All of which was greatly to his credit, for he found it hard to learn
now; he was no longer young, and before he had seen eight springs
dissolve the snow, he was called to the Land of Happy Hunting, where the
porcupine is not, but where hens abound on every side, and there is no
man near to meddle with his joy.

Yet, when he died, he lived. His memory was kept ever green, for Skookum
Number 2 was there to fill his room, and he gave place to Skookum 3, and
so they keep their line on to this very day.




Quonab Goes Home

The public has a kind of crawlin' common-sense, that is always right and
fair in the end, only it's slow--Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

Twenty years went by. Rolf grew and prospered. He was a man of substance
and of family now; for store and mill were making money fast, and the
little tow-tops came at regular intervals.

And when the years had added ripeness to his thought, and the kind
gods of gold had filled his scrip, it was that his ampler life began to
bloom. His was a mind of the best begetting, born and bred of ancient,
clean-blooded stock; inflexibly principled, trained by a God-fearing
mother, nurtured in a cradle of adversity, schooled in a school of
hardship, developed in the big outdoors, wise in the ways of the woods,
burnt in the fire of affliction, forced into self-reliance, inspired
with the lofty inspiration of sacrificial patriotism--the good stuff
of his make-up shone, as shines the gold in the fervent heat; the hard
blows that prove or crush, had proved; the metal had rung true; and in
the great valley, Rolf Kittering was a man of mark.

The country's need of such is ever present and ever seeking. Those in
power who know and measure men soon sought him out, and their messenger
was the grisly old Si Sylvanne.

Because he was a busy man, Rolf feared to add to his activities. Because
he was a very busy man, the party new they needed him. So at length it
was settled, and in a little while, Rolf stood in the Halls of Albany
and grasped the hand of the ancient mill-man as a colleague, filling an
honoured place in the councils of the state.

Each change brought him new activities. Each year he was more of a
public man, and his life grew larger. From Albany he went to New York,
in the world of business and men's affairs; and at last in Washington,
his tall, manly figure was well known, and his good common-sense and
clean business ways were respected. Yet each year during hunting time he
managed to spend a few weeks with Quonab in the woods. Tramping on their
ancient trapping grounds, living over the days of their early hunts;
and double zest was added when Rolf the second joined them and lived and
loved it all.

But this was no longer Kittering's life, rather the rare precarious
interval, and more and more old Quonab realized that they were meeting
only in the past. When the big house went up on the river-bank, he
indeed had felt that they were at the parting of the ways. His respect
for Nibowaka had grown to be almost a worship, and yet he knew that
their trails had yearly less in common. Rolf had outgrown him; he was
alone again, as on the day of their meeting. His years had brought a
certain insight; and this he grasped--that the times were changed, and
his was the way of a bygone day.

"Mine is the wisdom of the woods," he said, "but the woods are going
fast; in a few years there will be no more trees, and my wisdom will
be foolishness. There is in this land now a big, strong thing called
'trade,' that will eat up all things and the people themselves. You are
wise enough, Nibowaka, to paddle with the stream, you have turned so the
big giant is on your side, and his power is making you great. But this
is not for me; so only I have enough to eat, and comfort to sleep, I am
content to watch for the light."

Across the valley from the big store he dwelt, in a lodge from which he
could easily see the sunrise. Twenty-five years added to the fifty he
spent in the land of Mayn Mayano had dimmed his eye, had robbed his foot
of its spring, and sprinkled his brow with the winter rime; but they had
not changed his spirit, nor taught him less to love the pine woods
and the sunrise. Yes, even more than in former days did he take his
song-drum to the rock of worship, to his idaho--as the western red man
would have called it. And there, because it was high and the wind blew
cold, he made a little eastward-facing lodge.

He was old and hunting was too hard for him, but there was a strong
arm about him now; he dimly thought of it at times--the arm of the
fifteen-year-old boy that one time he had shielded. There was no lack
of food or blankets in the wigwam, or of freedom in the woods under the
sun-up rock. But there was a hunger that not farseeing Nibowaka could
appease, not even talk about. And Quonab built another medicine lodge
to watch the sun go down over the hill. Sitting by a little fire to
tune his song-drum, he often crooned to the blazing skies. "I am of the
sunset now, I and my people," he sang, "the night is closing over us."

One day a stranger came to the hills; his clothes were those of a white
man, but his head, his feet, and his eyes--his blood, his walk, and his
soul were those of a red Indian of the West. He came from the unknown
with a message to those who knew him not: "The Messiah was coming; the
deliverer that Hiawatha bade them look for. He was coming in power
to deliver the red race, and his people must sing the song of the
ghost-dance till the spirit came, and in a vision taught them wisdom and
his will!"

Not to the white man, but to the lonely Indian in the hill cleft he
came, and the song that he brought and taught him was of a sorrowing
people seeking their father.

"Father have pity on us! Our souls are hungry for Thee. There is nothing
here to satisfy us Father we bow to Thy will."

By the fire that night they sang, and prayed as the Indian
prays--"Father have pity and guide us." So Quonab sang the new song, and
knew its message was for him.

The stranger went on, for he was a messenger, but Quonab sang again and
again, and then the vision came, as it must, and the knowledge that he
sought.

None saw him go, but ten miles southward on the river he met a hunter
and said: "Tell the wise one that I have heard the new song. Tell him
I have seen the vision. We are of the sunset, but the new day comes. I
must see the land of Mayn Mayano, the dawn-land, where the sun rises out
of the sea."

They saw no more of him. But a day later, Rolf heard of it, and set out
in haste next morning for Albany. Skookum the fourth leaped into the
canoe as he pushed off. Rolf was minded to send him back, but the dog
begged hard with his eyes and tail. It seemed he ought to go, when it
was the old man they sought. At Albany they got news. "Yes, the Indian
went on the steamboat a few days ago." At New York, Rolf made no attempt
to track his friend, but took the Stamford boat and hurried to the old
familiar woods, where he had lived and suffered and wakened as a boy.

There was a house now near the rock that is yet called "Quonab's." From
the tenants he learned that in the stillest hours of the night before,
they had heard the beating of an Indian drum, and the cadence of a chant
that came not from throat of white man's blood.

In the morning when it was light Rolf hastened to the place, expecting
to find at least an Indian camp, where once had stood the lodge. There
was no camp; and as he climbed for a higher view, the Skookum of to-day
gave bristling proof of fear at some strange object there--a man that
moved not. His long straight hair was nearly white, and by his side,
forever still, lay the song-drum of his people.

And those who heard the mournful strains the night before knew now from
Rolf that it was Ouonab come back to his rest, and the song that he sang
was the song of the ghost dance.

"Pity me, Wahkonda. My soul is ever hungry. There is nothing here to
satisfy me, I walk in darkness; Pity me, Wahkondal."