Growing Up Native American (13 page)

“Frank! Frank!” I heard; it was Edwin and the rest of the “gang.”

“Here I am,” I called out, and they gathered around me.

“Joe's hand is awful swelled up,” said Bob, as he threw himself down on the grass.

“What's the matter with him?” asked Warren.

“Gray-beard beat Joe's hand like everything; he was so mad I thought he'd kill the boy.” Then I recounted the scene, adding, “I can't think of anything else; it was awful!”

“Did he do anything to you?” asked Edwin.

“He shook me right hard when he asked me who did it; but when he saw Joe crying he knew who it was; then he let go of me and whipped him.”

Brush had been listening to my story without a word; now he arose and said, “Boys, stay here till I come back.”

He went into the house and knocked at the superintendent's door.

“I'm glad to see you Brush,” said the superintendent kindly. “Have you finished the book, and do you want another?”

“No, sir; I wish to speak to you about something that happened to-day, which I don't think is quite right, and I thought you ought to know about it.” Then he told in a simple straight-forward manner the story of Joe's punishment.

When Brush had finished, the superintendent sent for Graybeard. For a long time the two men talked earnestly together. At length Brush returned, and said, as he took his seat among us:

“Boys, that will not happen again. Gray-beard says he's sorry he did it, and I believe him.”

 

THE BREAK

“B
RUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH!” I RAN CALLING ONE MORNING SOON AFTER
breakfast, down to the barn, to the spring, and back to the house, but I could not find the boy; then I thrust my fingers into my mouth and blew a loud robin call, and the answer came from under a tree up on the hillside. I ran hurriedly to the place; there lay Brush in the shade on the green grass reading.

The occasion of this excited search and call was the announcement by the superintendent that the school would be closed that day, and the children dismissed, so that they might go and see their parents, it being reported by an Indian who had come for his little girl that the people had just returned from the hunt.

“I been everywhere trying to find you,” I said to Brush. “My
folks have come home. Put that old book away and come go with me to see them. There isn't going to be any school to-day.”

“Frank, it's right good of you to ask me, but I don't feel very well; I think I better not go,” he replied, in a tone of disappointment. “All my bones ache, and I don't know what's the matter with me; but you go 'long, boy, and have a good time; you can tell me all about your visit when you come back.”

“I'm sorry you can't go, Brush; but I'll come back soon and bring you some buffalo meat,” I said, starting to go; “you better think about it again and come.”

“I think I better stay home and be quiet,” he answered, opening his book.

I spent all the forenoon with my parents, and in the afternoon I went in search of some of my village playmates. I found a number of them on the hillside shooting with their bows and arrows. They gave me a noisy welcome in mock English, which made me laugh heartily; then I had to wrestle with one or two of them, and when our peculiar greetings were over, the boys resumed their play, in which they let me join, one of them lending me his bow and arrows.

Our shooting from mark to mark, from one prominent object to another, brought us to a high hill overlooking the ripe fields of corn on the wide bottom below, along the gray Missouri. Here and there among the patches of maize arose little curls of blue smoke, while men and women moved about in their gayly-colored costumes among the broad green leaves of the corn; some, bending under great loads on their backs, were plodding their way laboriously to the fires whence arose the pretty wreaths of smoke.

“They're making sweet corn,” exclaimed one of the youngsters whose little naked brown back glinted against the afternoon sun, and he pointed to the workers in the field.

As we stood watching the busy, picturesque scene below us, one little fellow held his bow close to his ear and began strumming on the string, then all the rest played on their bows in the same manner, until one of them suddenly broke into a victory song, in which the others joined.

At the close of the song they gave me a graphic description of the attack on the camp when it was pitched on the Republican River. Although the enemy was repulsed, and the hunting ground secured to our people, the battle cost many lives, several of the enemy's warriors were left on the field, and the Omahas lost some of their bravest men.

While yet the boys were telling of the thrilling incidents of the battle, we arose with a sudden impulse and rushed down the hill with loud war-cries, as though attacking the foe, the tall grass snapping against our moccasined feet as we sped along. We were rapidly approaching a house which stood alone, when one of the older boys who was running ahead suddenly stopped and raised his hand as though to command silence. Immediately our shouts ceased, and, seeing the serious look on the lad's face, “What is it?” we asked in frightened tones as we gathered about him.

Without a word he pointed to a woman who was cutting the tall sunflower stalks that had almost hidden her little dwelling with their golden blossoms. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders unbraided, a sign of mourning. Now and again she would pause in her work to look up at the humble home and utter sighs and sobs that told a tale of sorrow. Mingled with these outpourings of grief came often the words, “My husband! my little child!” with terms of endearment and tenderness for which I can find no equivalent in English. On a blanket spread over the ground near by sat a tot of a child babbling to itself and making the beheaded sunflowers kiss each other, innocently oblivious of its mother's grief. It was a sad home-coming for the woman; the spirit of her husband had fled to the dark clouds of the west to join the host of warriors who had died on the field of battle, and his bones lay bleaching in the sands of a far-off country.

“It is Gre-don-ste-win weeping for her husband who was killed in the battle last summer,” whispered the big boy; “let us go away quietly.”

When we had withdrawn to a distance where we were sure our noise would not disturb the mourner, one of the boys called out, “Let's play Oo-hae 'ba-shon-shon!” (Tortuous path.) Years after I learned that this game was played by the children of the white people, and that they called it, “Follow my leader.”

We graded ourselves according to size, the biggest boy at the head as leader. Each one took hold of the belt of the boy in front of him, and then we started off at a rapid jog-trot, keeping time to this little song which we sang at the top of our voices.

 

CHILDREN'S SONG

F
OLLOW MY
L
EADER

Whatever the leader did, all were bound to do likewise. If he touched a post, we touched it too; if he kicked the side of a tent, all of us kicked it; so on we went, winding around the dwellings, in and out of vacant lodges, through mud puddles and queer, almost inaccessible places, and even entering the village, where we made the place ring with our song.

At last, tired out, the boys broke line and scattered to their homes. It was then that I suddenly realized the lateness of the hour, and remembered my promise to Brush. I ran to the house, took a hurried leave of my parents, picked up the package of buffalo meat my mother had prepared for my school-mate, and fairly flew over the hill between the village and the Mission.

As I came running down the hill to the school I saw Lester, Warren, and Edwin sitting in a row on the fence.

“Hello!” I shouted, “what you sitting on that fence for, like a lot of little crows?”

No answer came, nor did the boys move. I began to wonder if they were displeased with me, although I could not think of anything I had done to give them offence. As I drew near, I noticed that the expression on their faces indicated alarm rather than displeasure, and, becoming anxious in my turn, I hurriedly asked, “What's the matter; what's happened; where's Brush?”

The boys looked at one another, then at me; finally Lester replied, almost with a sob, “Brush is awful sick; he's been raising blood; they sent for the Doctor.”

“Where is he? I must go see him,” I said, springing over the fence, and starting toward the house.

“He's in that little room next the girls' play-room; but they won't let anybody see him,” said Warren.

I went to the room in which Brush lay, and knocked very gently on the door. There was a rustling movement inside, then the door slowly opened and one of the lady teachers stood before me.

“What is it, Frank?” she asked in a low tone.

I tried to look over her shoulder to see the bed, but she was too tall. “I want to see Brush; can't I see him? They say he is sick. I want to see him a moment,” I pleaded. “I'm just come back from the village, and brought some buffalo meat I promised him.”

“No, Frank, you cannot see him,” was the reply. “He is very sick. The superintendent is with him trying to relieve his suffering. Run away now,” said the lady, stroking my bare head with her small hand. “Don't make any noise, and tell the rest of the boys to be very quiet.”

I went away reproaching myself for not coming back from the village soon, as I told Brush I would. When I rejoined the boys, they looked anxiously into my face, and Edwin asked, “Did you see him?”

“No, they would not let me.” After a pause, I asked, “When did he get sick; who was with him?”

“It was under the walnut-tree,” said Lester; “he was reading to us about Joseph, out of his little black Bible he always carries. He began to cough hard and choke; he dropped the book all covered with blood, and took hold of my brother's arm. I ran to tell the superintendent. Just as they carried Brush into the house, Edwin came back and we told him about it.”

In the evening, after the small boys had gone to bed, the doctor came, a tall gray-haired man. At the gate he was met by the superintendent, and the two walked slowly up the steps, talking earnestly. We four had been watching for the doctor on the porch; as he came along we caught now and then a word, but
we did not understand its meaning. We judged by the shaking of the doctor's head that he thought Brush's case was serious.

Days passed; the doctor came and went; yet Brush's door was closed to us, nor had we any hopeful news of him. We missed him sadly; we missed his whittling, his harmless scolding; and our play was only half-hearted.

Indians who came to the school on business missed his ready offer to help. There was no one to take his place; no one who could interpret for them as well as he. Each one, as he went away, left a word of cheer for the lad, with expressions of hope for his recovery.

As school was dismissed one afternoon, the teacher gave special injunctions to the scholars not to make any noise as they passed out, or while moving about the house, so as not to disturb the sick boy. We four strolled toward the spring. Frost had come, and the leaves were beginning to turn red and yellow. Wild geese flew noisily overhead, fleeing from the coming winter to sunnier climes. While we were counting, as we often did, the gray birds, floating through the air like a great V, Warren suddenly exclaimed, “Say, boys, plums!”

We looked at him inquiringly. “Let's go get plums for Brush!” he continued excitedly. Then we remembered that we had pre-empted a small grove of choice plum bushes at the head of the ravine, as against all the boys of the school, and acquired a right in it which even the Big Seven respected.

Edwin ran to the kitchen and borrowed from one of the cooks a small tin pail. We hurried to our orchard, where we saw no signs of trespass; the bushes were laden with beautiful ripe fruit. We filled the little pail with the choicest, then each one picked for himself. It was nearly supper-time when we appeared at Brush's door. The three boys looked at me; so I tapped very gently, and the teacher who was nursing the sick boy opened the door.

“We've brought some plums for Brush,” I said, offering the tin pail.

“That's very nice,” said the lady, softly; “I will give them to him.” She was about to close the door, when I whispered, “Can we take just a little look at him?”

“Yes,” she answered, throwing the door open.

We four leaned forward and looked in. A smile lit up Brush's face as he saw us. “How are you now?” I asked, in a loud whisper.

“I'm all right,” he whispered back, although his hollow eyes and cheeks told a tale that stole away all our hopes. We with-drew, and the door was slowly closed.

Next morning as I was coming down from the dormitory I paused at Brush's door to listen. I heard footsteps moving about softly, then the door opened and one of the big girls came out with a white pitcher in her hand. I started to go on downstairs, when she called to me in a whisper, “Frank, go down to the spring and get some fresh water for Brush, will you, that's a good boy?”