CHAPTER
III.
A BRAVE NAME.
ONE-EYE followed the arrow-stricken cow, and he ran
well. So did the cow, and she did not turn to the right or left from
the old buffalo trail. There was but one road for either the trail or
the cow or the dog, for the very formation of the land led them all into
the mountains through the nook by the spring, and so by and through the
camp of the starving Nez Perces. On she went until, right in the middle
of the camp and among the lodges, she stumbled and fell, and One-eye
had her by the throat.
It was time for somebody
to wake up and do something, and a wiry-looking, undersized, lean-ribbed
old warrior, with an immense head, whose bow and arrows had been hanging near him, at once
rushed forward and began to make a sort of pin-cushion of that cow. He
twanged arrow after arrow into her, yelling ferociously, and was just
turning away to get his lance when a robust squaw, who had not been made
very thin even by starvation, caught him by the arm, screeching,
"Dead five times! What
for kill any more?"
She held up a plump hand as she spoke, and spread
her
brown fingers almost against his nose. There was no denying it, but the
victorious hunter at once struck an attitude and exclaimed,
" No starve now, Big
Tongue!"
He had saved tbe whole
band from ruin and he went on to say as much, while warriors and squaws
and smaller Indians crowded around the game so wonderfully brought
within a few yards of their kettles. It was a grand occasion, and the
Big Tongue was entitled to the everlasting gratitude of his nation quite
as much as are a great many white statesmen and kings and generals who
claim and in a manner get it. All went well with him until a grayheaded
old warrior, who was examining the several arrows
projecting from the side of the dead bison, came to one over
which he paused thoughtfully. Then he raised his head, put his hand to
his mouth, and sent forth a wild whoop of delight. He drew out the arrow
with one sharp tug and held it up to the gaze of all.
" Not Big Tongue. Boy !"
For he was the father of the young hero who had faithfully stood up
against hnnger and despair and had gone for game to the very last. He
was a proud old chief and father that day, and all that was left for the
Big Tongue was to recover his own arrows as
fast as he could for future use, while the squaws cut up the cow. They
did it with a haste and skill quite remarkable, considering how nearly
dead they all were. The prospect of a good dinner seemed to put new life
into them, and they plied their knives in half a dozen places at the
same time.
One-eye sat down and howled for a moment, and then
started off upon the trail by which he had come.
" Boy!" shouted the old
chief. " All come. See what."
Several braves and nearly all the other boys, one
squaw and four half-grown girls at once followed him as he pursued the
retreating form of One-eye. It was quite a procession, but some of its
members staggered a little in their walk, and there was no running. Even
the excitement of the moment could get no more than a rapid stride out
of the old chief himself. He was well in advance of all others, and at
the edge of the expanse of sage-brush in which One-eye disappeared he
was compelled to pause for breath. Before it had fully come to him he
needed it for another whoop of delight.
