Book: The Shagganappi

E >> E. Pauline Johnson >> The Shagganappi




"It's a horseman, not a wolf," fairly yelled a voice behind him; but
Leloo had already struck the cayuse a smart blow on the flank, at which
the animal bunched its four hoofs together, shivered, snorted again,
then plunged, galloping like mad down the trail, down, blindly down into
the darkness ahead. One, two, three sharp revolver shots rang out behind
him, the bullets falling wide of their mark in the blackness of the
night, rapidly running feet that seemed to gain upon him, the crash of
a falling man, then terrible language--all rang in his ears in quick
succession, but the boy never drew rein, never halted. On plunged the
horse, heedlessly, wildly, but Leloo stuck to his back, scorning the
fear of a horrible death in the canyon below, thinking only of the
danger of the treasure-laden stage and of the safety of Big Bill, the
driver, whom his father loved, and whom every Indian of the Lillooet
tribe respected.

The stones were now rattling from the rush of his horse's hoofs, and
once or twice the boy held his breath, as they swung round a boulder in
the dark, and the sturdy animal almost lost its balance. Sometimes he
heard the robbers scrambling down the trail far above him, the trail
he had already covered, and twice they fired on him; but the kindly
darkness saved him. He was nearing the foot of the mountain now, and the
cayuse was beginning to heave badly, but Leloo still struck the sweating
flanks, and the creature still plunged on, until, finally, in fear and
exhaustion, it stumbled. Instantly it recovered itself, but Leloo knew
that this was the first sign of the coming end. Then only did he stop.
In his mad ride Leloo had been so intently listening for sounds from
behind that he never once thought of sounds ahead, and in this pause
of the rattling hoofs and flying stones, his ears caught the rumble
of wheels coming towards him, the gentle beat of six horses trotting
slowly, and the cheery whistle of the big Canadian who drove the Cariboo
stage. As Leloo came slowly upon them, the big driver called, "Who's
there--ahead in the trail? Who's shooting around here?"

"Go back, you!" cried the boy. "Two bad men's up trail. They shoot you.
They get gold."

"Gee whiz!" yelled Big Bill, bringing his six-in-hand to a standstill.
"Holdup, eh? I declare, but that's a narrow escape. I guess Big Bill
won't cross the divide to-night."

"No, you go back," reiterated the boy.

"Well, I'll be blowed if it isn't just a kid!" exclaimed the driver, as
Leloo rode up close beside him. "And look at the horse of him, clean
played out. I say, boy, no wonder you rode hard, with all that gunning
behind you. I'm rather handy with a gun myself, and I never drive the
'gold' stage without these two here," tapping the revolvers in his big
belt, "but if our friends up there had got the drop on me first, there'd
have been a dead driver, and no gold for the boys in the bank, I'm
thinking. What is your name, anyway, boy?"

"Me? I'm Leloo," the little Indian replied. "My father, he Chief
Buckskin, Lillooet tribe."

"Whew!" gasped Big Bill. "Old Buckskin's son, eh? Then you're all right,
for Buckskin is 'white'--all but his skin. You climb up beside me here,
and give that poor, busted horse of yours a rest. This outfit is a-goin'
to turn back, and we'll all sleep at Pete's place to-night. But how did
you get past those sneaking gunners up there? That's what I want to
know."

And later when Leloo, safely seated beside the big driver, related how
he had tricked the scoundrels, Big Bill was as proud as if he had been
the boy's father. "The whole Cariboo trail from end to end shall know of
this," he declared, "know just how you saved me and the miners' gold."

"Me no save," said Leloo, shaking his head with denial. "Not me save,
just save by big wolf-brother. He teach me to make his cry, he answer me
when I talk his talk to him."

And it must have been this speech that the big driver told far and wide,
for at the next great "potlatch" (feast) given by the Lillooets, the
entire tribe conferred the great honor of a new name upon Leloo, the
name he had won for himself--"Wolf-Brother."



We-hro's Sacrifice

A Story of a Boy and a Dog


We-hro was a small Onondaga Indian boy, a good-looking, black-eyed
little chap with as pagan a heart as ever beat under a copper-colored
skin. His father and grandfathers were pagans. His ancestors for a
thousand years back, and yet a thousand years back of that, had been
pagans, and We-hro, with the pride of his religion and his race, would
not have turned from the faith of his fathers for all the world. But the
world, as he knew it, consisted entirely of the Great Indian Reserve,
that lay on the banks of the beautiful Grand River, sixty miles west of
he great Canadian city of Toronto.

Now, the boys that read this tale must not confuse a pagan with a
heathen. The heathen nations that worship idols are terribly pitied
and despised by the pagan Indians, who are worshippers of "The Great
Spirit," a kind and loving God, who, they say, will reward them by
giving them happy hunting grounds to live in after they die; that is,
if they live good, honest, upright lives in this world.

We-hro would have scowled blackly if anyone had dared to name him a
heathen. He thoroughly ignored the little Delaware boys, whose fathers
worshipped idols fifty years ago, and on all the feast days and dance
days he would accompany his parents to the "Longhouse" (which was their
church), and take his little part in the religious festivities. He could
remember well as a tiny child being carried in his mother's blanket
"pick-a-back," while she dropped into the soft swinging movement of
the dance, for We-hro's people did not worship their "Great Spirit"
with hymns of praise and lowly prayers, the way the Christian Indians
did. We-hro's people worshipped their God by dancing beautiful, soft,
dignified steps, with no noisy clicking heels to annoy one, but only the
velvety shuffle of the moccasined feet, the weird beat of the Indian
drums, the mournful chanting of the old chiefs, keeping time with the
throb of their devoted hearts.

Then, when he grew too big to be carried, he was allowed to clasp his
mother's hand, and himself learn the pretty steps, following his father,
who danced ahead, dressed in full costume of scarlet cloth and buckskin,
with gay beads and bear claws about his neck, and wonderful carven
silver ornaments, massive and sold, decorating his shirt and leggings.
We-hro loved the tawny fringes and the hammered silver quite as much as
a white lady loves diamonds and pearls; he loved to see his father's
face painted in fierce reds, yellows and blacks, but most of all he
loved the unvarying chuck-a, chuck-a, chuck-a of the great mud-turtle
rattles that the "musicians" skilfully beat upon the benches before
them. Oh, he was a thorough little pagan, was We-hro! His loves and his
hates were as decided as his comical but stately step in the dance of
his ancestors' religion. Those were great days for the small Onondaga
boy. His father taught him to shape axe-handles, to curve lacrosse
sticks, to weave their deer-sinew netting, to tan skins, to plant corn,
to model arrows and--most difficult of all--to "feather" them, to
"season" bows, to chop trees, to burn, hollow, fashion and "man" a
dugout canoe, to use the paddle, to gauge the wind and current of that
treacherous Grand River, to learn wild cries to decoy bird and beast for
food. Oh, little pagan We-hro had his life filled to overflowing with
much that the civilized white boy would gave all his dimes and dollars
to know.

And it was then that the great day came, the marvellous day when We-hro
discovered his second self, his playmate, his loyal, unselfish, loving
friend--his underbred, unwashed, hungry, vagabond dog, born white and
spotless, but begrimed by contact with the world, the mud, and the white
man's hovel.

It happened this way:

We-hro was cleaning his father's dugout canoe, after a night of fish
spearing. The soot, the scales, the fire ashes, the mud--all had to be
"swabbed" out at the river's brink by means of much water and an Indian
"slat" broom. We-hro was up to his little ears in work, when suddenly,
above him, on the river road, he heard the coarse voice and thundering
whipfalls of a man urging and beating his horse--a white man, for no
Indian used such language, no Indian beat an animal that served him.
We-hro looked up. Stuck in the mud of the river road was a huge wagon,
grain-filled. The driver, purple of face, was whaling the poor team, and
shouting to a cringing little drab-white dog, of fox-terrier lineage, to
"Get out of there or I'll--!"

The horses were dragging and tugging. The little dog, terrified, was
sneaking off with tail between its hind legs. Then the brutal driver's
whip came down, curling its lash about the dog's thin body, forcing from
the little speechless brute a howl of agony. Then We-hro spoke--spoke in
all the English he knew.

"Bad! bad! You die some day--you! You hurt that dog. White man's God,
he no like you. Indian's Great Spirit, he not let you shoot in happy
hunting grounds. You die some day--you _bad_!"

"Well, if I _am_ bad I'm no pagan Indian Hottentot like you!" yelled
the angry driver. "Take the dog, and begone!"

"Me no Hottentot," said We-hro, slowly. "Me Onondaga, all right. Me
take dog;" and from that hour the poor little white cur and the
copper-colored little boy were friends for all time.

* * * * * * * *

The Superintendent of Indian Affairs was taking his periodical drive
about the Reserve when he chanced to meet old "Ten-Canoes," We-hro's
father.

The superintendent was a very important person. He was a great white
gentleman, who lived in the city of Brantford, fifteen miles away. He
was a kindly, handsome man, who loved and honored every Indian on the
Grand River Reserve. He had a genial smile, a warm hand-shake, so when
he stopped his horse and greeted the old pagan, Ten-Canoes smiled too.

"Ah, Ten-Canoes!" cried the superintendent, "a great man told me he was
coming to see your people--a big man, none less than Great Black-Coat,
the bishop of the Anglican Church. He thinks you are a bad lot, because
you are pagans; he wonders why it is that you have never turned
Christian. Some of the missionaries have told him you pagans are no
good, so the great man wants to come and see for himself. He wants to
see some of your religious dances--the 'Dance of the White Dog,' if
you will have him; he wants to see if it is really _bad_."

Ten-Canoes laughed. "I welcome him," he said, earnestly, "Welcome the
'Great Black-Coat.' I honor him, though I do not think as he does. He
is a good man, a just man; I welcome him, bid him come."

Thus was his lordship, the Bishop, invited to see the great pagan
Onondaga "Festival of the White Dog."

But what was _this_ that happened?

Never yet had a February moon waned but that the powerful Onondaga tribe
had offered the burnt "Sacrifice of the White Dog," that most devout of
all native rites. But now, search as they might, not a single spotlessly
white dog could be found. No other animal would do. It was the law of
this great Indian tribe that no other burnt sacrifice could possibly be
offered than the strangled body of a white dog.

We-hro heard all the great chiefs talking of it all. He listened to
plans for searching the entire Reserve for a dog, and the following
morning he arose at dawn, took his own pet dog down to the river and
washed him as he had seen white men wash their sheep. Then out of the
water dashed the gay little animal, yelping and barking in play, rolling
in the snow, tearing madly about, and finally rushing off towards the
log house which was We-hro's home and scratching at the door to get in
by the warm fire to dry his shaggy coat. Oh! what an ache that coat
caused in We-hro's heart. From a dull drab grey, the dog's hair had
washed pure white, not a spot or a blemish on it, and in an agony of
grief the little pagan boy realized that through his own action he had
endangered the life of his dog friend; that should his father and his
father's friends see that small white terrier, they would take it away
for the nation's sacrifice.

Stumbling and panting and breathless, We-hro hurried after his pet, and,
seizing the dog in his arms, he wrapped his own shabby coat about the
trembling, half-dry creature, and carried him to where the cedars grew
thick at the back of the house. Crouched in their shadows he hugged his
treasured companion, thinking with horror of the hour when the blow
would surely fall.

For days the boy kept his dog in the shelter of the cedars, tied up
tightly with an old rope, and sleeping in a warm raccoon skin, which
We-hro smuggled away from his own simple bed. The dog contented himself
with what little food We-hro managed to carry to him, but the hiding
could not keep up forever, and one dark, dreaded day We-hro's father
came into the house and sat smoking in silence for many minutes. When
at last he spoke, he said:

"We-hro, your dog is known to me. I have seen him, white as the snow
that fell last night. It is the law that someone must always suffer for
the good of the people. We-hro, would you have the great 'Black-Coat,'
the great white preacher, come to see our beautiful ceremony, and would
you have the great Onondaga tribe fail to show the white man how we
worship our ancient Great Spirit? Would you have us fail to burn the
sacrifice? Or will you give your white dog for the honor of our people?"

The world is full of heroes, but at that moment it held none greater
than the little pagan boy, who crushed down his grief and battled back
his tears as he answered:

"Father, you are old and honored and wise. For you and for my people
alone would I give the dog."

At last the wonderful Dance Day arrived. His lordship, the Bishop of the
Anglican Church, drove down from the city of Brantford; with him the
Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and a man who understood both the
English and the Onondaga languages. Long before they reached the
"Longhouse" they could hear the wild beat of the drum, could count the
beats of the dance rattles, could distinguish the half-sad chant of the
worshippers. The kind face of the great bishop was very grave. It pained
his gentle old heart to know that this great tribe of Indians were
pagans--savages, as he thought--but when he entered that plain log
building that the Onondagas held as their church, he took off his hat
with the beautiful reverence all great men pay to other great men's
religion, and he stood bareheaded while old Ten-Canoes chanted forth
this speech:

"Oh, brothers of mine! We welcome the white man's friend, the great
'Black-Coat,' to this, our solemn worship. We offer to the red man's
God--the Great Spirit--a burnt offering. We do not think that anything
save what is pure and faithful and without blemish can go into the sight
of the Great Spirit. Therefore do we offer this dog, pure as we hope
our spirits are, that the God of the red man may accept it with our
devotion, knowing that we, too, would gladly be as spotless as this
sacrifice."

Then was a dog carried in dead, and beautifully decorated with wampum,
beads and porcupine embroidery. Oh! so mercifully dead and out of pain,
gently strangled by reverent fingers, for an Indian is never unkind
to an animal. And far over in a corner of the room was a little brown
figure, twisted with agony, choking back the sobs and tears--for was he
not taught that tears were for babies alone, and not for boys that grew
up into warriors?

"Oh, my dog! my dog!" he muttered. "They have taken you away from me,
but it was for the honor of my father and of my own people."

The great Anglican bishop turned at that moment, and, catching the sight
of suffering on little We-hro's face, said aloud to the man who spoke
both languages:

"That little boy over there seems in torture. Can I do anything for him,
do you think?"

"That little boy," replied the man who spoke both languages, "is the
son of the great Onondaga chief. No white dog could be found for this
ceremony but his. This dog was his pet, but for the honor of his father
and of his tribe he has given up his pet as a sacrifice."

For a moment the great Anglican bishop was blinded by his own tears.
Then he walked slowly across the wide log building and laid his white
hand tenderly on the head of the little Onondaga boy. His kindly old
eyes closed, and his lips moved--noiselessly, for a space, then he said
aloud:

"Oh, that the white boys of my great city church knew and practiced
half as much of self-denial as has this little pagan Indian lad, who
has given up his heart's dearest because his father and the honor of
his people required it."



The Potlatch*


[*"Potlatch" is a Chinook word meaning "a gift." Among the Indian
tribes of British Columbia it is used as the accepted name of a
great feast, which some Indian, who is exceedingly well off, gives
to scores of guests. He entertains them for days, sometimes for
weeks, together, presenting them with innumerable blankets and much
money, for it is part of the Indian code of honor that, which one
has great possessions, he must divide them with his less fortunate
tribesmen. The gifts of money usually take the form of ten-dollar
bank notes, and are bestowed broadcast upon any man, woman or child
who pleases the host by either dancing the tribal dances very
beautifully, or else originates an attractive dance of their own.]


Young Ta-la-pus sat on the highest point of rock that lifted itself on
the coast at the edge of his father's Reserve. At his feet stretched the
Straits of Georgia, and far across the mists of the salt Pacific waters
he watched the sun rise seemingly out of the mainland that someone had
told him stretched eastward thousands of miles, where another ocean,
called the Atlantic, washed its far-off shore, for Ta-la-pus lived on
Vancouver Island, and all his little life had been spent in wishing and
longing to set his small, moccasined feet on that vast mainland that the
old men talked of, and the young men visited year in and year out. But
never yet had he been taken across the wide, blue Straits, for he was
only eleven years old, and he had two very big brothers who always
accompanied their father, old chief Mowitch, on his journeyings, for
they were good fishermen, and could help in the salmon catch, and bring
good chicamin (money) home to buy supplies for the winter. Sometimes
these big brothers would tease him and say, "What can you expect? Your
name is Ta-la-pus, which means a prairie wolf. What has a prairie wolf
to do with crossing great waters? He cannot swim, as some other animals
can. Our parents gave us better names, 'Chet-woot,' the bear, who swims
well, and 'Lapool,' the water fowl, whose home is on the waters, whose
feet are webbed, and who floats even while he sleeps. No, our young
brother, Ta-la-pus, the prairie wolf, was never meant to cross the
great salt Straits."

Then little Ta-la-pus would creep away to his lonely rock, trying to
still the ache in his heart and forcing back the tears from his eyes.
Prairie wolves must not cry like little girl babies--and sometimes when
his heart was sorest, a clear, dazzlingly bright day would dawn, and
far, far off he could see the blur of the mainland coast, resting on the
sea like an enormous island. Then he would tell himself that, no matter
what his name was, some day he would cross to that great, far country,
whose snow-crowned mountain peaks he could just see merging into the
distant clouds.

Then, late in the summer, there came one marvellous night, when his
father and brother returned from the sockeye salmon fishing, with news
that set the entire Indian village talking far into the early morning.
A great Squamish chief on the mainland was going to give a Potlatch. He
had been preparing for it for weeks. He had enjoyed a very fortunate
fishing season, was a generous-hearted man, and was prepared to spend
ten thousand dollars* in gifts and entertainment for his friends and
all the poor of the various neighboring tribes.

[*Fact. This amount has frequently been given away.]


Chief Mowitch and all his family were invited, and great rejoicing and
anticipation were enjoyed over their salmon suppers that night.

"You and the boys go," said his wife. "Perhaps you will be lucky and
bring home chicamin and blankets. The old men say the winter will be
cold. Grey geese were going south yesterday, three weeks earlier than
last year. Yes, we will need blankets when the ollalies (berries) are
ripe in October. I shall stay at home, until the babies are older.
Yes, you and the boys go."

"Yes," responded the chief. "It would never do for us to miss a great
Squamish Potlatch. We must go."

Then the elder son, Chet-woot, spoke joyously:

"And, mama,* we may bring back great riches, and even if the cold does
come while we are away, our little brother, Ta-la-pus, will care for you
and the babies. He'll carry water and bring all the wood for your
warmth."

[*The Chinook for father and mother is "papa" and "mama", adopted
from the English language.]


The father looked smilingly at Ta-la-pus, but the boy's eyes, great and
dark, and hungry for the far mainland, for the great feasts he had heard
so much of, were fastened in begging, pleading seriousness on his
father's face. Suddenly a whim seized the old chief's fancy.

"Ta-la-pus," he said, "you look as if you would like to go, too. Do you
want to take part in the Potlatch?"

Instantly Chet-woot objected. "Papa, he could never go, he's too young.
They may ask him to dance for them. He can't dance. Then perhaps they
would never ask us."

The chief scowled. He was ruler in his own lodge, and allowed no
interference from anyone.

"Besides," continued Chet-woot, "there would be no one to fetch wood for
mama and the babies."

"Yes, there would be someone," said the chief, his eyes snapping
fiercely. "_You_ would be here to help your mama."

"I?" exclaimed the young man. "But how can I, when I shall be at the
Potlatch? I go to _all_ the Potlatches."

"So much more reason that you stay home this once and care for your mama
and baby sisters, and you _shall_ stay. Lapool and little Ta-la-pus will
go with me. It is time the boy saw something of the other tribes. Yes,
I'll take Lapool and Ta-la-pus, and there is no change to my word when
it is once spoken."

Chet-woot sat like one stunned, but an Indian son knows better than to
argue with his father. But the great, dark eyes of little Ta-la-pus
glowed like embers of fire, his young heart leaped joyously. At last,
at last, he was to set foot in the country of his dreams--the far,
blue, mountain-circled mainland.

All that week his mother worked day and night on a fine new native
costume for him to wear on the great occasion. There were trousers of
buckskin fringed down each side, a shirt of buckskin, beaded and
beautified by shell ornaments, a necklace of the bones of a rare fish,
strung together like little beads on deer sinew, earrings of pink and
green pearl from the inner part of the shells of a bivalve, neat
moccasins, and solid silver, carven bracelets.

She was working on a headdress consisting of a single red fox-tail and
eagle feathers, when he came and stood beside her.

"Mama," he said, "there is a prairie wolf skin you cover the babies with
while they sleep. Would you let me have it this once, if they would not
be cold without it?"

"They will never be cold," she smiled, "for I can use an extra blanket
over them. I only use it because I started to when you were the only
baby I had, and it was your name, so I covered you with it at night."

"And I want to cover myself with it now," he explained, "its head as my
headdress, its front paws about my neck, its thick fur and tail trailing
behind me as I dance."

"So you are going to dance, my little Ta-la-pus?" she answered proudly.
"But how is that, when you do not yet know our great tribal dances?"

"I have made one of my own, and a song, too," he said, shyly.

She caught him to her, smoothing the hair back from his dark forehead.
"That is right," she half whispered, for she felt he did not want anyone
but herself to know his boyish secret. "Always make things for yourself,
don't depend on others, try what you can do alone. Yes, you may take the
skin of the prairie wolf. I will give it to you for all time--it is
yours."

That night his father also laid in his hands a gift. It was a soft,
pliable belt, woven of the white, peeled roots of the cedar, dyed
brilliantly, and worked into a magnificent design.

"Your great-grandmother made it," said the chief. "Wear it on your first
journey into the larger world than this island, and do nothing in all
your life that would make her regret, were she alive, to see it round
your waist."

So little Ta-la-pus set forth with his father and brother, well equipped
for the great Potlatch, and the meeting of many from half a score of
tribes.

They crossed the Straits on a white man's steamer, a wonderful sight to
Ta-la-pus, who had never been aboard any larger boat than his father's
fishing smack and their own high-bowed, gracefully-curved canoe. In and
out among the islands of the great gulf the steamer wound, bringing them
nearer, ever nearer to the mainland. Misty and shadowy, Vancouver Island
dropped astern, until at last they steamed into harbor, where a crowd of
happy-faced Squamish Indians greeted them, stowed them away in canoes,
paddled a bit up coast, then sighted the great, glancing fires that were
lighting up the grey of oncoming night--fires of celebration and welcome
to all the scores of guests who were to partake of the lavish
hospitality of the great Squamish chief.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.