ALONE within his teepee sat Iktomi. The sun was but a
handsbreadth from the western edge of land.
"Those, bad, bad gray wolves! They ate up all my nice fat
ducks!" muttered he, rocking his body to and fro.
He was cuddling the evil memory he bore those hungry wolves.
At last he ceased to sway his body backward and forward, but sat
still and stiff as a stone image.
"Oh! I'll go to Inyan, the great-grandfather, and pray for
food!" he exclaimed.
At once he hurried forth from his teepee and, with his blanket
over one shoulder, drew nigh to a huge rock on a hillside.
With half-crouching, half-running strides, he fell upon Inyan
with outspread hands.
"Grandfather! pity me. I am hungry. I am starving. Give me
food. Great-grandfather, give me meat to eat!" he cried. All the
while he stroked and caressed the face of the great stone god.
The all-powerful Great Spirit, who makes the trees and grass,
can hear the voice of those who pray in many varied ways. The
hearing of Inyan, the large hard stone, was the one most sought
after. He was the great-grandfather, for he had sat upon the
hillside many, many seasons. He had seen the prairie put on a
snow-white blanket and then change it for a bright green robe more
than a thousand times.
Still unaffected by the myriad moons he rested on the
everlasting hill, listening to the prayers of Indian warriors.
Before the finding of the magic arrow he had sat there.
Now, as Iktomi prayed and wept before the great-grandfather,
the sky in the west was red like a glowing face. The sunset poured
a soft mellow light upon the huge gray stone and the solitary
figure beside it. It was the smile of the Great Spirit upon the
grandfather and the wayward child.
The prayer was heard. Iktomi knew it. "Now, grandfather,
accept my offering; 'tis all I have," said Iktomi as he spread
his half-worn blanket upon Inyan's cold shoulders. Then Iktomi,
happy with the smile of the sunset sky, followed a footpath leading
toward a thicketed ravine. He had not gone many paces into the
shrubbery when before him lay a freshly wounded deer!
"This is the answer from the red western sky!" cried Iktomi
with hands uplifted.
Slipping a long thin blade from out his belt, he cut large
chunks of choice meat. Sharpening some willow sticks, he planted
them around a wood-pile he had ready to kindle. On these stakes he
meant to roast the venison.
While he was rubbing briskly two long sticks to start a fire,
the sun in the west fell out of the sky below the edge of land.
Twilight was over all. Iktomi felt the cold night air upon his
bare neck and shoulders. "Ough!" he shivered as he wiped his knife
on the grass. Tucking it in a beaded case hanging from his belt,
Iktomi stood erect, looking about. He shivered again. "Ough! Ah!
I am cold. I wish I had my blanket!" whispered he, hovering over
the pile of dry sticks and the sharp stakes round about it.
Suddenly he paused and dropped his hands at his sides.
"The old great-grandfather does not feel the cold as I do. He
does not need my old blanket as I do. I wish I had not given it to
him. Oh! I think I'll run up there and take it back!" said he,
pointing his long chin toward the large gray stone.
Iktomi, in the warm sunshine, had no need of his blanket, and
it had been very easy to part with a thing which he could not miss.
But the chilly night wind quite froze his ardent thank-offering.
Thus running up the hillside, his teeth chattering all the
way, he drew near to Inyan, the sacred symbol. Seizing one corner
of the half-worn blanket, Iktomi pulled it off with a jerk.
"Give my blanket back, old grandfather! You do not need it.
I do!" This was very wrong, yet Iktomi did it, for his wit was not
wisdom. Drawing the blanket tight over his shoulders, he descended
the hill with hurrying feet.
He was soon upon the edge of the ravine. A young moon, like
a bright bent bow, climbed up from the southwest horizon a little
way into the sky.
In this pale light Iktomi stood motionless as a ghost amid the
thicket. His woodpile was not yet kindled. His pointed stakes
were still bare as he had left them. But where was the deer--the
venison he had felt warm in his hands a moment ago? It was gone.
Only the dry rib bones lay on the ground like giant fingers from an
open grave. Iktomi was troubled. At length, stooping over the
white dried bones, he took hold of one and shook it. The bones,
loose in their sockets, rattled together at his touch. Iktomi let
go his hold. He sprang back amazed. And though he wore a blanket
his teeth chattered more than ever. Then his blunted sense will
surprise you, little reader; for instead of being grieved that he
had taken back his blanket, he cried aloud, "Hin-hin-hin! If only
I had eaten the venison before going for my blanket!"
Those tears no longer moved the hand of the Generous Giver.
They were selfish tears. The Great Spirit does not heed them ever.