THE RED FEATHERS

INDIAN AND HUNTING STORIES FOR BOYS

COMRADES OF THE TRAILS

By Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. $1.50

A breezy tale of adventures in the Canadian wilds.

FLYING PLOVER

By Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. $1.25

A story of Indian life in Labrador.

THE RED FEATHERS

By Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. $1.50

A story of remarkable adventures when the world was young.

RALPH SOMERBY AT PANAMA

By Francis Raleigh

Cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.50

A story of adventures with the Indians, Spaniards and roving pirates in the 16th century.

HAWK: THE YOUNG OSAGE

By C. H. Robinson

Cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.25

A story of Indian life and adventures in the 15th century.

LONGHEAD

By C. H. Robinson

Cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.00

An interesting book of prehistoric times.

THE YOUNG MOOSE HUNTERS

By C. A. Stephens

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. $1.25

A stirring story of adventures in the wilds of Maine.

THE PAGE COMPANY 53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.

“SPED HERE AND THERE THROUGH THE AIR, SWIFT AS A CHASING HAWK”

(See page 25)

The Red Feathers

A Story of Remarkable Adventures When the World Was Young

By Theodore Roberts AUTHOR OF “BROTHERS OF PERIL,” “HEMMING THE ADVENTURER,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED AND DECORATED BY Charles Livingston Bull

Boston The Page Company Publishers

Copyright, 1907 By L. C. Page & Company (INCORPORATED)

Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London

All rights reserved

Second Impression, June, 1908 Third Impression, January, 1913 Fourth Impression, December, 1915 Fifth Impression, September, 1919

THE COLONIAL PRESS C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

“A GREAT STAG CARIBOU, AS HIGH AS A PINE, HAUNTED THE WILDS.”

THE RED FEATHERS

CHAPTER I “RUN-ALL-DAY”

In the days of which I write, in the island now known as Newfoundland, men made prayers to the sun, the winds, the frost and the stars. They believed that giants lived in the north; that a great stag caribou, as high as a pine, haunted the wilds beyond the Narrow Sea to the west; that gods moved about in divers shapes, doing good or evil as their natures prompted them, and that certain wise and crafty men acquired a knowledge of magic and thereby became stronger than the greatest warriors. Fog, to these people, was the breath of an old god who lived to the eastward, just beneath the rim of the sea; and[2] fire was a spirit,—the offspring of a god,—that sometimes was content to feed on the fagots cut for it, cooking food for men and warming their bodies, and sometimes leaped into the woods and consumed the forest for miles in an outburst of fury.

A man of the Beothic race named Run-all-day had a lodge on the River of Three Fires, about half-way between its mouth and Wind Lake. There he lived only in the warmer months of the year. At the approach of winter he followed the great herds of caribou farther inland and southward, to the deeper forest and more sheltered barrens. During the summer he netted and speared the salmon in the River of Three Fires, feeding himself and his family on the flesh and smoking what could not be used then for their winter supply. Early in October, before starting on the inland journey, his wife and children gathered nuts and berries, while he hunted the fat caribou, which were already gathering in great herds preparatory to moving to the more sheltered feeding-grounds. With the venison and the berries his wife, Red Willow, made a rough sort of pemmican.

Run-all-day was fleet of foot and strong of[3] wind and leg. It was by his speed and endurance when a boy that he had won his name. He had also proved himself a warrior of prowess, when occasion demanded, and might have followed his father as chief of a clan; but the islanders happened to be entering on a long term of peace when he grew to manhood, so he took a wife from another village and journeyed away from his family. His wits were not as quick as his legs and he entertained no great ambitions of distinguishing himself. He was quite content to protect and provide for his family—to sleep warm and eat his fill all the year round and see them do the same. Of course, sometimes at the tail-end of a bad season, provisions ran low; but if any man could find game and bring it to the ground, it was Run-all-day.

On a certain June evening, when the west was red and dusk was settling along the edges of the woods, Run-all-day withdrew his net of raw-hide thongs from a big pool four miles above his wigwam and seated himself on the grassy bank for a few minutes’ rest before walking home. Nine great silver fish lay beside him—a respectable load even for Run-all-day. To lessen their weight he had already slit them from throat[4] to tail, with his flint knife, and tossed the entrails into the bushes. He was well satisfied with his afternoon’s work, and sighed with contentment and a pleasant weariness.

“It has been a good summer,” he murmured, “and there will be plenty of food for all of us.” He smiled at that thought, for his family had increased by one within the past week.

“You are a fortunate man, Run-all-day,” said a voice at his shoulder.

In the fraction of a second the salmon fisher was turned and on his feet, with the flint blade with which he had cleaned the fish ready in his hand. His eyes encountered those of a young man who stood not ten feet distant, with his back to the dusky forest. The stranger’s tunic of dressed deer-skin was decorated with strings of polished stones. On his feet were finely worked moccasins and in his hand a short spear. His face was very kind. To a keener reader of mankind than Run-all-day it would have suggested the hope and faith of a child, the wisdom that comes of experience and the charitable spirit of old age.

“Though I may be a stranger to you,” said the young man, smiling, “I am not your enemy.[5] You need not threaten me with the knife, oh, tireless runner.”

Run-all-day tossed his weapon beside the dead fish and looked steadily at the other.

“You do not belong to this river, chief,” said he, “and yet you call me by my name. Is my reputation so great in the world?”

“To those who have ears to hear of an honest man,” replied the stranger, “your reputation has travelled far. How is the little warrior that came to your lodge but five days ago?”

“He is well and sound,” answered Run-all-day. “But what do you know of him?” he asked, in wonder. “Are you a god?”

“You put the question honestly,” said the young man with the spear.

He stepped close to the salmon fisher.

“I am not a god,” he said. “I am even of your own clan. I am called Wise-as-a-she-wolf.”

Run-all-day looked at him in open astonishment, for the name of the great magician was known far and wide. Some people held that Wise-as-a-she-wolf was stronger than several of the gods themselves; that he was the greatest student of magic since the days of the wicked Bright Robe; that his magic had been learned[6] in the Crimson Wigwam and in the White Lodge beyond the ramparts of eternal ice; that the secrets of immortality and everlasting youth were his. And yet ’twas said that for all his power, his heart was kind as a young girl’s.

“Great chief,” said the salmon fisher, at last, “I had thought to see, in Wise-as-a-she-wolf, a full-grown man.”

“So be it, friend,” replied the other, and, in the twinkling of an eye, a warrior of great stature and grim visage stood before Run-all-day.

“Have mercy, great chief,” cried the fisherman of the River of Three Fires. He was strong and courageous; but he had a dread of big magic.

“Have no fear of your kinsman,” laughed the other; and, in the next second, the youth with the gentle face laid a reassuring hand on Run-all-day’s shoulder. The gigantic warrior was gone.

CHAPTER II THE TWO RED FEATHERS

“I am hungry and weary,” said Wise-as-a-she-wolf.

“My cooking-pot is full,” replied the other, “and I have many soft skins for bedding; but I fear me, chief, that to sleep in my lodge you will first have to practise magic on the throat of the new warrior, or on your own ears.”

“Nay, friend, a couch in the open will suit my taste,” replied the youth. “So that the young warrior is not in pain, let him yell. ’Tis the great spirit of him giving voice against the littleness of his body and the weakness of his legs.”

So they set out for the fisherman’s wigwam, each carrying a load of the silver fish. The cooking-fire was burning brightly when they stepped from the woods, and the slender form of Singing Bird, eldest child of Run-all-day and Red Willow, was seen bending above the tree stump, that had been hollowed to serve as a pot,[8] which stood near the fire. The stew in the pot was boiling vigorously, for the girl had dropped stones into it which she had first heated near to the bursting-point among the coals of the fire. Two smaller figures—and these of boys—skipped about in the ruddy glow and shouted that they were quite ready for their meal; still another was seen dabbling in the shallow water at the edge of the river; and from the interior of the pointed lodge sounded the crying of an infant.

Wise-as-a-she-wolf let his string of fish slip to the grass, and looked at the scene before him with something of amusement and something of consternation in his face.

“A fine family,” he remarked. “And surely that littlest warrior has the voice of a great chief.”

Run-all-day was highly delighted at these words, being as foolish in such matters as are the fathers of our own time. With a self-satisfied grunt, he led the stranger to a seat by the fire and fetched him a bark cup full of spring water, that he might quench his thirst before eating.

The magician ate very little for a hungry youth, and yet the stew was excellent. Before he touched the food, he was seen to cast aside[9] from his waist a girdle of white leather painted with many wonderful figures of gods and men and beasts. He slept well that night, on a couch of bear skins, in the shelter of a spruce which stood midway between the lodge and the fire. He was awakened, in the early morning, by the voice of Singing Bird. Opening his eyes, he beheld her busy at the cooking-fire, singing as she worked.

The breakfast was as good as the evening meal; and the magician, pointing to the belt which hung loosely above his hips, said, “You are fortunate, my friend. You have no need, with such a cook, of a magic Hunger-Belt like this.” His gaze rested kindly on Singing Bird.

“But the meat must first be caught, chief,” replied Run-all-day.

When Wise-as-a-she-wolf was ready to continue his journey, the fisherman walked from the camp with him, for a short distance.

“I am going northward,” said the magician, “on very urgent business. I have had dealings with many great people—even with the gods—and so I have awakened envy in more than one dark heart. For all my magic, friend, my life is not so good a one as yours. You love and are[10] loved. You keep your family fed and are at peace with the world. No evil magic is worked against you and the wrath of the gods is aimed so high that it goes over your head. I have my days of glory and my victories; but strange weapons are ever being shaped for my undoing.”

“Yes, chief, I am content with my humble life,” replied Run-all-day.

The young man placed two small red feathers in the other’s hand.

“These are for the littlest warrior,” he said. “They are great magic—great for good or evil, as the heart prompts. When he is large enough to run here and there, place one of these feathers in each of his moccasins, flat on the sole of his foot. Let him cherish them, for they will help him in his play, and, later, in the chase, and they have the power to save him even from death.”

At the last word he stepped aside from the trail and was gone, with no more noise than the slipping away of a shadow.

Run-all-day continued to stare at the spot where Wise-as-a-she-wolf had so lately stood, for fully a minute. This magic was no light thing. Courageous though he was, his legs shook under him as if with cold. A dozen sea-eagles[11] could not have made him flinch; but he trembled at the touch of the two little feathers in his hand.

“He is a great man,” he said at last, “and possessed of wonderful magic; but perhaps he was not wise in his gift to the littlest warrior. Magic is for gods and mighty chieftains; it is too potent a thing for humble folks like me and mine. Did he not say himself, but a moment ago, that power breeds powerful enemies and that even the gods bend their ears to the affairs of magicians?”

He gazed fearfully at the bright feathers in his hand.

“He is a great chief; a kind and a good young man, a cousin of the gods, I do not doubt,—but I fear he has made a mistake. He has been too generous.”

He let the feathers fall from his hand to the moss at the side of the trail, turned quickly and hastened back to the clearing and the lodge.

He found Red Willow lying on a couch of soft skins, well and happy. Old Blowing Fog, her mother, squatted beside her with the baby in her wrinkled arms.

“The stranger has gone,” said Run-all-day.[12] “He is a great magician and his name is Wise-as-a-she-wolf. But he envied me my humble contentment, for all of that. He gave me two red feathers, for a gift for that little warrior, and said that they are possessed of magic power; and then he was gone, like the first whiff of smoke from a newly lighted fire.”

“Where are the feathers?” inquired Red Willow, her face aglow with interest.

The brave shook his head and smiled wisely.

“The gift was meant well,” he said; “but a man must judge of some things for himself, even if he be but a hunter and fisherman. Magic may be well enough for the great men whose feet are set in high places; though I think even they would be safer without it. They may hunt with the gods and the north-lights if they please; but the meat of the caribou and beaver is better suited to my taste.”

“And what does all this grand talk lead to?” asked old Blowing Fog.

“I dropped the feathers on the ground and let them lie,” said the man.

“Then what do I see in your belt?” asked the old woman, peering between half-closed lids.

Run-all-day put his hand to his leather girdle—and[13] drew out the two red feathers. He gasped. His swarthy cheeks turned white as the bark of the birch. Had one of those little, fat savages from the frozen west (who sometimes crossed the Narrow Sea and fought with the islanders) appeared and stuck a spear into his flesh, he could not have looked more horrified.

“Give them to me. I do not fear their magic,” cried Red Willow.

Run-all-day obeyed her with a sigh of relief. He would face the magician himself—but those little, slim, red feathers—ah, they made his blood run cold as ice. Red Willow took them fearlessly and admired their bright colour; and yet she was in the habit of fleeing, with covered head, from bats flickering in the twilight. She laughed at her big, trembling husband.

“It is foolish to throw away a gift,” she said. “And it is even more foolish to run away from two little feathers that were given you by a friend.”

Old Blowing Fog laughed, as she rocked the baby in her arms.

“When I was young we saw greater magic than that, almost every day,” said she. “My father once worked such magic on his bow that[14] it shot the arrows so high into the air that they never came down.”

“But I’ve heard that he couldn’t shoot a standing caribou, for all that,” replied the man, recovering something of his assurance. He often argued with Blowing Fog.

“Give me honest arrows, honest muscles and honest feathers sticking in the tails of honest birds,” he continued. “I do not need any magic, old or new, to keep the pot full of meat and fish and the rain out of my lodge. And I’d feel like a fool shooting my arrows so high in the air that they’d never come down.”

Both the women laughed at him.

“Oh, I am wiser than you think,” said he, and stalked out of the lodge. But he left the two magic feathers in Red Willow’s hand.

CHAPTER III THE LITTLEST WARRIOR AND HIS SUMMER HOME

The home in which the baby had been born was only a hut, built of poles and sheets of bark. It was a fine house, though, for the time and country. Its door was the hide of a caribou,—and how fearfully that great hide flapped and bulged inward at the pressure of the night winds. Fortunately the season was June, when the air was warm and the sun shone almost every day.

When the littlest warrior was a few weeks old, he was put into a bag of furry skins fastened to a light framework of wood. In this he rested all day, in an upright position, sometimes against one of the poles of the lodge, and sometimes on the back of his mother, or Blowing Fog, or little Singing Bird.

He was a good baby, crying only when he was very hungry or when he was bathed in the cold water of the river. He spent the greater part of his time in sleep. Even when awake he did not[16] seem to take much interest in what went on around him; but this indifference to the world was apparent in him only in his earliest days. At the age of two months he began to show signs (so said his mother and Blowing Fog) of an exceptional spirit and intellect; but, to the casual observer, it would have seemed that he but howled with a more powerful voice and kicked and struggled with lustier limbs.

It was only during the summer months—from May to October—that Run-all-day and his family lived in the little clearing beside the River of Three Fires. There was no other wigwam within ten miles of them; for at this time the small tribes, or clans, of the north and south, the east and west, were at peace with one another and so the people did not have to band together, in villages, in self-defence. Sometimes, during the summer, people of their own tribe passed up or down the stream in front of their lodge, in skin-covered canoes of unwieldy shapes.

Many of Run-all-day’s friends spent the summer months on the coast of the great sea-bays, where they caught cod-fish to cure for winter use. Some lived close to the great salt water all the year round, and slaughtered a few of the[17] hosts of seals that floated down from the north, on the grinding ice-floes, early in the spring. Others, like Run-all-day, pitched their summer lodges on the rivers and ponds, moving southward and further inland, with the great herds of caribou, at the approach of winter.

The hunting of the caribou began early in September, when the calves of that year had grown strong enough to live independently of their mothers. Several of the families returning from the bays, halted for awhile in their journey and joined Run-all-day in the chase. Now the youngest baby heard more noise than usual. Strange faces bent above him and strange arms lifted him to feel his weight. Several cooking-fires burned before the lodge; canoes of many models were drawn up on the bank; everybody seemed to be happy and busy. But soon the caribou began to travel southward, across the great barrens and through the low, dark timber. Then dried fish and meat, skins and weapons were made into packs, and canoes were launched and headed up stream.

Now the littlest warrior opened his eyes with more concern for the everyday affairs of life. He cried less than ever before in his brief career[18] and smiled more readily. Even when he was placed in a canoe, still in his fur bag, beside his mother, he did not make any violent signs of objection. His father and all the family effects were at his back. Close in front sat his three small brothers, and Singing Bird, and in the bow old Blowing Fog plied a broad paddle.