The Talking Leaves: An Indian Story, William O. Stoddard [best novels for beginners TXT] 📗

But no brave in all the band would have allowed a twelve-year-old boy to climb up in front of him, as she did, or let his younger brother and sister cling on behind her; so that the little mule was turned into a sort of four-footed omnibus.

It did seem, too, as if there were more and more wretched-looking dogs following after that forlorn mule than behind the ponies of any chief's family in the whole band.

"Look, Rita," said Ni-ha-be—"look at old Too Many Toes and her mule!"

That squaw had a name of her own, as well as anybody, but it had not been given her for her beauty.

"Isn't she homely?" said Rita. "I wonder where the rest of her children are?"

"I guess she's divided them around among her relations. There's enough of them to load another mule. Her husband'll never be rich enough to buy ponies. He's lazy."

"He doesn't beat her?"

"He's too lazy for that. And he's afraid of her. I don't believe he's an Apache. Think of a brave afraid of his own squaw!"

There was something very bad in that, according to all Indian notions; but Rita only said,

"What would that mule do if she wanted him to run?"

Just then the shrill voice of Mother Dolores behind them shouted,

"I'm coming. They wanted to make me help them pack!"

The pride of the best cook in the band was seriously offended. As if all such hard work did not properly belong to ugly and ignorant squaws who had not education enough to fry corn-bread for the great chief! She knew her dignity better than that, and she meant to assert it. Perhaps if Many Bears himself had been close at hand, Dolores might have been more willing to work, but there was no opportunity for any appeal to him, and she took her own way.

She was all the more willing that her two charges should ride on to the very head of the little column, and even keep away a short distance to the right of it. They were perfectly safe within whooping distance if they were wanted, and none of the other squaws of Many Bears would dare to leave their ponies and baggage to come and scold. That was worth something.

Silent and submissive as are all Indian women in the presence of braves or of white men, they make up for it all in the use they make of their tongues among themselves. They can talk wonderfully fast and say as many sharp things as may be necessary.

"Now, Rita, see if you can make the leaves tell you anything about Knotted Cord."

"He isn't in them; nor Send Warning either."

"Look. They must be there."

Neither Steve Harrison nor Murray were to be found in the pages of those three magazines; Rita felt sure of that; but she turned the pages carefully as she and Ni-ha-be rode on side by side at a very slow walk.

She came to something else, however, in the back part of one of them which almost drove from her mind the face and form of Send Warning. Ni-ha-be forgot the brown hair and handsome face of the Knotted Cord.

"Oh, so many squaws!"

"All of them so tall, too. I wonder if pale-face squaws ever grow as tall as that? Look at the things on their heads."

"See!" exclaimed Rita. "All clothes! No squaws in them."

"Great chief. Ever so many squaws. Lose part of them. Keep their blankets."

Rita could not quite explain the matter, but she knew better than that.

The series of pictures which so excited and puzzled the two Indian maidens was nothing in the world but what the publishers of that magazine called "A Fashion Plate Supplement."

There was enough there, indeed, to have puzzled anybody. Gradually they began to understand it a little, and their wonder grew accordingly.

"Are they not ugly?" said Ni-ha-be. "Think of being compelled to wear such things. I suppose, if they won't put them on, they get beaten. Ugh! All black things."

"No. Only black in the pictures. Many colors. It says so; 'red,' 'yellow'—all colors."

That was better, and Ni-ha-be could pity the poor white squaws a little less. Rita allowed her to take that magazine into her own keeping; but mile after mile went by, and all she found in it worth studying was that wonderful array of dresses, with and without occupants. She had never dreamed of such things before, and her bright young face grew almost troubled in its expression.

Oh, how she did long just then for a look at a real pale-face woman, gotten up and ornamented like one of those pictured on the pages before her! She was learning a great deal—more than she had any idea of.

But Rita had learned a great deal more; for the faces and the dresses had joined themselves in her mind with ever so many things that came floating up from her memory—things she had forgotten for so long a time that they would never have come back to her at all if something like this had not stirred them up.

Just now, while Ni-ha-be had the fashion plates, Rita was busy with the illustrations of "gold-mining" which had so aroused the mind of Many Bears.

Not that she knew or cared anything about mines or ores or miners, but that some of those pictures also seemed to her to have a familiar look.

"Did I ever see anything like that?" she murmured to herself. "The great chief says he did. It is not a lie. Maybe it will come back to me some day. I don't care for any more pictures now; I'll try and read some words."

That was harder work; but there were strange, new thoughts beginning to come to Rita.

"You have not spoken to me," said Dolores at last. "Do the leaves talk all the while?"

"Look at these," said Ni-ha-be. "They are better than the one you cut out. There's only one squaw in that, and a pappoose. Here are ever so many. And look at the funny little children. How those things must hurt them! The pale-faces are cruel to their families."

Dolores look earnestly enough at the fashion plates. With all her ignorance she had seen enough in her day to understand more of them than the girls could. Once, long ago, when the band of Many Bears had been near one of the frontier "military posts," where United States troops were encamped, she had seen the beautiful "white squaws" of the officers, in their wonderful dresses and ornaments, and she knew that some of these were much like them. She could even help Ni-ha-be to understand it.

Rita had been silent a very long time. All the while the train had travelled nearly five miles. Now she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, Ni-ha-be! Dolores!" And when they turned to look at her her face was perfectly radiant with triumph and pleasure.

"What is it? Have you found either of them?"

"I can do it! I have done it!"

"What have you done?"

"It is a story talk. Big lie about it all, such as the Apache braves tell at the camp-fire when they are too lazy to hunt. I have read it all."

"Is it a good talk?"

"Let me tell it. I can say it all in Apache words."

That was not the easiest thing in the world to do. It would have been impossible, if the short story which Rita had found had not been of the simplest kind—only about hunters following chamois in the Alps and tumbling into snow-drifts, and being found and helped by great, wise, benevolent St. Bernard dogs.

There were mountains in sight of the girls now that helped make it real, and among them were big-horn antelopes as wild as the chamois, and with very much the same habits. There were snow-drifts up there, too, for they could see the white peaks glisten in the sinking sun. It was all better than the talk of the braves around the winter camp-fires; and, besides, there were the pictures of the dogs and of the chamois. Neither Ni-ha-be nor Dolores uttered a word until Rita had rapidly translated that "story talk" from beginning to end.

"Oh, Rita! are there any more talks like that?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Most of them are very long. Big words, too—more than I can hear."

"Let me see it."

The pictures of the great, shaggy dogs and of the chamois were easy enough to understand. Ni-ha-be knew that she could see a real "big-horn" at a greater distance than Rita. But how was it that not one word came to her of all the "story talk" Rita had translated from those little black "signs" on those two pages of the magazine? It was quite enough to try the patience of a daughter of a great chief, but Dolores said,

"Never mind, Ni-ha-be; if the talking leaves could speak Apache you and I could hear the stories and tell them to Rita?"

That was a little comforting, but Ni-ha-be knew there were no illustrated monthly magazines printed by any of her people, and she grew more and more jealous of her adopted sister.

"Anyhow," she said, "you must hear them all and tell them to us. If any of the words are too big for you, you can leave them out."

Perhaps she could have done that, but what would then have become of the stories and other things?

Rita's prizes promised to be a source of a good deal of annoyance to her, as well as pleasure and profit. They did one thing for all three that day—they made the afternoon's ride across the grassy rolls of the plain seem very short indeed.

Only a few warriors were to be seen when the order to halt was given; but they had picked out a capital place for a camp—a thick grove of large trees on the bank of a deep, swift river. There were many scattered rocks on one side of the grove, and it was just the spot Many Bears had wanted. It was what army officers would call "a very strong position, and easily defended."

CHAPTER XVI

Murray's hunt was a short one, for that grassy tableland, with its cool streams and its shady trees, seemed to be a favorite pasture-ground for the mountain-deer. It is not likely they were often annoyed by hunters of any kind, and they were comparatively easy to approach. Besides, it was not necessary for a marksman like Murray to get so very near.

"A fine fat doe," said Steve, when his friend threw down his game in front of the fire.

"Now for a cooking time," replied Murray; "and then we must have a good nap."

"I'll do a little eating, too, while I'm cooking."

Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole. How?—with no stove, no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or description?

Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in front of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at about four feet from the ground; then a leg of venison, hung to this cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned around and around until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go the weight of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast; but it turned around in the opposite direction for ever so long, and it was roasting all the while.

It was precisely what our own great-grandmothers used to call a "roasting-jack," and all it required was somebody to wind it up when it ran down, so that the meat could be evenly done all over.

Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on, and neither Steve nor his friend seemed to have lost their appetite by their long ride and hard work.

"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."

"Sha'n't you take a rest?"

"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Lie right down and never mind me. I'll call you when your time comes."

Steve was used to paying the old man a pretty good kind of obedience, and he was glad enough to obey him now. He was quickly asleep under a spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind the roast." There was something more important than venison for him to think of, however.