Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 February 1920 — THE EAGLE’S FEATHER [ARTICLE]

THE EAGLE’S FEATHER

By JEAN X. BONNEAU

(CopyrtsfeM “Go rope your horse; he must be •old tomorrow," whispered the old man between groans, as he turned to his other side on the ragged blanket. The boy to whom he spoke sat in the center of the teepee Raxing out, with unseeing eyes, atthe distant snowcrowned mountain peak. He held every muscle and nerve tense lest the tears should come; it would never do for an Indian to weep, an Indian whose grandfathers sang their deathsongs without a quaver; but the horse was his only companion, his only friend. The old man sighed and rubbed his hand across his Inflamed lids. _ “Look out, Pepe.” he said. “Is there not even a coyote In sight? My old stomach is glued to my back, and every bone in my body cries out for food. The evil one. my enemy, presses his teeth into iny heart, and it burns. Is there nothing, nothing to see?” “Nothing.” replied the boy. “Walt; I see a partridge." Picking up his gun. Pepe leaped through the opening and sped through the soft wild clover. “I must go far," he said to himself. “For although grandfather can no longer see, he hears doubly well.” He ran down to the little stream that came from somewhere in the mountains, and fired off his gun into the air. Then he crept slowly, as softly as a cat. to a tree a few yards; from the teepee, where he scraped under the needles and cones until he uncovered a barn-yard hen. Cautiously he retreated to the stream, where he gave a triumphant shout, then ran up the hill and into the teepee. “See, a fine one.” he cried. He picked and cleaned the fowl dexterously, and then cooked it over the fire. The old man could scarcely breathe for excitement, and crooned like a child over his share; but Pepe did not eat, for his heart was heavy. He sat with his chin in his hands, watching the withered Indian, who was no longer able to tell the difference between wild and domesticated fowl. As the soft evening came, and the sun gazed for the last time that day at his own reflection In the little pools of the valley, a slick-coated black horse came loping toward the solitary teepee among the pine trees. He shook his mane from his eyes, and his long tall swept the sage-brush behind him. Throwing back his head, be called with shrill cries that echoed against the foothills. Pepe stood erect; a joyful light spread over his face. “The horse has come,” he said. “I need not rope him. Must he be sold tomorrow?” But the old man was asleep; the clean-picked bones of the chicken lay beside him. A low, coaxing, whinny came from the entrance flaps. The boy rose and placed his hand across the quivering nostrils of the horse, for the grandfather had not slept in many hours. Then, together, boy and horse walked out under the murmuring pines. Pepe was a Cree Indian, belonging to a Canadian tribe that .had no right to expect aid from the United States government. He and his grandfather, with a small band of these aliens, had been following up the game, but the old man’s feebleness and blindness so Increased that he could not travel; and the others, compelled to follow the food, had left them. Nothing remained to the old warrior but the boy and the horse. _

Pepe was courageous, strong and agile as an antelope. At first he managed to find scattered game, but it gradually became more difficult ; the wolf of starvation approached very near the pointed doorway; then Pepe took to stealing. He did not like to steal, for he belonged to a race of chiefs, and it was beneath his dignity: besides (but this was a secret he told only to the horse), the white boy that hunted and fished through the woods, with whom he often talked, would not think It right. The white boy had given him shot for his gun, and had shown him his dog. but he had no horse like Pepe’s, and had envied the Indian boy. This evening he sat on the bank of the stream gazing at the stars. “The white-faced boy with the hair of sunshine can run faster than you can pace. His voice is like the coyote’s, you can hear ft many miles." The white boy had spoken no louder than Pepe, when they had met, but the little Indian was frying to impress the horse. In his ears kept ringing the old man’s “He must be sold tomorrow." and Pepe knew that, although it might not happen tomorrow, the partIng could not be many days off. If the white boy would only buy him He would never be cruel to him; and maybe Pepe might sometimes see his old companion. Several days after thia, Pepe, on his horse, rode down the canon. The meadow lark flew above them singing hfg beautiful springtime' song, and pepe thought he mid. “Klahoyium, tUHrhm" (Gdod-by, friend). But the boy’s eyes were dry and his face wore the calmness of his people. ; In the roadway lay an eagle’s feather. Pepe curved over, and deftly seized it with his little red hand; then be wound ft tightly ip the strong black mans of the bcrsa. “This is >• you will not forget me."

The home paced down into the valley, and Pepe rode straight to the home ,of the white-faced boy. “Want sell horse. You buy him?” was the Indian’s greeting. “What! You want to sell your horse! That horse? What la your reason ?” was the reply. “Must have money," said Pepe. “Heap hungry.” “Wait, let me think,” said the white boy, “I have a plan. -Do not sell him; rent him for the summer. I will give you four dollars a month, and whenever you wish him come and get him.” Pepe slipped to the ground and whispered in the horse’s ear: “Remember the eagle’s feather. Ry it I promise to come for you when the roaeberries are ripe." For many weeks the horse called after his master, running back and forth In his, corral all night. He grew thin, and would have refused food altogether if it had not been for_a small white hand that fed him. and a sweet voice that comforted him. They belonged to the white boy’s little sister, who came each day to feed him oats and smooth his neck. Sometimes site would tie red ribbons in the horse's mane and tail, and ride him over the foothills.

The days went by, and the horse ceased to call; but every night he would stand by the.fence and gaze up toward the canon. The great yellow lilies were blooming- on the mountainsides, while the red berries hung in clusters on the kinnikinic. The huckleberries ripened and still Pepe did not come. “What do you think Is the reason. Jack?" said the little sister. “You don’t suppose he has starved to death, or has been killed, do you?” “Maybe the officers trnve him,” Jack replied. “You know he is a Cree, and they are being rounded up and sent back to Canada. They are killing all the game." The roseberries ripened and the boy did not come. As the weeks passed on, all the Crees to be found on the western side of the Rocky mountains were gradually gathered at a nearby military post, a poor, huddled mass of sick and starving humanity, with dull, despairing eyes, who preferred starvation to the possible punishment awaiting them for past misdeeds across the border. The band was guarded by colored soldiers stationed there, under a white commander. Stretched on his face, near one of the soldiers, lay an emaciated Indian boy. “He been that way eveh since he come. sah. Think he crazy, sah.” As the officer turned away, he saw. riding across the sage-brush flat, that stretches between the town and fort, a party of gay young people on horseback. Ina race, one coal-black horse outdistanced all the rest, and the girl on his back proudly tossed her head. Suddenly the horse stopped, trembling ip every limb. His shining, black eyes were fixed on the camp outside the fort. Then he gave a call, high, shrill and piercing; back through the clear air came as shrill an answer. The horse bounded forward. Over-the sage-brush he flew like a bird, and bore his rider into the midst of the camp, past guard, past commander; what cared he for the cry of “Halt!" He did not stop until he reached the boy. Then his rider understood, and slipped from her saddle to the ground. “He has been expecting you ever since the roseberries ripened,” she said. “Why did you not come for your money Y’ ' ___ — “The soldiers hunt, and I hide in the mountains.” he replied. That night he told the horse all about It; how the old man had died suddenly, and gone to the happy hunting grounds. . . ' Several days after this, escorted by the troop, the Crees were marched away. Behind the train came a band of horses, the ponies belonging to the Indians. The dust flew into the eyes of the driver, but he did not care. His face beamed with happiness, and he shouted with joy as the wind blew back his straight black hair, while he cracked his whip at the drove in front The horse he rode tossed his head; his tail swept the sage-brush, and beside red ribbons he had an eagle’s feather twisted in his mane.