362 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[WOV. 88, 1889. 



THE DUN HORSE. 



A Pawnee Folk-Tale. 



BY GllO. BIRD GRINNELL ("YO"). 



MANY years ago, there lived in the Pawnee tribe an 

 old woman and her grandson, a boy about sixteen 

 years old. These people had no relations and were very 

 poor. They were so poor that they were despised by the 

 rest of the tribe. They bad nothing of their own; and 

 always after the village started to move the camp from 

 one place to another, these two would stay behind the 

 rest, to look over the old camp, and pick' up anything 

 that the other Indians had thrown away, as worn "out or 

 useless. Ia this way they would sometimes get pieces 

 of robes, worn out moccasins with holes in them, and 

 bits of meat. 



Now, it happened one day, after the tribe had moved 

 away from the camp, that this old woman and her boy 

 were following aloug the trail behind therest, when they 

 came to a miserable old worn out dun horse, which they 

 supposed had been abandoned by some Indians. He was 

 thin and exhausted, was blind of one eye, had a bad sore 

 back, and one of his forelegs was very much swollen. In 

 fact be was so worthless that none of the Pawnees had 

 been willing to take the trouble to try to drive bim along 

 with them. But when the old woman and her boy came 

 along, the boy said, "Come, now, we will take this old 

 horse, for we can make him carry our pack." So the old 

 woman put her pack on the horse and drove him along, 

 but he limped and could only go very slowly. 



The tribe moved up on the North Platte, until they 

 came to Court House Rock. The two poor Indians fol- 

 lowed them, and camped with the others. One day while 

 they were here, the young man who had been sent out to 

 look for buffalo, came hurrying into camp and told the 

 chiefs that a large herd of buffalo were near, and that 

 among them was a spotted calf. 



The Head Chief of the Pawnees had a very beautiful 

 daughter, and when he heard about the spotted calf he 

 ordered his old crier to go about through the village, and 

 call out that the man who killed the spotted calf should 

 have his daughter for his wife. For a spotted robe is 

 ti-iear'-uks-teh — big medicine. 



The buffalo were feeding about four miles from the 

 village, and the chiefs decided that the charge should be 

 made from there. In this way, the man who had the 

 fastest horse would be the most likely to kill the calf. 

 Then all the warriors and the young men picked out their 

 best and fastest horses, and made ready to start. Among 

 those who prepared for the charge was the poor boy on 

 the old dun horse. But when they saw him, all the rich 

 young: braves on their fast horses pointed at him. and 

 said, "Oh, see; there is the horse that is going to catch 

 the spotted calf;" and they laughed at him, so that the 

 poor boy was ashamed, and rode off to one side of the 

 crowd, where he could not hear their jokes and laughter. 



When we had ridden off some little way, the horse 

 stopped and turned his head round, and spoke to the boy. 

 He said: "Take me down to the creek, and plaster me all 

 over with mud. Cover my head and neck and body and 

 legs." When the boy heard the horse speak, he was 

 afraid; but he did as he was told. Then the horse said, 

 "Now mount, but do not ride back to the rest of the 

 warriors, who laugh at you because you have such a poor 

 horse. Stay right here, until the wordisgiven to charge." 

 So the boy stayed there. 



And presently all the fine horses were drawn up in 

 line and pranced about, and were so pager to go that their 

 riders could hardly hold them in; and at last the old crier 

 gave the word, ''Loo-ah"— Go 1 Then the Pawnees all 

 leaned forward on their horses and yelled, and a way they 

 went. Suddenly, away off to the right, was seen the old 

 dun horse. He did not seem to run. He seemed to sail 

 along like a bird. He passed all the fastest horses, and 

 in a moment he was among the buffalo. First he picked 

 out the spotted calf, and charging up alongside of it, 

 U-ra-rish! straight flew the arrow. The calf fell. The 

 boy drew another arrow and killed a fat cow that was 

 running by. Then he dismounted and began to skin the 

 calf, before any of the other warriors had come up. But 

 when the rider got off ihe old dun horse, how changed 

 he was ! He pranced about and would hardly stand still 

 near the dead buffalo. His back was all right again : his 

 legs were well and fine; and both his eyes were clear and 

 bright. 



The boy skinned the calf and the cow that he had 

 killed, and then he packed all the meat on the horse, and 

 put the spotted robe on top of the load and started back 

 to the camp on foot, leading the dun horse. But even 

 with this heavy load the horse pranced all the time and 

 was scared at everything he saw. On the way to camp 

 one of the rich young chiefs of the tribe rode up by the 

 boy and offered him twelve good horses for the spotted 

 robe, so that he could marry the Head Chief's beautiful 

 daughter; but the boy laughed at him and would not sell 

 the robe. 



Now, while the boy walked to the camp leading the 

 dun horse, most of the warriors rode back, and one of 

 those that came first to the village, went to the old 

 woman and said to her, "Your grandson has killed the 

 spotted calf." And the old woman said, "Why do you 

 come to tell me this? You ought to be ashamed to make 

 fun of my boy because he is poor." The warrior said, 

 "What I have told you is true," and then he rode away. 

 After a little while another brave rode up to the old 

 woman and said, • "Your grandson has killed the spotted 

 calf." Then the old woman began to crv, she felt so 

 badly because every one had made fun of her boy because 

 he was poor. 



Pretty soon the boy came along leading the horse up to 

 the lodge where he and his mother lived. It was a little 

 lodge, just big enough for two, and was made of old 

 pieces of skin that the old woman had picked up, and 

 ' was tied together with strings of rawlijde and sinew. It 

 was the meanest and worn lodge in the village. When 

 the old woman saw her boy leading the dun horse with 

 the load of meat and the robes on it she was very much 

 surprised. The boy said to her; "Here, 1 have brought 

 you plenty of meat to eat, and here is a robe that vou 

 may have for yourself. Take the meat off the horse." 

 Then the old woman laughed, for her heart was glad. 

 But when she went to take the meat from the horse's 



back he snorted and jumped about and acted like a wild 

 horse. The old woman looked at him in wonder, and 

 could hardly believe that it was the same horse. So the 

 boy had to take off the meat, for the horse would not let 

 the old woman come near him. 



That night the horse spoke again to the boy and said: 

 "Wa-ti-hes Chah'-ra rat ica ta. To-morrow the Sioux 

 are coming — a large war party. They will attack the 

 village, and you will have a great battle. Now, when 

 the Sioux are drawn up in line of battle, and are all 

 ready to fight, you jump on to me, and ride as hard as 

 you can right into "the middle of the Sioux, up to their 

 Head Chief, their greatest warrior, and count coup on 

 him and kill him, and then ride back. Do this four 

 times, and count coup on four of the bravest Sioux and 

 kill them, but don't go again. If you go the fifth time, 

 may be you will be killed, or else you will lo*e me. La- 

 kii-'tu-cliioc— remember." So the biy promised. 



The next day it happened as the horse had said, and 

 the Sioux came" down and formed a line of battle. TIipii 

 the boy took his bow and arrows, and jumped on the dun 

 horse, and charged into the midst of them. And when 

 the Sioux saw that he was going to strike their Head 

 Chief, they all shot their arrows at him, and the arrows 

 flew so thickly across each other that the sky became 

 dark, but none of them hit the boy. And he counted 

 coup on the chief, and killed him, and then rode back. 

 After that he charged again among the Sioux, where 

 they were gathered thickest, and counted coup on their 

 bravest warrior, and killed him. And then twice more 

 until he had gone four times as the horse had told him. 



But the Sioux and the Pawnees kept on fighting, and 

 the. boy stood around and watched the battle. And at 

 last he said to himself. "I have been four times and 

 have killed four Sioux, and I am all rieht. I am not hurt 

 anywhere; why may I not go pgain?" So he jumped 

 on the dun horse and charged again. But when he got 

 among the Sioux, one Sioux warrior drew an arrow and 

 shot. The arrow struck the dun horse behind the fore- 

 legs and pierced him through. And the horse fell down 

 dead. But the boy jumped off and fought his way 

 through the Sioux, and ran away as fast as he could to 

 the Pawnees. Now, as soon as the horse was killed, the 

 Sioux said to each other: ' This horse was like a man. 

 He was brave. He was not like a horse." Aud they took 

 their knivf s and hatchets and hacked the dun horse and 

 gashed his flesh, and cut him into small pieces. 



The Pa wnees and Sioux fought all day long, but toward 

 night the Sioux broke and fled. 



The boy felt very badly that he had lost hishor^e; and, 

 after the fight was over, "he went out from the village to 

 where it had taken place, to mourn for h<s horte. He 

 went to the spot where the horse lty, and gathered up 

 all the pieces of meat, which the Sioux had cut off, and 

 the legs and the hoofs, and put them all together in a pile. 

 Then he went off to the top of a hill near by, and sat down 

 and drew his robe over his head. And he began to mourn 

 for his horse. 



As he sat there, he heard a great wind storm coming 

 up, and it passed over him with a loud, rushing sound, 

 and after the wind came a rain. The boy looked down 

 from where he sat to the pile of meat and bonps, which 

 was all that was left of his horse, and he could ju t see it 

 through the rain. And the rain passed by, and his heart 

 was very heavy, and be kept on mourning. 



And pretty soon came another rushing wind, and after 

 it a rain; and as he looked through the driving rain to- 

 ward the spot where the pieces lay, he thought that they 

 seemed to come together and take shape, and that the 

 pile looked like a horse lying down, but he could not see 

 well for the thick rain. 



After this came a third storm like the others; and now 

 when he looked toward the horse he thought he saw its 

 tail move from side to side two or three times, and that 

 it lifted its head from the ground. The boy was afraid, 

 and wanted to run away, but he stayed. 



And as he waited there came another storm. And 

 while the rain fell, looking through the rain the boy 

 saw the horse raise himself up on his forelegs and look 

 about. 



Then the dun horse stood up. 



And the boy left the place where he had been sitting 

 on the hilltop, and w nt down to him. When the boy 

 had come near to him, the horse spoke and said: "You 

 have seen how it has been this day; and from this you 

 may know how it will be after this. But Ti-ra' wa has 

 been good and has let me come back to you. After tin's 

 do what I tell you; not an v more, not any less." Then 

 the horse said; "Now lead me off , far away from the 

 camp, behind that big hill, and leave me there to-night, 

 and in the morning come for me; " and the boy did as he 

 was told. 



And when he went for the horse in the morning, he 

 found with him a beautiful white gelding, much more 

 handsome than any horse in the tribe. That night the 

 dun horse told the boy to take him again to the place be- 

 hind the big hill, and to come for him the next morning, 

 and when the boy went for him again he found a beauti- 

 tiful black gelding. And so for ten nights, he left the 

 horse among the hills, and each morning he found a dif- 

 ferent colored horse, a bay, a roan, a gray, a blue, a 

 spotted horse, and all of them finer than any horses the 

 Pawnees had ever had in their tribe before. 



Now the boy was rich, and he married the beautiful 

 daughter of the Head Chief, and when he became 

 older, he was made Head Chief himself. He had many 

 children by his beautiful wife, and one day when his 

 oldest boy died, he wrapped him in the spotted calf robe 

 and buried him in it. He always took good care of his 

 old grandmother, and kept her in his own lodge until 

 she died. The dun horse was never ridden except at 

 feasts, and when they were going to make medicine, but 

 he was always led about with the chief wherever he 

 went. The horse lived in the village for many years, 

 until he became very old. And at last he died. . 



A Big Bear's Skull.— A correspondent. Mr. M. C. 

 Mohr, who writes us from Brevard county, FJcida, says: 

 "By this mail I send you a bear skull killed by me by 

 moonlight On the night of June 13, 1889. One shot from 

 a shotgun at 30yds. did the busine-s, but he ran about 

 150yds. before he fell. Please accept the same with my 

 compliments." The skull, which has been duly reoeived, 

 shows that it was carried by a large bear, and Mr. Mont- 

 is to be congratulated on his good fortune in securing 



GUNNING DOWN BY THE SEA. 



GRAY SQUIRRELS NEAR CAPE MAY. 



AS the years go by I grow fonder of the sports which 

 fired my youthful zeal among the beech trees and 

 oak woods of Indiana. Shooting wild pigeons — I mean 

 in the field — is "a lost art" with me now, because I don't 

 know where to look for anything but clay pigeons. 



But Oh, the joy of it ! as I recall the days when I went 

 gypsying with a small muzzleloader (cost $6.50), accom- 

 panied by Bob Shannon with a rifle. Wnen Bob got 

 tired of knocking the eyes cut of the frisky rodent lying 

 perdu on the sunny side of a hickory limb, he would 

 kindly permit me to blaze away at a fugitive gray squtr- 

 rel making his way across the lofty t"ps of the beech i r 

 oak trpes, or hastening down the tree trunk scared within 

 an inch of his life. 



These were happy, happy days, and at fifty-five (with 

 my modern gun)— even after a hot political campaign, in 

 which I didn't win — I think I enjoy the chase as much as 

 I did forty-five years ago. My eye kindles up as quickly 

 when the deep baying dogs indicate a buck near a lun- 

 way or a squirrel up a tree, and again I feel the old thrill 

 of pleasure somewhat akin to "the stern joy a warrior 

 feelo" in a four-footed foeman "worthy of his steel." I 

 admit I can no longer, as I could readily at twenty-one, 

 knock a recumbent, reluctant close-hiding gray squirrtl 

 off a hickory limb at loOyd-., but woe be to the frisky 

 rodent that thinks he is smart enough "to fit e the wrath 

 to come," in the shape of a Krider cartridge loaded with 

 No. 7 shot in my new double -barreled breechloader. 



It was the sad, bad, giad and witty Heinrich Heine, 

 who said he thought the reason he was so fond of hunt- 

 ing was because his Jewish ancestors had been hunted so 

 much. 



But if I wander away from the s-qu-'rrel woods so far, 

 FOREST a>"D Stream will think I am like Mailaigne, who 

 began to write the history of the world and wound up by 

 telling his readers how some of his ancestors suffered 

 with the gravel. 



Possibly this insouciant, non sequitur kind of writing 

 is not without a certain charm, at least to the writer if 

 not to the reader; for with a double-barreled gun and 

 fifty cartridges, intent on getting the taste of p >litics out 

 of one's mouth, and honing after an old-fashioned tquir- 

 rel potpie, one is not txptcted to set himself up straight 

 on the "blackboards of convention," or to carry Arch- 

 bishop Whateley's small treatu-e on "Log : c" in his pocket. 



So much by way of piemise. "I was tired, my soul 

 and I," and t really knew no other way to get rested, 

 save to get out into the woods, when to my aelight my 

 morning mail brought me a letter from my irrepressib e 

 and delightful friend, a gentleman and sportsman, Col. 

 John J. Lansing, witi whom I had taken my pleasure 

 in the squirrel wojds of Cape May two year^ "ago, all 

 of which is recorded in the dear delightful pages of 

 FoRr st and Stream many months ago. Lansing'o letter 

 simply 8oiJ: 



Col. S.: Thp woods are full of them. I know you tee I barTjy 

 ovpr the election. Hut Election Day. like Christm s t conn s once 

 a year, and vcu may get even with me nrxt year. Bring your g in 

 atid fifty cHrtridges and I will show yen some fun among the 

 squirrels.— Lansing. 



I stood not upon the order of my going, I went at 

 once, and at 6:10 I had made the mn down the We.it 

 Jersey Rnlioid eighty-six miles to Cnpe May City. A 

 tall shapely man, whose long gray beard gave a semi- 

 patriarcbal dignity to the father of sixteen children, a 

 boniface whose siep recalled Sheridan's "stallion shod 

 with fire," welcomed me right heartily at the door of his 

 Cottage Hotel, a comfortable mansion built thirty years 

 ago by Billy Fottereli, of Philadelphia. 



By the time the gallant Lansing — for he it was — could 

 send my satchel up-stahs to a room in which were auks 

 and dusky ducks and rabbits and squirrel 0 , cunningly 

 prepared by good friend Lansing, who is a seif-educ it<d 

 taxidermist, and in the room was snowy linen and a 

 downy couch — by this time I had my slippers on and was 

 ready for a supper of broiled rock (c i tight at ebb tide tl at 

 day), flanked with venison done brown in a charing dish, 

 and as a side dish I saw an old time game pie, rilled with 

 quail Lansing had shot that day. The coffee was brown 

 and fragrant; and, ye gods and diminutive fishes! as good 

 digestion waited on appetite, I felt as if I never again 

 wanted to run for office. We talked over our last squir- 

 rel bunt, and Lapsing explained how his friend Dr. 

 Walker, at Hot Springs, down in "Arkansaw," enjoyed 

 that tale as it was told by me in the pages of Forest and 

 Stream. 



At 10 o'clock I was in a dreamless sleep, lulled by the 

 murmuring waves of the pea under my window. At 6 

 o'clock in the morning I was up and ready to take my 

 day's pleasure in the squirrely woods. 



A short ride to Cold Spring behind Mulliner's bay trot- 

 ter brought us to Rube Johnson's grocery store at Cold 

 Spring. We wanted Eube, but we wanted his dog worse 

 than we wanted Johnson. 



Johnson's wife, a comely woman of thirty, demurred 

 to Brother Rube's going a gunning, because she had b- nn 

 promised the horse that day to go to a church fair. But 

 a solemn covenant on the"part of Col. Lansing that she 

 should have $1.50 for the use of the squirrel dog, subsi- 

 dized Sister Johnson so much that she consented that 

 Rube, her husband, should go with us. Sheriff Bob 

 Hand joined the party, which was now made up. There 

 was only one drawback to our happiness, and that was 

 the fact that Rube Johnson was such a teetotaler and 

 temperance agitator tint he would not permit any sur- 

 reptitious flasks of even Hostetter's Bitters to go into the 

 woods with the party. But as no search was made, B ib 

 Hand and Taxidermi-t Lansing passed investigation and 

 got through the lines with their flasks in their inside 

 p cke'is, Rube Johnson to the contrary notwithstanding. 

 But it was a trifle amusing to an old soldier like myself 

 to see Lansing and Sheriff Hand dodge behind a stalwart 

 oak to get out of sight of Br'er Johnson every time they 

 wanted a nip of Hostetter's Bitters. 



The squirrels were reasonably abundant, and our dog, a 

 beautiful cross between a spaniel and a beagle h ^und, 

 made the welkin" ring with the deep-voiced announce- 

 ment of a find. While the dog local ed the game, I came 

 in for a lecture on the virtues of temperance, interspersed 

 with au impassioned account of how Br'er Johnson "got 

 religion," how he saw "three great light-" fit the n'rth- 

 west corner of the old meetiug house, and Br'er Johnson, 

 warming with the theme, told how he went home at mid- 

 night to tell his wife "how he had got it again/' a«d how 



