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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 97 pages of information about American Indian stories.

Yet I wonder who shall come to welcome me in the realm of strange sight.  Will the loving Jesus grant me pardon and give my soul a soothing sleep? or will my warrior father greet me and receive me as his son?  Will my spirit fly upward to a happy heaven? or shall I sink into the bottomless pit, an outcast from a God of infinite love?

Soon, soon I shall know, for now I see the east is growing red.  My heart is strong.  My face is calm.  My eyes are dry and eager for new scenes.  My hands hang quietly at my side.  Serene and brave, my soul awaits the men to perch me on the gallows for another flight.  I go.

THE TRIAL PATH

It was an autumn night on the plain.  The smoke-lapels of the cone-shaped tepee flapped gently in the breeze.  From the low night sky, with its myriad fire points, a large bright star peeped in at the smoke-hole of the wigwam between its fluttering lapels, down upon two Dakotas talking in the dark.  The mellow stream from the star above, a maid of twenty summers, on a bed of sweetgrass, drank in with her wakeful eyes.  On the opposite side of the tepee, beyond the centre fireplace, the grandmother spread her rug.  Though once she had lain down, the telling of a story has aroused her to a sitting posture.

Her eyes are tight closed.  With a thin palm she strokes her wind-shorn hair.

“Yes, my grandchild, the legend says the large bright stars are wise old warriors, and the small dim ones are handsome young braves,” she reiterates, in a high, tremulous voice.

“Then this one peeping in at the smoke-hole yonder is my dear old grandfather,” muses the young woman, in long-drawn-out words.

Her soft rich voice floats through the darkness within the tepee, over the cold ashes heaped on the centre fire, and passes into the ear of the toothless old woman, who sits dumb in silent reverie.  Thence it flies on swifter wing over many winter snows, till at last it cleaves the warm light atmosphere of her grandfather’s youth.  From there her grandmother made answer: 

“Listen!  I am young again.  It is the day of your grandfather’s death.  The elder one, I mean, for there were two of them.  They were like twins, though they were not brothers.  They were friends, inseparable!  All things, good and bad, they shared together, save one, which made them mad.  In that heated frenzy the younger man slew his most intimate friend.  He killed his elder brother, for long had their affection made them kin.”

The voice of the old woman broke.  Swaying her stooped shoulders to and fro as she sat upon her feet, she muttered vain exclamations beneath her breath.  Her eyes, closed tight against the night, beheld behind them the light of bygone days.  They saw again a rolling black cloud spread itself over the land.  Her ear heard the deep rumbling of a tempest in the west.  She bent low a cowering head, while angry thunder-birds shrieked across the sky.  “Heya! heya!” (No! no!) groaned the toothless grandmother at the fury she had awakened.  But the glorious peace afterward, when yellow sunshine made the people glad, now lured her memory onward through the storm.

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