Part 14 (1/2)

With every word, every step, he became more like the wolf he was describing. Across his chanting and his ”padding” in the sand came murmurs from the crowd. He could hear ”Tenas, tenas,” ”To-ke-tie Tenas”

(pretty boy), ”Skook.u.m-tanse,” (good strong dance). Then at last, ”Ow,”

”Ow,” meaning ”Our young brother.” On and on went Ta-la-pus. The wolf feeling crept into his legs, his soft young feet, his clutching fingers, his wonderful dark eyes that now gleamed red and l.u.s.trous in the firelight. He was as one inspired, giving a beautiful and marvellous portrait of the wild vagabonds of the plains. For fully ten minutes he circled and sang, then suddenly crouched on his haunches, then, lifting his head, he turned to the east, his young throat voiced one long, strange note, wolf-like he howled to the rising sun, which at that moment looked over the crest of the mountains, its first golden shaft falling full upon his face.

His chant and his strange wolf-dance were ended. Then one loud clamor arose from the crowd. ”Tenas Tyee,” ”Tenas Tyee,” they shouted, and Ta-la-pus knew that he had not failed. But the great Squamish chief was beside him.

”Tillic.u.ms,”* he said, facing the crowd, ”this boy has danced no tribal dance learned from his people or his parents. This is his own dance, which he has made to deserve his name. He shall get the first gifts of our great Potlatch. Go,” he added, to one of the young men, ”bring ten dollars of the white man's chicamin (money), and ten new blankets as white as that snow on the mountain top.”

[*Friends, my people.]

The crowd was delighted. They approved the boy and rejoiced to see the real Potlatch was begun. When the blankets were piled up beside him they reached to the top of Ta-la-pus' head. Then the chief put ten dollars in the boy's hand with the simple words, ”I am glad to give it. You won it well, my Tenas Tyee.”

That was the beginning of a great week of games, feasting and tribal dances, but not a night pa.s.sed but the partic.i.p.ants called for the wild ”wolf-dance” of the little boy from the island. When the Potlatch was over, old Chief Mowitch and Lapool and Ta-la-pus returned to Vancouver Island, but no more the boy sat alone on the isolated rock, watching the mainland through a mist of yearning. He had set foot in the wider world, he had won his name, and now honored it, instead of hating it, as in the old days when his brothers taunted him, for the great Squamish chief, in bidding good-bye to him, had said:

”Little Ta-la-pus, remember a name means much to a man. You despised your name, but you have made it great and honorable by your own act, your own courage. Keep that name honorable, little Ta-la-pus; it will be worth far more to you than many blankets or much of the white man's chicamin.”

The Scarlet Eye

”I tell you that fellow is an Indian! You can't fool me! Look at the way he walks! He doesn't _step_; he _pads_ like a panther!”

Billy ceased speaking, but still pointed an excited forefinger along the half-obliterated buffalo trail that swung up the prairie, out of the southern horizon. The two boys craned their necks, watching the coming figure, that advanced at a half-trot, half-stride. Billy was right. The man seemed to be moving on cus.h.i.+oned feet. Nothing could give that slow, springing swing except a moccasin.

”Any man is welcome,” almost groaned little Jerry, ”but, oh, how much more welcome an Indian man, eh, Billy?”

”You bet!” said Billy. ”He'll show us a way out of this. Yes, he's Indian. I can see his long hair now. Look! I can see the fringe up the sleeves of his s.h.i.+rt; it is buckskin!”

”Do you think he sees us?” questioned Jerry.

Billy laughed contemptuously. ”Sees us! Why, he saw us long before we saw him, you can bet on that!”

Then Billy raised his arm, and whirled about his head the big bandanna handkerchief which he had s.n.a.t.c.hed from his neck. The man responded to the signal by lifting aloft for a single instant his open palm with fingers outstretched.

”Yes, he's Indian! A white man would have wiggled his wrist at us!”

sighed Jerry contentedly. ”He'll help us out, Billy. There's nothing he won't know how to do!” And the little boy's eyes grew moist with the relief of knowing help was at last at hand.

Ten minutes more and the man slowed up beside them. He was a tall, splendidly made Cree, with eyes like jewels and hands as slender and small as a woman's.

”You savvy English?” asked Billy.

”Little,” answered the Indian, never looking at Billy, but keeping his wonderful eyes on the outstretched figure, the pallid face, of young Jerry, whose forehead was wrinkled with evident pain.

”We have met with an accident,” explained Billy. ”My little brother's horse loped into a badger hole and broke its leg. I had to shoot it.”

Here Billy's voice choked, and his fingers touched the big revolver at his belt. ”My brother was thrown. He landed badly; something's wrong with his ankle, his leg; he can't walk; can't go on, even on my horse.

It happened over there, about two miles.” Here Billy pointed across the prairie to where a slight hump showed where the dead horse lay. ”I got him over here,” he continued, looking about at the scrub poplar and cottonwood trees, ”where there was shelter and slough water, but he can't go on. Our father is Mr. MacIntyre, the Hudson's Bay Factor at Fort o' Farewell.”

As Billy ceased speaking the Indian kneeled beside Jerry, feeling with tender fingers his hurts. As the dark hand touched his ankle, the boy screamed and cried out, ”Oh, don't! Oh, don't!” The Indian arose, shaking his head solemnly, then said softly, ”Hudson's Bay boys, eh?

Good boys! You good boy to bring him here to trees. We make camp! Your brother's ankle is broken.”

”But we must get him home,” urged Billy. ”We ought to have a doctor.