waiting until the moon’s light pierced the dark trees.

Then leaving the wigwam he went out alone with his bow and a sheaf of arrows, and crept with silent tread into the solemn loneliness of the moonlit groves until he came near to the baited trap. He did not touch it, lest his hand should leave its betraying man-scent. But he sniffed the air and knew that the tempting bait of buffalo meat had not been disturbed.

He drew back into the deep gloom a bow-shot’s distance from the trap. There he crouched with his bow and an arrow in his left hand, watching, listening, smelling. From afar he heard the short, sharp bark of a fox, the high-keyed howl of a prowling coyote, the pained squeak of some captured creature of the wild. Above his head a night-hawk flew past on noiseless wing. Many a tragedy was being enacted in that primeval forest. Softfoot realized as never before that, like his own human kind, the wild animals must kill to live.

For hours he crouched, never stirring, never making a sound, always patiently watching the trap. Once he saw a black fox stealing across the dividing space. It paused only an instant beside the trap, and as it turned into a shaft of moonlight, Softfoot saw that it carried a sage-hen in its jaws. Soon afterwards a young lynx passed like a stealthy shadow. He saw it lift its tufted ears and stalk softly to the trap. Then as the trap was sprung there was a screech, a spitting snarl, and the violent scratching of clawed feet.

Softfoot waited. He knew that the raider of the traps was not a lynx. A porcupine darted past with bristling quills. A chipmunk peeped out of its burrow under a tree-root.

After another long wait there came a quite different animal—a furry, bear-shaped beast with a short, hairy tail. Softfoot knew now that his first surmise was correct. This was the gluttonous raider of the traps. He saw it now tugging at the lynx and at the same time gnawing and eating. He fixed his arrow, took aim and pulled his bowstring. The arrow flashed silently through a gleam of moonlight. There was a harsh cry, half scream, half roar, a mad kicking and grunting, and then all was still.

Gripping his bow and arrows in one hand and his knife in the other, Softfoot strode forward. But he had no need to use his knife. The marauder was quite dead when he hoisted its heavy weight over his shoulder.

Little Antelope drew back the skin-flap of the teepee and saw Softfoot throw down his heavy burden.

“What is it, that animal?” he asked.

“It is a wolverine,” Softfoot told him. “It is the thief who robbed our traps. While he lived we could never have caught anything.”

For a week or more thereafter they set their traps and snares every evening, and in the mornings they had always a big catch. They soon had too much food, and their bale of pelts grew high.

“After one more sleep,” said Softfoot one evening, “we will take Little Antelope to see the Red Squaw. He has never seen her.”

They packed their peltry in the teepee and closed the flap so that no prowling animals should intrude. Taking only some berries and a small parfleche of pemmican, they launched their canoe and paddled down the swift current of the creek. By midday they were at the mouth of Red Squaw Cañon, where the creek narrowed into a deep, gloomy gorge.

“We can climb the mountain and look down into the cañon,” said Softfoot.

“Why not go through in the canoe?” questioned Prairie Owl.

“We cannot come back against the rapids,” said Softfoot. “We should lose our canoe. We should have to go back to the lodges on foot. And it is not safe, without men to help us to get past the Red Squaw Rock.”

“Is Softfoot afraid?” asked Mosquito Child.

Softfoot fingered his medicine bag and shook his head. Whereupon they decided to make the adventure.

They trimmed the canoe for the encounter, Softfoot taking the steering paddle. The strong current raced through the gorge, like a giant tongue licking its way between steep walls of red rock that rose thousands of feet high on either side.

There was only a narrow ribbon of blue sky far above, and its light was not strong enough to break the deep gloom. Very soon the glassy, smooth water became ruffled, splashing into ominous waves and sending up a mist of spray. The canoe swayed menacingly.

“Turn back!” cried Little Antelope. “I am afraid.”

“Do not look up,” said Mosquito Child. “Count the beads on your moccasins.”

Rearing and plunging like a maddened horse, the canoe swept suddenly round a projecting bend. In advance of it the quickened current boiled and swirled in angry, seething foam, and like a warning sentinel in midstream stood the Red Squaw Rock. Softfoot was bending over, grimly determined, clutching his paddle, with all his thoughts and energies fixed upon getting past that peril. Everything depended upon his skill.

Little Antelope raised his terrified eyes and saw what was in front of them.

“Turn back!” he cried. “Softfoot, turn back!”

And the echoing cañon flung out his desperate appeal, repeating it many times.

“Turn back! Softfoot, turn back, turn back!”