Read Online Panther in the Sky by James Alexander Thom - Free Book Online
Authors: James Alexander Thom
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excitement but still scarcely understanding what was happening. Stands Firm said:
“I hope the Long Knife gets this far. I will be the one who knocks him to his knees if he does! Ha!”
“Ha, ha! Or I will!”
“He surely won’t get past the two of us!”
Soon the parallel lines of people grew more subdued, looking down the line, waiting for the white man to appear. The lines were very long; there were people here not only from Kispoko Town but also many from the other Shawnee towns across the river. The captive might well not make it this far.
“They say this whiteface wants to become one of our people,” Stands Firm said.
“He does?” said Chiksika, surprised.
“I talked to the one who caught the whiteface and brought him here. They say he was very good on the trail, that he does not like being a white boy.”
“Eh, so,” Chiksika replied, looking bemused. “I can understand that.” But his eagerness to whip the whiteface was diminished a little, somehow. It would be harder to hate somebody who
wanted
to be a Shawnee.
Now a drum sounded up by the lodge, a slow, two-beat rhythm, like a heartbeat, growing faster and faster. Then it stopped. Hard Striker appeared in front of the lodge, wearing red leggings and a chest-plate made of rows of colored quills. He held in his left hand a long pole decorated with scalplocks. He struck the ground twice with the butt of his pole, and then the drum beat twice. Everyone looked down the other way then. The voices rose to an excited murmur.
And then at that far end, two hundred paces away, a single figure was thrust out between the two rows of townspeople. His blue coat made him easy to see. Then two warriors stepped close to the captive and cut and tore away all his clothing. Now he was even more conspicuous. Little Tecumseh’s mouth gaped. Here was something he had never seen before: a person whose wholebody was white like a fish’s belly. This image was so strange, and so curiously beautiful, that it was as if he were not really standing here but hearing one of the old ones tell a legend. There were legends of people with white bodies, and Tecumseh had seen them in his mind while listening.
But he was here, with the dust and the crowd, their howling laughter. This was real, and the moment was frightful. He cringed back and wrapped his arms around Chiksika’s leg, dropping his switch, his face contorting as if he were going to cry.
“No, no,” Chiksika exclaimed, leaning down over him, frowning, pulling his arms away. He picked up the stick and put it in Tecumseh’s right hand. Then he pointed toward the white slip of a figure down the way and said loudly in his ear: “That is a whiteface! He is bad. When he runs past us here, you must try to hit him. That’s what this stick is for: to hit him as hard as you can. Don’t be afraid, little brother. Do you hear me?”
The child nodded. His eyes were still wild with fright, but he always did what Chiksika said. He would do anything to please his brother. In his mind he remembered the hoop rolling between the two lines of boys, and he thought now that this striking of the white person must be some sort of a game, like arrow-and-hoop.
Tecumseh had heard of whitefaces often, and he had sensed the tone in which they were mentioned, as when bad spirits were spoken of, but he had never imagined that the thing called a whiteface could be actually a person who was white all over, that the white-bodied whiteface would come by like a hoop in a game, that he was supposed to hit it with a stick, that it would come close enough to be hit with a stick. He was afraid now of what was about to happen. But he was also eager to do anything that would make his brother smile on him.
Then there was a drumbeat at the lodge. The voices rose to a scream.
At the other end of the line, a warrior hit the white person from behind with a long staff, nearly knocking him off his feet, and as he staggered and hesitated, all the people
“I hope the Long Knife gets this far. I will be the one who knocks him to his knees if he does! Ha!”
“Ha, ha! Or I will!”
“He surely won’t get past the two of us!”
Soon the parallel lines of people grew more subdued, looking down the line, waiting for the white man to appear. The lines were very long; there were people here not only from Kispoko Town but also many from the other Shawnee towns across the river. The captive might well not make it this far.
“They say this whiteface wants to become one of our people,” Stands Firm said.
“He does?” said Chiksika, surprised.
“I talked to the one who caught the whiteface and brought him here. They say he was very good on the trail, that he does not like being a white boy.”
“Eh, so,” Chiksika replied, looking bemused. “I can understand that.” But his eagerness to whip the whiteface was diminished a little, somehow. It would be harder to hate somebody who
wanted
to be a Shawnee.
Now a drum sounded up by the lodge, a slow, two-beat rhythm, like a heartbeat, growing faster and faster. Then it stopped. Hard Striker appeared in front of the lodge, wearing red leggings and a chest-plate made of rows of colored quills. He held in his left hand a long pole decorated with scalplocks. He struck the ground twice with the butt of his pole, and then the drum beat twice. Everyone looked down the other way then. The voices rose to an excited murmur.
And then at that far end, two hundred paces away, a single figure was thrust out between the two rows of townspeople. His blue coat made him easy to see. Then two warriors stepped close to the captive and cut and tore away all his clothing. Now he was even more conspicuous. Little Tecumseh’s mouth gaped. Here was something he had never seen before: a person whose wholebody was white like a fish’s belly. This image was so strange, and so curiously beautiful, that it was as if he were not really standing here but hearing one of the old ones tell a legend. There were legends of people with white bodies, and Tecumseh had seen them in his mind while listening.
But he was here, with the dust and the crowd, their howling laughter. This was real, and the moment was frightful. He cringed back and wrapped his arms around Chiksika’s leg, dropping his switch, his face contorting as if he were going to cry.
“No, no,” Chiksika exclaimed, leaning down over him, frowning, pulling his arms away. He picked up the stick and put it in Tecumseh’s right hand. Then he pointed toward the white slip of a figure down the way and said loudly in his ear: “That is a whiteface! He is bad. When he runs past us here, you must try to hit him. That’s what this stick is for: to hit him as hard as you can. Don’t be afraid, little brother. Do you hear me?”
The child nodded. His eyes were still wild with fright, but he always did what Chiksika said. He would do anything to please his brother. In his mind he remembered the hoop rolling between the two lines of boys, and he thought now that this striking of the white person must be some sort of a game, like arrow-and-hoop.
Tecumseh had heard of whitefaces often, and he had sensed the tone in which they were mentioned, as when bad spirits were spoken of, but he had never imagined that the thing called a whiteface could be actually a person who was white all over, that the white-bodied whiteface would come by like a hoop in a game, that he was supposed to hit it with a stick, that it would come close enough to be hit with a stick. He was afraid now of what was about to happen. But he was also eager to do anything that would make his brother smile on him.
Then there was a drumbeat at the lodge. The voices rose to a scream.
At the other end of the line, a warrior hit the white person from behind with a long staff, nearly knocking him off his feet, and as he staggered and hesitated, all the people
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