The Lonesome Trail. John G. Neihardt

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      “It is a good story, Half-a-Day,” I said. Half-a-Day lit his pipe, stared long into the glow of the embers, for the fires had fallen, and sighed.

      “I have not spoken yet,” he said; “for one day in the time of the first snow, Paezha lay dead in my lodge, and my breast ached. Black Dog had killed her at the big spring. At the same place where I had first seen the look, there he killed her.

      “I remember that I sat beside her two sleeps and cried like a zhinga zhinga. And my friends came to me, whispering bitter words into my ears. ‘Kill Black Dog,’ they said. And I said: ‘Bring him here to me, and I will kill him; my legs will not carry me.’

      “But the fathers of the council would not have it so. And when they had buried her on the hill above the village, I awoke as from a long sleep, a very long sleep, and I was full of hate. They kept me in my lodge. They would not let me kill. I wished to kill! I wished to tear him as I tore the stinking wolf with my teeth! I wished to kill!”

      Half-a-Day had arisen to his feet, his fists clenched, his eyes shining with a cold light. He made a tragic figure in the dull, blue glow of the embers.

      “Come, Half-a-Day,” I said, “it is long passed, and now it is only a story.”

      “It is more than a story!” he said. “I lived it. I wished to kill!”

      He sat down again, and a softer light came into his eyes.

      “And the time came,” he went on with a weary voice, “when Black Dog should be cast forth from the tribe, according to the old custom. I said, ‘I will follow Black Dog, and I will see him die.’ And he was cast forth. I followed, and it was very cold. The snow whined under my feet, and I followed in the night.

      “But Black Dog did not know I followed. I was ever near him like a shadow. I did not sleep; I watched Black Dog. I meant to see him die.

      “In his first sleep I crept upon him. I stole his meat; I stole his weapons. Now he would die, and I would be there to see. I would laugh, I would sing while he died.

      “In the cold, pale morning I lay huddled in a clump of sage and I saw him get up, look for his meat and weapons, then stagger away into the lonesome places of the snow. And I sang a low song to myself. The time would come when I would see Black Dog die. I did not feel the cold; I did not grow weary; I was never hungry. And in the evenings I was ever near enough to hear him groan as he wrapped himself in his blankets. Often I crept up to him and looked upon his face in the light of the stars, and I saw my time coming, for his face was thinner and not so good to look upon as in the time when the sunflowers died.

      “I could have killed him, but then he could not have heard me sing, he could not have heard me laugh. So I waited and followed and watched. I ate my meat raw that Black Dog might not see my fire. Also I watched to see that he found nothing to eat; and he found nothing.

      “One day I lay upon the summit of a hill and saw him totter in the valley. Then I could be quiet no longer. I raised my voice and shouted: ‘Fall, Black Dog! Even so Half-a-Day fell when Black Dog stole his meat and his pony!’

      “And I saw him get up and stare about, for I was hidden. Then his voice came up to me over the snow; it was a thin voice: ‘I know you, Half-a-Day! Come and kill me!’

      “‘Half-a-Day never killed a sick man nor a squaw,’ I shouted, and then I laughed—a cold, bitter laugh. Then Black Dog shook his fists at the four corners of the sky and stumbled off into the hills, and I followed. Now my time was very near, for Black Dog felt my nearness and he knew that he would die and I would see him.

      “And one evening my time came. Black Dog was in the valley by a frozen stream, and he fell upon his face, sending forth a thin cry as he fell—thin and ice-like. He did not get up. He lay very still.

      “I ran down to where he lay—and I laughed, laughed, laughed. I heard him groan. I rolled him over on his back and looked upon his face.

      “I wish I had not looked upon his face!

      “He opened his eyes and they were very dim and sunken. His face was sharp. I sat down beside him. I said, ‘Now die, and I will sing about it.’

      “Then his face changed. It became a squaw’s face—and it had the look!—a look that was sad and weak and frightened and begging for pity. And it seemed to me that it was not the face of Black Dog any more. It had the look! I had seen it in the face of Paezha by the spring!

      “Now since I have many winters behind me, I wonder if it was not a coward’s face; but then it was not so. I grew soft. There was a great springtime in my breast. The ice was breaking up. I wrapped my blankets about him. I gave him meat. He stared at me and ate like a wolf. I spoke soft words. I made a fire from the brush that was on the frozen stream. I warmed him and he grew stronger. All night I watched him and in the morning I said: ‘Take my bow and arrows, Black Dog; I wish to die. Go on and live.’ For I had lost the wish to kill; I only wished to die. And he said no word; but his eyes were changed.

      “I staggered away on the back trail. I had no meat, I had no blankets, I had no weapons. I meant to die.

      “But I did not die. When I lay down at night, worn-out and half frozen, someone wrapped blankets about me and built a fire by me. In the mornings I found food beside me. And so it was for many sleeps until at last I came to the village of my people, broken, caring for nothing. And I was thin, my face was sharp, my eyes were sunken, my step was slow.

      “And the people looked upon me with wonder, saying: ‘Half-a-Day has come back from killing Black Dog.’

      “But the truth was different.”

      When Half-a-Day had finished, he stared long into the fire without speaking.

      “Do you think Black Dog was all a coward?” I asked at length. “Perhaps he only loved too much.”

      “I do not know,” said Half-a-Day; “I only know sometimes I wish I had not looked upon his face.”

      III. FEATHER FOR FEATHER

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      Tum-um-um, tum-um-um, went the drums beaten by the hands of the old men—too old for wars, but now grown momentarily youthful with the victory of the young men who were returning from battle.

      Tum-um-um, tum-um-um! So sang the drums—great, glad buckskin drums, exultant beneath the staccato blows of the old men’s drumsticks. Tum-um-um, tum-um-um! Now the women, dressed in their gayest garments of dyed buckskin, radiant in beads, with the spirit of song upon their painted faces, came forth in a long file from a lodge and approached the centre of the open space about which were grouped the mud lodges of the village.

      There, in the centre, sat the old men. The drums were singing a glad song, in sullen tones, in this hour of victory, for a runner, breathless with his speed, had brought the good news when the sun was halfway down the sky, and now the slowly setting sun was blazing on the evening hills.

      Soon the whole victorious band, fresh from their fight with the Sioux, would come over the hills like an eager, dusty wind, clamorous with glad tongues and thunderous with the driven hoofs of captured ponies.

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