Part 27 (1/2)

A form darkened the doorway, and Albert came in. He rushed to d.i.c.k when he saw that he was conscious again, and shook his hand with great fervor. The warriors went on with their tasks or their smoking, and still took no notice.

”This is a most wonderful place, d.i.c.k,” exclaimed the impressionable Albert, ”and Bright Sun has treated us well. We can go about the village if we give a promise, for the time, that we'll not try to escape.”

”He's been here,” said d.i.c.k, ”and I've given it.”

”Then, if you feel strong enough, let's go on and take a look.”

”Wait until I see if this head of mine swims around,” said d.i.c.k.

He rose slowly to his feet, and his bandaged head was dizzy at first, but as he steadied himself it became normal. Albert thrust out his hand to support him. It delighted him that he could be again of help to his older and bigger brother, and d.i.c.k, divining Albert's feeling, let it lie for a minute. Then they went to the door, d.i.c.k walking quite easily, as his strength came back fast.

The warriors of the Akitcita, of whom fully a dozen were now present in the great lodge, still paid no attention to the two youths, and d.i.c.k surmised that it was the orders of Bright Sun.

But this absolute ignoring of their existence was uncanny, nevertheless. d.i.c.k studies some of the faces as he pa.s.sed. Bold and fearless they were, and not without a certain n.o.bility, but there was little touch of gentleness or pity, it was rather the strength of the wild animal, the flesh-eater, that seeks its prey.

Sioux they were, and Sioux they would remain in heart, no matter what happened, wild warriors of the northwest. d.i.c.k perceived this fact in a lightening flash, but it was the lightening flash of conviction.

Outside the fresh air saluted d.i.c.k, mouth and nostrils, and the ache in his head went quite away. He had seen the valley by moonlight, when it was beautiful, but not as beautiful as their own valley, the one of which they would not tell to anybody. But it was full of interest. The village life, the life of the wild, was in progress all about him, and in the suns.h.i.+ne, amidst such picturesque surroundings, it had much that was attractive to the strong and brave.

d.i.c.k judged correctly that the village contained about two hundred winter lodges of bark and poles, and could therefore furnish about four hundred warriors. It was evident, too, that it was the scene of prosperity. The flesh of buffalo, elk, and deer was drying in the sun, hanging from trees or on little platforms of poles. Children played with the dogs or practiced with small bows and arrows. In the shadow of a tepee six old women sat gambling, and the two boys stopped to watch them.

The Indians are more inveterate gamblers than the whites, and the old women, wrinkled, hideous hags of vast age, played their games with an intent, almost breathless, interest.

They were playing Woskate Tanpan, or the game of dice, as it is known to the Sioux. Three women were on each side, and they played it with tanpan (the basket), kansu (the dice), and canyiwawa (the counting sticks). The tanpan, made of willow twigs, was a tiny basket, about three inches in diameter at the bottom, but broader at the top, and about two inches deep. Into this one woman would put the kansu or dice, a set of six plum stones, some carved and some not carved. She would put her hand over the tanpan, shake the kansu just as the white dice player does, and then throw them out. The value of the throw would be according to the kind and number of carvings that were turned up when the kansu fell.

The opposing sides, three each, sat facing each other, and the stakes for which they played--canyiwawa (the counting sticks)--lay between them. These were little round sticks about the thickness of a lead pencil, and the size of each heap went up or down, as fortune s.h.i.+fted back or forth. They could make the counting sticks represent whatever value they chose, this being agreed upon beforehand, and the old Sioux women had been known to play Woskate Tanpan two days and nights without ever rising from their seats.

”What old harpies they are!” said d.i.c.k. ”Did you ever see anybody so eager over anything?”

”They are no worse than the men,” replied Albert. ”A lot of warriors are gambling, too.”

A group of the men were gathered on a little green farther on, and the brothers joined them, beginning to share at once the interest that the spectators showed in several warriors who were playing Woskate Painyankapi, or the game of the Wands and the Hoop.

The warriors used in the sport canyleska (the hoop) and cansakala (the wands). The hoops were of ash, two or three feet in diameter, the ash itself being about an inch in diameter. Every hoop was carefully marked off into s.p.a.ces, something like the face of a watch.

Cansakala (the wands) were of chokecherry, four feet long and three fourths of an inch in diameter. One end of every wand was squared for a distance of about a foot. The wands were in pairs, the two being fastened together with buckskin thongs about nine inches in length, and fastened at a point about one third of the length of the wands from the rounded ends.

A warrior would roll the hoop, and he was required to roll it straight and correctly. If he did not do so, the umpire made him roll it over, as in the white man's game of baseball the pitcher cannot get a strike until he pitches the ball right.

When the hoop was rolled correctly, the opposing player dropped his pair of wands somewhere in front of it. It was his object so to calculate the speed and course of the hoop when it fell it would lie upon his wands. If he succeeded, he secured his points according to the s.p.a.ces on each wand within which the hoop lay--an exceedingly difficult game, requiring great skill of hand and judgment of eye. That if was absorbing was shown by the great interest with which all the spectators followed it and by their eager betting.

”I don't believe I could learn to do that in ten years,” said Albert; ”you've got to combine too many things and to combine them fast.”

”They must begin on it while they're young,” said d.i.c.k; ”but the Indian has a mind, and don't you forget it.”

”But they're not as we are,” rejoined Albert. ”Nothing can ever make them so.”

Here, as in the house of the Akitcita, n.o.body paid any attention to the two boys, but d.i.c.k began to have a feeling that he was watched, not watched openly as man watches man, but in the furtive dangerous way of the great wild beasts, the man-eaters.

The feeling grew into a conviction that, despite what they were doing, everybody in the camp--warrior, squaw, and child--was watching Albert and him. He knew that half of this was fancy, but he was sure that the other half was real.

”Albert,” he said, ”I wouldn't make any break for liberty now, even if I hadn't given my promise.”