The Talking Leaves | Page 6

sight.
"What shall we do with them, Ni-ha-be?"
"Show them to father."
"Why not ask Red Wolf?"
"He would take them away and burn them. He hates the pale-faces more and more every day."
"I don't believe he hates me."
"Of course not. You're an Apache now. Just as much as Mother Dolores, and she's forgotten that she was ever white."
"She isn't very white, Ni-ha-be. She's darker than almost any other woman in the tribe."
"We won't show her the talking leaves till father says we may keep them. Then she'll be afraid to touch them. She hates me."
"No, she doesn't. She likes me best, that's all."
"She'd better not hate me, Rita. I'll have her beaten if she isn't good to me. I'm an Apache!"
The black-eyed daughter of the great chief had plenty of self-will and temper. There could be no doubt of that. She sprang upon her mustang with a quick, impatient bound, and Rita followed, clinging to her prizes, wondering what would be the decision of Many Bears and his councillors as to the ownership of them.
A few minutes of swift riding brought the two girls to the border of the camp.
"Rita? Red Wolf!"
"I see him--he is coming to meet us, but he does not want us to think so."
That was a correct guess.
The tall, hawk-nosed young warrior, who was now riding toward them, was a perfect embodiment of Indian haughtiness, and even his sister was a mere "squaw" in his eyes. As for Rita, she was not only a squaw but also not even a full-blooded Apache, and was to be looked down upon accordingly.
He was an Indian and a warrior, and would one day be a chief like his father.
Still, he had so far unbent his usual cold dignity as to turn his horse to meet that sisterly pair, if only to find out why they were in such a hurry.
"What scare you?"
"We're not scared. We've found something--pale-face sign."
"Apache warriors do not ask squaws if there are pale-faces near them. The chiefs know all; their camp was by the spring."
"Was it?" exclaimed Ni-ha-be. "We have found some of their talking leaves. Rita must show them to father."
"Show them to me!"
"No. You are an Apache; you cannot hear what they say: Rita can--she is white."
"Ugh! Show leaves, now!"
Ni-ha-be was a "squaw," but she was also something of a spoiled child, and was less afraid of her brother than he may have imagined. Besides, the well-known rule of the camp, or of any Indian camp, was in her favor.
All "signs" were to be reported to the chief by the finder, and Ni-ha-be would make her report to her father like a warrior.
Rita was wise enough to say nothing, and Red Wolf was compelled to soften his tone a little. He even led the way to the spot near the spring where the squaws of Many Bears were already putting up his "lodge."
There was plenty of grass and water in that valley, and it had been decided to rest the horses there for three days, before pushing on deeper into the Apache country.
The proud old chief was not lowering his dignity to any such work as lodge-pitching. He would have slept on the bare ground without a blanket before he would have touched one pole with a finger.
That was "work for squaws," and all that could be expected of him was that he should stand near and say "Ugh!" pleasantly, when things were going to please him, and to say it in a different tone if they were not.
Ni-ha-be and Rita were favorites of the scarred and wrinkled warrior, however, and when they rode up with Red Wolf, and the latter briefly stated the facts of the case--all he knew of them--the face of Many Bears relaxed into a grim smile.
"Squaw find sign. Ugh! Good!"
"Rita says they are talking leaves. Much picture. Many words. See!"
Her father took from Ni-ha-be, and then from Rita, the strange objects they held out so excitedly, but to their surprise he did not seem to share in their estimate of them.
"No good. See them before. No tell anything true. Big lie."
Many Bears had been among the forts and border settlements of the white men in his day. He had talked with army officers and missionaries and government agents. He had seen many written papers and printed papers, and had had books given him, and there was no more to be told or taught him about nonsense of that kind. He had once imitated a pale-faced friend of his, and looked steadily at a newspaper for an hour at a time, and it had not spoken a word to him.
So now he turned over the three magazines in his hard, brown hand, with a look of dull curiosity mixed with a good deal of contempt.
"Ugh! Young squaws keep them. No good for