The collision with the “advanced civilization” of Europe turned into a disaster for the North American Indians. They began to overcome its consequences only in the 20th century.
P tattered Due to storms, the flotilla of the Dutch East India Company dropped anchor on September 4, 1609 - after three months of sailing. The captain, Englishman Henry Hudson (Hudson), ordered the coordinates to be determined and the boats to be prepared. 40 degrees north latitude and 73 degrees west of Greenwich. A few hundred meters on the starboard side, a wooded island rose above the sea surface.
The landing, however, had to be postponed. At noon, the Dutch ships were surrounded by dozens of light boats hollowed out from tree trunks. “In the hands of the people there were bows and arrows with tips made of sharpened stones. They looked quite friendly, but at the same time showed a tendency to steal” (from Hudson’s notes). Before dawn on September 6th, five sailors secretly crossed the strait between the ships and the mouth of the river later called the Hudson. But the Algonquin sentries made a noise, “ours were attacked with lightning speed, and one of them, John Coleman, had an arrow put in his throat” (from the logbook). Thus ended the first visit of white people to Manhattan.
Later, this dating scenario was repeated thousands of times across North America. At first they “kept their distance.” We tried to figure out each other's intentions. Then they converged, demonstrating friendliness. And at the slightest movement that could be seen as a threat, they insidiously killed their new friends. But the Europeans had magic sticks that could strike from a distance...
The nomads of the Great Plains and the citizens of the Natchez State on the Mississippi, the wild rice gatherers of the Great Lakes and the pueblos who intoxicated themselves with cactus juice were all doomed. Although, according to various sources, by the beginning of the 17th century, from the Arctic islands to the borders of the Viceroyalty of New Spain lived from 5 to 12 million Indians.
To the south of these borders, turbulent colonial life had been in full swing for more than a hundred years. From Buenos Aires to the Rio Grande the sound of spades in the mines did not cease. Gold flowed like a river across the ocean. Tons of it settled on the seabed, tons ended up in the hands of French and English pirates. The Spanish king's passion for further conquests diminished. Why look for new lands if the riches of those already known are inexhaustible?.. But the glory of Cortez did not allow young and ardent people to sleep peacefully. Believing the stories of the Indians about the “seven cities of Cibol: made of gold and precious stones,” the Spaniards organized several expeditions to the north.
The myth of Cibola has disappeared like smoke. Francisco de Coronads: 1540 combed the deserts from Arizona and New Mexico, where he discovered an advanced, but not at all gold-rich Pueblo civilization. However, Coronado still went down in history. Thanks to him, the tribes of the southwestern prairies escaped the extermination that, say, the Muiscas in Colombia suffered. The conquistador ordered a declaration to be drawn up on the universal conversion of Indians to Catholicism. Then he summoned the elders of the Pueblo and forced each one to draw a cross on the deed. The leaders drew two lines without really understanding why. But it saved their peoples. Subsequently, the Palefaces treated the “true Christians” as human beings. The Hopi, Zuni and other peoples of Arizona still compose songs in honor of the “just leader” Don Francisco.
Meanwhile, the rhythm of colonization became more frequent. In 1607, the British founded Jamestown in the east of the mainland. In 1608
year in the northeast, the French founded Quebec. The borders of New Spain “crept” to the north - the center of these possessions became Santa Fe (1610). By capturing and establishing their overseas colonies, France, Spain and England pursued different goals.
Norman and Breton merchants were primarily interested in New France. Their specialty was the fur trade. In pursuit of fur, the French crossed America first - from the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, across the Great Lakes and down the Mississippi, where they soon founded the city of New Orleans. Unlike the French, the Spaniards, settling in North America, created a colonial infrastructure, developed agriculture and cattle breeding, dug canals, and opened mines. The Indians in this system cultivated the land, served foreign masters, herded livestock, and did hard work.
Justice requires recognizing that the treatment of the natives in the Spanish possessions was much gentler than in the British and French. The Jesuit fathers not only forcibly baptized native families, but also taught children literacy and crafts, and did not allow them to die of hunger by opening barns in lean years. And the officers and soldiers of the Spanish crown “voted with their hearts” - often married Indian women. Hence the abundance of mestizos in the southwestern United States (in New England, mixed marriages practically did not happen).
However, the British won the battle. You could say they outnumbered their opponents. The struggle of the Stuart dynasty against Puritanism “squeezed out” many Englishmen from Albion to the New World. The French, deprived of the incentive for mass emigration, failed to maintain their positions in such vast territories. The Treaty of Paris in 1763 undermined their colonial empire: Canada and the entire eastern part of the North American continent, along with the Indian tribes, passed into the hands of the British. There are many conflicting stories about the relationship between the Redskins and the Redcoats. On the one hand, from an early age everyone knows Leatherstocking, a friend of the Indians, and the Last of the Mohicans, a friend of the British. And American children are told idyllic stories about the love of John Smith and the Indian “princess” Pocahontas, and how
Thanksgiving Day appeared on the calendar (Virginia authorities returned the stolen harvest to the Indians). On the other hand, the archives contain orders from the military command to burn entire villages for the murder of one Englishman. Bored British officers amused themselves by raiding the “savages.” Stuff happened.
But unlike the Spaniards, the British, in principle, did not need the Indians themselves - only their land. The world is now ruled from territories that once belonged to the Hurons, Algonquins, and Iroquois. But the Indians themselves have not been here for a long time. The remnants of the epidemic-plagued tribes of the eastern United States were sent across the Mississippi in 1830. And soon a new term appeared in the dictionary of the most democratic country in the world - Indian reservation.
For almost a century, the world seemed to forget about Native Americans. Since the “heroic” times of the conquest of the West, life in Indian territories has not interested anyone. Only in the 1920s, when the “savages” finally officially received the status of US citizens, did the world remember with surprise: it turns out that Indians actually exist, and not just in adventure novels.
Marie-Hélène Fresset
Democrats were and are the most dangerous enemies of humanity because the thirst for profit turned them into inhumans and moral monsters. One war in Iraq over oil costs thousands of deaths on their hands. But these are all lyrics, and we are just having fun traveling through history as well.
Pale-faced and red-skinned
When I worked in Canada for a long time, I was concerned about the problem of the indigenous population of America. I came into close contact with one of its sides - the attitude of the white population towards the Indians (today's whites to today's Indians).
Some Indian
My neighbor Raymond invited me to go fishing.
“Few people visit this lake,” he said, “you can still catch two or three trout there.” And not just any short ones, but three or four pounds each. If you're lucky, you might even catch a northern pike worth twenty pounds. We'll take the boats and gear from old man Corley.
It was so tempting that I could only agree. The case took place in Canada, not far from the US border. At about four o'clock on Saturday, we were driving around in Raymond's Chevrolet. Already at dusk we reached the lake and, with some difficulty, found Corley’s hut on its shore. However, hut is not the right word. Since the ancient times of colonization and wars with the Indians, white settlers built fortified houses for themselves, a little reminiscent of Russian log huts, fortunately there was still a lot of forest then. This is exactly what Corley's house looked like. The black water began literally at my feet, and something was tapping continuously to the side: probably boats tied nearby. There was no electricity, only a kerosene lamp glowed dimly in the small window of the house behind me. Little by little the eyes got used to the darkness; To the right and left, high cliffs and hills densely covered with forest began to be discerned. A huge, curly-haired husky suddenly came out of this darkness, came up to me and nuzzled my leg. Looking at the good-natured shaggy face, I decided to pat it on the neck, which, to my relief, the dog really liked. He sighed long, sat down and leaned at my feet. “This is a good omen,” I thought, “if the dog is good-natured, it’s clear that his owner is also a good person.”
Suddenly, very far away, in the darkness, a tiny light appeared, somewhere across the water. He appeared and disappeared, but after a few moments he appeared again and never disappeared. There was complete silence, except for the rustle of the incoming wave. At this time, the door behind me opened and Corley came up to me. A dim light crept from the door, which remained half open, and managed to capture the shadow of the retreating dog.
“Oh,” said Corley, “Chief is already here, he likes to meet new people, it’s fun after all.” You probably can’t imagine how desolate it is here. Everyone goes to the city. There is no land here, only stones, rocks, spruce trees and lakes in which there are almost no fish left.
Just don’t think that there’s nothing in this either,” he realized, “there is something for amateurs, but to live on pasture, like in the old days, this is not enough...
Corley fell silent, the Chief appeared from the darkness and this time sat down next to the owner, who did not pay the slightest attention to him. The chief scratched himself anxiously and reluctantly moved towards me. It became quiet again.
“What is this light,” I asked, “over there, between heaven and earth?”
It's about three miles from here at that end,” Corley said. - An Indian lives there. It's been many years, I don't even remember when it appeared. Let's go to bed, it's time to get up early tomorrow.
No one waited for a second invitation, and ten minutes later Corley showed me three doors leading somewhere from the kitchen-dining room of his house:
Choose any one, they are all the same.
Opening the far door, I found a tiny room with a bed and a chair - nothing else. A small window, located strangely low above the floor. The glass was all cracked. I quickly undressed, climbed under the blanket and only then noticed that there was no ceiling in the “cabin”, and decrepit rafters and roof boards on them were visible directly above my head.
Sleep did not come to me, it’s true that the unusual surroundings got in the way. I turned on my side, facing the window and again saw a lonely light at the other end of the lake...
I woke up from a quiet noise in the large room. A strange light came through the window - dim and gray. I quickly got dressed and went into the kitchen. Corley stood at the table and whittled a piece of bacon straight into the frying pan with a large hunting knife...
“Run to the lake,” he said, “wash yourself and come back.” Raymond is already there.
When I came out, I was immediately engulfed by a thick fog, and although it became lighter, I still couldn’t see anything.
The water was damn cold. When I straightened up and began to dry myself, I finally saw the boats tied to the side. Two wooden and one aluminum, old and quite badly beaten on the sides.
Breakfast passed in silence.
Well, now let’s go,” Corley said, addressing either Raymond and me, or the Chief.
The fog was gradually lifting, and somewhere to the side the sun could already be seen.
Corley handed the Chief a tin plate with the remains of breakfast at the porch and went down with us to the water.
“Climb into this wooden boat,” he told me. “The engine here is reliable, go at the lowest speed in this direction,” and he pointed his hand at the wall of fog. “The bay here is about three miles long, and it’s about a mile wide.” Make wider turns to avoid tangling the lines. Just like that, walk along it. Try to stay in the middle, there are deep crevices where the trout are found. Don't come back before one o'clock in the afternoon.
Probably, the strip of fog along the coast lasted longer, because the boat quickly jumped out into open water, and a harsh picture unfolded before me.
The lake, or rather its bay, was surrounded on one side by high hills covered with forest. They directly abutted the water, their steep slopes were completely overgrown with spruce trees, and not a single even slightly level place was visible. And on the other side, colossal stone cliffs rose - rocks, on the tops of which the same jagged spruce trees were visible from below.
The shores were strewn everywhere with large stones and driftwood of the most bizarre shapes, whitened by the sun, wind and frost. In the distance one could see several stone islands, smooth, as if combed. Here and there individual trees stuck out along them.
The engine made a dull noise, the last shreds of fog quickly disappeared, and finally the shore where the Corley house stood disappeared.
Probably forty minutes passed, and the opposite end of the bay slowly began to approach. And then I saw a hut on a gentle bank in the center of a small lawn-clearing, also built in the same old way as Corley’s house, only smaller.
In this house there were two windows with white curtains, smoke was coming from the chimney, a small net was hanging on the fence, and a boat was leaning against it. But what! A very real canoe, the kind that Hiawatha, Uncas, their friends and their enemies rode around, hunted and fought in in the old days. It was difficult to see what it was made of, perhaps not birch bark. It was too dark. But the shape was the most authentic, a real war canoe of the Red Indians. I've seen these in museums.
Around eleven o'clock I finally caught one trout weighing three pounds.
At exactly one o'clock in the afternoon I approached the shore. Corley and I walked to the water and sat down to smoke on a thick piece of wood.
Corley,” I said, “what do you know about this Indian who lives on the other side?”
“Nothing,” he answered, “he lives and lives, it’s good that he doesn’t steal and doesn’t seem to drink.” He also has a wife there.
She's white, just think. Both are quite middle-aged. So they appeared here together. They must have escaped from somewhere. And no one knows what they live on.
And who needs to know this? - I asked.
No one, perhaps,” Corley answered hesitantly. “The police know about them,” he continued, “but they don’t touch them.” Apparently, they really don’t bother anyone here. We saw him a couple of times in the local town, there are shops and everything else there. He brought furs there. Trapping, of course. And how much do they need, these pagans?
Why are you sure that they are pagans, since his wife is white? They said it themselves.
It's white, but they've never been seen in any church in the area. But, to tell the truth, they don’t even have a car. There isn't even a boat motor. Canoe only. He probably gets to the States in early spring across the lake on it. They pay more for furs there. But it costs nothing for an Indian to travel thirty miles in a canoe. They do well in the summer. They even had a cow, but it hasn’t been seen for two years now. She probably died of old age.
Are there any wolves here? - I asked.
There is, but not enough. But there are black bears, but not too many. There are quite a few elk, and even those beavers survive, destroying the forest with their dams, and elk are not keen on climbing rocks. The Indian must be beating them. Well, a couple of moose will last him all winter. He's even better off than the Indians on the reservations. There they idle on state subsidies, and this one at least feeds itself. I pay taxes, but there’s nothing to take from him.
What if he gets sick? - I noticed.
Oh, they don’t get sick, and if something happens, they know the old secrets and forest remedies. This is where I envy him! - exclaimed Corley. - Doctors and medicines are incredibly expensive for me. You just get lost sometimes. Especially when the grandchildren are sick.
And then Corley decisively turned the conversation to his sorrows and difficulties.
When we drove back, Raymond was silent, and I did not ask him anything. What could a little clerk add from a big city where his family lived, where he didn’t have enough income and had to constantly dodge to make ends meet?
It cannot be said that Corley, and especially Raymond, hated the Redskins. Raymond had no specific reasons for this at all. His life in the big city completely absorbed all his spiritual and physical strength. He had a precise goal, the task of surviving and providing the minimum conditions for survival for his children. Corley was in somewhat different circumstances. After all, the Indian was his immediate neighbor, and although Corley did not harbor hatred towards him, real racial malice, he, like Raymond, was indifferent to this Indian. But, it seems to me, there was a somewhat peculiar element in this situation. Corley unconsciously envied the Indian. But in fact, this Indian fulfilled the eternal dream of a little man in a bourgeois society. Independence, independence from society, in this case white society, independence from the predatory services of official medicine, life in nature, and who knows what other advantages of living as an Indian could subconsciously arise in Corley’s mind? But he certainly had an element of envy towards the Indian. Corley just didn't dare admit it even to himself.
Raymond and Corley were ordinary people, barely making ends meet, and they had no time for the Indians. They had neither evil nor good towards them... Only indifference...
Gone...
The complex problem of the current state of relations between Indians and the white population turned out to be not so difficult. At best, ordinary people in both the United States and Canada are indifferent to Indians, regardless of where these Indians are located - in cities, on reservations or in remote places in the very north of Canada, for example. I happened to learn a little more about the fate of this last category than is usually discussed out loud - in the newspaper, magazine, cinema and on television.
I knew where to go and who to ask. Ottawa has a museum dedicated to natural history. It has six or more halls dedicated to the life, culture and history of the Indians of North America.
In this museum I met two of its employees - a husband and wife. He is a well-known - in narrow circles, of course - archaeologist, a specialist in the history of the cultivation of wild corn by ancient Indian tribes in Mexico and Central America. She is an ethnographer, a specialist in the northern Indian tribes, and told me about her just released work, which seems to be the last page in the history of the traditional Indian tribes of North America. We had one of our conversations with Annie right in the museum. I became interested in an old buffalo hide stretched over a wooden frame and covered with drawings: little men, stylized figures of animals, applied in faded paint.
What does this mean? - I asked Annie.
“This was left over from the Sioux tribe,” she answered, “but now there is no one to read it.” I tried to figure out the meaning of this, but... The fact is that the traditions have been lost. And how could they survive?
In 1885, in those places where the prairies end and the forests begin, that is, in the northern regions of the Canadian provinces of Saxachewan and Manitoba, Indian uprisings broke out. Troops were sent there, just as had been done earlier in the United States, and the uprising was drowned in blood. That was the end. The legal end, the military end, the economic end - there were no more bison, they were all destroyed. There could be no life without bison, and the fate of the Indians was sealed. But some pitiful remnants of them went north, into the forests in the territory between Labrador and Hudson Bay and the Yukon and Alaska. They went to the most remote places. It's deserted for thousands of miles. That's where they settled - not thousands or hundreds, but dozens of Indian families living according to old laws and customs. The basis of life is hunting. Extracting furs and selling them hundreds of miles from the camp to white buyers. From them Indian hunters receive weapons, equipment, some tobacco and salt, and very rarely red and blue cloth for women. Nothing else. Their permanent habitats are virtually unknown. They change place when there is no more hunting in the area. They live there both in winter and summer. Life is even easier in winter. You can go everywhere. Not like in the summer.
For several years now, Annie has been visiting them in the early spring and returning in the late fall. This is the last opportunity to see with your own eyes many things or, conversely, to overcome preconceived notions about the life and customs of the Indians. At first they did not accept her into their circle. But she, as a woman, quite soon gained the trust of the old squaws in one of the distant camps. These old women occupy an important place in the family hierarchy. A man's job is to hunt and be warriors, and old women manage life in the family, in the life of the camp. In short, Annie is now accepted as one of their own in two or even three camps. She just needs to arrive in the spring at a certain place on a certain lake, accessible to a small seaplane. There the Indians with canoes are already waiting for her. Sometimes she has to wait for them for several days. This is an important detail, since the locations of the camps are constantly changing, and without friends Annie simply will not find them. The most expensive things she takes there are needles, threads and colored beads. There is no need to bring food. They have everything. Forest and caribou, sometimes moose feed and clothe them well. They do not mix with the Eskimos, their close neighbors. They know each other well, but these are two different worlds, two worldviews. However, they are so far from each other that meetings can only be accidental.
The authorities have a very vague idea about the Indians. After all, there are so few of them. Annie said she was dealing with two births, that's about seventy to eighty people. Well, who will bother with them? They were left alone, forgotten about. Everyone forgot except Annie. She believes this is the best way. From direct communication with modern civilization, they will die of disease or, even worse, get drunk, since the sale of alcohol to any Indian is now allowed. However, Annie did not hide the fact that they have a very high infant mortality rate there. The life of this last remnant of the former great Cree tribe hangs in the balance. The balance is unstable.
Annie gestured with her hand at the endless line of bows and arrows, oars and cribs behind the glass display cases in the deserted halls of the museum.
The only thing that supports them is the feeling of the need to preserve traditions. From generation to generation, and if you count from the 80s of the last century, there have already been three or four of them, the elders in this small world preserve the traditions and foundations of the spiritual world. In our understanding,” Annie said, “this is a religion, but in theirs it is simply a way of life, where all living things in the forests and the forest itself are spiritualized. Remember Longfellow's Hiawatha and you will immediately understand the spiritual world of the people from these two camps. But still, some degradation and simplification of customs are noticeable. For example, I have never seen them perform rituals with sacred dances. They do not have names filled with poetic, fresh feeling. There are no women with names like, say, "Morning Dew" or "Evening Star Light." Names are now simple, often associated with duties in the home or hunting, and for men, names are associated with the animal world, such as “Wandering Wolf” or “Flying Owl”. One feels that they have mixed customs of the past, preserved only from random memories and coming from different tribes. Annie heard them say these words from a song they sing around the fire:
I'm walking along the road alone,
Which leads nowhere...
But then I'm leaving
From here, where there is no one left...
According to Annie, similar lines were recorded by folklorists at the end of the last century among the Indians from the prairies. The content can be dated back to very ancient times, but now these words sound in a new way. Annie sighed bitterly.
The old generation has gone forever to hunt in the eternal prairies above, where the great road leads - the Milky Way. But in recent years, a younger generation has grown up in the same forests in the north, and they have a different life...
Tomek screamed in pain, but did not lose consciousness for a second. Falling off the cliff, Tomek clung tightly to his opponent. It turned out that the Indian found himself under Tomek, thereby protecting him from a direct blow to the rock. Tomek only felt a terrible pain in the arms with which he grabbed the Indian. After some time, he with an effort freed his bloody hands, all covered in wounds and abrasions. He tried to straighten his fingers and hissed in pain. Fortunately, these were only superficial wounds, which he immediately forgot about, looking at the Indian lying motionless.
Tomek leaned over him in alarm. Navah lost consciousness. A narrow stream of blood oozed from under the Navaja's head lying on the stone. Tomek carefully lifted her. The skin on the back of the head was deeply cut, the braided hair weakened the blow - the skull appears to be intact. Tomek carefully examined the red-skinned body covered with abrasions, but did not find any serious injuries. Only the right ankle has lost its shape due to the swelling of the tumor.
Tomek quickly pulled off the rest of his shirt and tore it into strips. With one of them he bandaged the bleeding wound on the Indian's head, and then began to bandage his swollen ankle. The Indian groaned dully.
“You see what you’ve brought to this!” Tomek muttered to himself. “Why the hell did you want to kill me?”
The Indian continued to lie motionless, and Tomek began to frantically figure out how to help the wounded enemy. There is no way back up - there is a sheer, ten-meter wall, and you have to go down a steep slope strewn with stones.
Without thinking for long, Tomek made a decision. He lifted the Indian onto his right shoulder, so that his head lay on his back and his legs on his chest, and carefully stepped onto the slope.
It was not easy to go. It was difficult to find reliable support. Tomek then rolled down along with the rocky scree, then fell to his knees, and finally felt that he was exhausted. I had to sit down and catch my breath several times. The Indian, lying motionless on his shoulder, became heavier with every step. But Tomek did not think about himself, did not pay attention to fatigue and wounds. Gritting his teeth, he walked and walked, intently listening to the breathing of his wounded enemy. Thanks to a monstrous effort, he eventually found himself at the foot of the mountain.
Here Tomek laid the Indian on the ground. He found a large ovoid cactus, cut off the spines from it, separated it from the thick trunk and brought it to the navaja lying on the ground. Cutting a cactus was a matter of one minute. Having obtained the juicy pulp, he began to squeeze the juice out of it onto the Indian’s face.
Quite a long time passed until the Navaja's face twitched convulsively in pain. He opened his eyes, but when he saw Tomek’s face above him, he quickly lowered his eyelids. It seemed that he had lost consciousness again, but no, he looked again - this time meaningfully, and finally, he openly glared at the face of the pale-faced enemy.
Well, now you’ve woken up,” Tomek said, trying to smile.
You defeated me, so don’t spare me, finish me off! - whispered the Navah.
What kind of evil spirit has possessed you! - Tomek boiled. - Either you are trying to kill me for no reason, now you want to turn me into a cowardly killer!
Sheriff Allan sent you to keep an eye on me...
What nonsense! - Tomek exclaimed. “Nobody sent me to spy on you, and I didn’t defeat you at all.” I just wanted to see the Mexican side, so I climbed this lonely peak. I came across you purely by accident. I don’t know why you attacked me, apparently there is a reason, since they fought like two roosters. We fell off a cliff and you hit your head on a rock. This is what my “victory” looks like.
But you live with Sheriff Allan,” the Navah repeated bitterly, trying to look into Tomek’s eyes.
If you know that I live with Allan, then you should also know that I have only been living there for a few days. I came from a distant land overseas for this young squaw Squaw is a woman in the Indian language., with whom he should go to England.
Ugh! So you really don't belong to the sheriff's people!?
“I have nothing in common with them,” Tomek assured the Indian. - But let’s better think about how to help you? Unfortunately, you were seriously injured during the fall.
So my pale-faced brother is not a Yankee Yankee is a resident of New England in the USA. In a broader sense, a general resident of the northern States, and sometimes any white person born in the United States.?
No, I’m a Pole, my homeland is far across the big water,” Tomek explained, pleased that the Navah called him “pale-faced brother.”
Ugh! Indeed, the evil spirit clouded my eyes so that I would not see the truth. We need to quickly correct the mistake, maybe it’s not too late... - the Navah said feverishly, trying to get to his feet, but he immediately swayed and would have fallen if Tomek had not supported him at the last moment.
Are you crazy!? Your leg is sprained! - the white young man was indignant.
Help me climb to the top of the mountain, every minute counts! - the Indian answered, leaning on Tomek’s hand.
“We can’t climb here,” Tomek objected. - It’s better to go around the mountain, to the path...
If my pale-faced brother wants to convince me that our meeting was accidental, then... he will help me climb to the top of the mountain as soon as possible,” the Navah answered impatiently.
Oh well! Well, let’s try!.. - Tomek sighed, looking warily at the steep slope.
Step by step they climbed the slope. From effort and pain, the face of the young Navaja turned pale and covered with perspiration. Every now and then he stumbled and fell, although Tomek did his best to support him. Ignoring the acute pain, dragging his sprained leg along the ground, the Indian stubbornly refused to rest - he hurried to the top of the mountain.
Tomek was almost exhausted; their legs were buckling, their mouths were struggling to catch air, and yet they had only made it halfway. But the Indian apparently knew every bush here; Instead of climbing the mountain directly, he chose the road obliquely, finding convenient passages unknown to Tomek. And now there is the ledge on which they fell from the top, several tens of meters to the right.
The Indian showed more and more anxiety. Suddenly he sat down on the slope. Shading his eyes from the sun with his palm, he peered for a long time at the undulating prairie stretched out before them.
Ugh! There is, there is, over there in the east! - he exclaimed, pointing with his hand.
Tomek strained his vision. In the distance, on a slight rise, he saw a horseman looking at the top of the mountain. The young Navah waved his arms and shouted loudly in a language unknown to Tomek, but the mysterious horseman stood motionless, like a stone statue. It was too far away for him to hear the scream. And he could not see them - against the dark green background of the slope. Tomek realized that if the Navah were now on the top, on a piece of rock, the rider would have seen him perfectly against the background of the bright sky.
“He can neither see nor hear us,” Tomek shouted, turning to his companion.
Shoot up from your revolver! He'll probably hear the shot! - the Navah responded. - Hurry, hurry! Look, he's leaving!
And indeed, the rider had already begun to descend the hill; His horse was rushing faster and faster towards the border of the United States.
Shoot! - the Navah shouted, grabbing Tomek by the hand.
Tomek wanted to take out the revolver, but could not find the handle - the holster was empty.
I lost my revolver, it probably fell out of the holster when we fought! - he exclaimed.
Look quickly - or I'll be disgraced! - the Indian begged in despair.
Tomek, as if he had new strength, rushed to the rock where he expected to find the lost revolver. Stumbling, crawling on all fours, he reached the base of a large piece of rock. Stretching out his arms, he tried to grab its edge, but even standing on tiptoes, he could not reach it. He was too exhausted to climb the almost vertical rock, and decided to find a passage, where he descended, carrying the unconscious Indian on his shoulders. Finally, he succeeded and he found himself on top of a rocky fragment.
After a short search, he saw his black revolver on the rubble that covered the slope. With a triumphant cry, he grabbed the weapon, but unfortunately the barrel was clogged with earth. While Tomek cleared it with a ramrod, the rider, rushing across the prairie with the wind, found himself opposite a lonely peak. Tomek raised his revolver and fired five times in a row. But, alas, the mysterious horseman did not hear the shots. Just at that moment he disappeared around the bend of the mountain, which drowned out this firing.
Tomek realized that there was nothing more he could do. In order not to waste time, he did not reload the revolver, but put it in his holster and went to help the Indian who was climbing the mountainside.
The tenacity of the young Navaj, his tenacity with which he climbed to the top, earned Tomek’s respect.
Tomek was a smart guy. He had no doubt that the Indian had found himself on a lonely mountain in order to meet the mysterious horseman. And the meeting must have been important if he rushed into mortal combat, assuming that Tomek was tracking him on the orders of Sheriff Allan.
It took a long time until they reached the top. The Indian was simply exhausted. Both the head wound and the sprained leg caused considerable pain, but he pretended not to pay any attention to it. Apparently, all the time he was thinking only about the mysterious horseman, because before they had time to find themselves on the top, he immediately rushed to its northern edge, from where the prairie on the American side was clearly visible.
Tomek and Navah strained their eyes, looking for the rider. However, he was nowhere to be seen. The Indian became even more gloomy. Finally he broke the silence:
Can my white brother find the gun?
Now. Probably standing by the rock. Let my red-skinned brother wait for me here,” Tomek replied.
The gun was there. Tomek found him easily. It was an old, already quite worn-out weapon. Tomek examined him carefully; he knew that the unsightly-looking guns of trappers and redskins were sometimes distinguished by great advantages. Notches were visible on the long barrel of the gun. So, according to the custom of the Wild West, the number of killed enemies was noted. Tomek counted the notches. There were thirteen of them in a row, then, further away, four more.
The Indian was too young for all the notches on the barrel of the gun to relate to his victories. He probably inherited the gun from the famous warrior. But the very fact that the young Navah has such a gun proves that among his tribe he is not a simple person.
Having come to this conclusion, Tomek decided to take a closer look at the Navajo. He returned carefully, hiding behind fragments of rocks, and was able to approach the Navaja unnoticed. The Indian was sitting on the ground and, leaning his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands.
Tomek was amazed - was the red man really crying? Incredible. Tears did not fit in with his courageous behavior. And yet Tomek was not mistaken: tears flowed from under the fingers frantically pressed to his face. Navah cried. Were these tears of pain, or despair, or disappointment? Tomek couldn’t know this, but he realized that spying on a person in a moment of his weakness was ignoble. He carefully stepped back and only after some time returned to his companion.
Sitting on the ground, the Indian straightened his hair, which had become disheveled during the struggle. Nearby lay a piece of shirt with which Tomek had bandaged his wound. Excitement was no longer visible on the Indian’s face, he was so in control of himself. Seeing Tomek, he said:
My white brother found a gun. Fine. I have to go. I have to hurry.
Tomek put the gun next to the redskin and said:
You did a bad thing, my red-skinned brother, to remove the bandage from your head. There is still blood coming from the wound.
Navah looked at him. He peered into the eyes of the white youth for a long time, but apparently did not detect cunning or deceit in them, because he smiled sadly and answered:
The redskins are best liked by the pale-faced when their bones are white on the prairie. All Indians to the pale-faced are mangy dogs, clinging to the land that the whites want to have. Navajos, Apaches and Sioux know how to fight their enemies. I am Navah. And if any of the whites or a red policeman serving the whites had met me, wounded, on the prairie, he would have brought me to the sheriff as a person suspected of attack. I said this because you, my brother, came here from across the big water to take a white squaw with you and will soon leave with her for your homeland.
I have heard many times how vilely white people behave towards Indians, but I never thought that among you there were traitors serving the oppressors. After all, American soil belongs to you, this is your homeland.
My brother is as young as me, but Manitou Manitou - Indian god endowed him with great intelligence. My white brother should already be sitting on the council of elders of his tribe. If all whites spoke and acted as you did, the Indians would never have had to dig up the hatchet against them. Alas, not even all Indians understand that they must stick together. There were also traitors. Absolutely lousy red dogs!
I understand you because my country also does not know freedom. And we have many traitors. But we need to think about your wounds. Let's put a piece of shirt under the headband that has feathers sticking out. Wait, I'll help you! Like this! Good now. As for the leg, we will now set it and bandage it.
Tomek deftly adjusted the dislocation and bandaged his leg with scraps of a shirt. Despite the pain, the Indian thought about something, but only after a long silence expressed his fear:
My white brother lives with Sheriff Allan, and if he comes back wounded and in torn clothes, the sheriff will probably ask what happened. What will my brother answer?
First of all, I will try not to let Allan see me like this. Then I’ll call my friend, boatswain Novitsky, from the house and ask him to bring me a fresh shirt.
Are you talking about the tall white man who also lives with the sheriff?
Have you seen the boatswain Novitsky? When? - Tomek answered the question with a question, suspecting that the Navah was keeping an eye on all the inhabitants of Allan’s ranch.
I work for the sheriff as a cowboy.
Ah, this is what it looks like! - Tomek smiled. - So we can return home together.
No, I am with the herd in the nearest pasture. If the sheriff sees us together, he will easily guess everything. How do you explain your unusual appearance to a friend?
Don't worry about it. I will say that I fell from a horse onto a prickly cactus. Boatswain Novitsky is a good comrade - he never asks more questions than necessary.
What about the little white squaw? - the Indian did not let up.
If you think about Sally, you can be completely calm. She will believe everything I say, and her mother is kindness itself and loves me. They live in a distant country called Australia. Their farm is located on the prairie at the edge of a huge forest. And somehow the little squaw got lost in this forest. All the surrounding farmers could not find her. I was lucky. I found her by chance; she sprained her leg, like you do now, and couldn’t return home alone. Both she and her mother will do whatever I ask. Do not worry about a thing.
Why does my white brother travel to different distant countries?
My father, two of his friends and I catch wild animals and sell them to Europe. These animals can then be seen in places specially prepared for this.
Ugh! Red Eagle has already heard about such people who catch wild animals.
Wow, my brother has a beautiful name,” Tomek remarked. - Can I call my brother Red Eagle?
“Everyone calls me that,” the Navah answered. - Now let's go to our horses.
The Red Eagle should not disturb the sore leg. I'll carry you on my back. Take your weapon and sit down,” Tomek suggested.
After a brief hesitation, the Indian sat down on Tomek's back, and they moved down the slope. Despite all the strength and endurance of Tomek, after all today's troubles, he had to rest several times before they got to the horses. The Navaja Mustang immediately sensed the people - he began to snort and beat his hooves on the ground. Navah whistled. Mustang neighed and calmed down.
When Tomek approached the horse, the Indian got off his back, untied the end of the lasso from the branch, without letting go of the gun, grabbed the long mane of the mustang and deftly jumped on it.
Let my white brother sit behind me,” he suggested.
Not worth it. My horse is a few steps from here,” Tomek answered.
He found his horse, jumped into the saddle, and they quickly rode down the mountain onto a wide plain. They galloped in silence. Only half an hour later the Navah reined in his horse.
This is where our paths diverge,” he said. - You, my white brother, will go to the northwest, but I need to go straight to the north, to my pasture.
When will Red Eagle come to Allan's ranch? “I’d like to talk about something,” Tomek said.
I'll try to meet my white brother soon.
Will wait. Goodbye!
Tomek waved his hand in a friendly manner and turned his horse toward the ranch.
The Indian sat motionless on the mustang, leaning slightly forward, holding a long, notched gun in both hands. As soon as the white man moved away a little, the Indian's index finger touched the trigger.
“Only the dead don’t give away secrets,” thought the Navah, raising his gun to his shoulder.
And he was ready to shoot, when he suddenly remembered that the white man had not even asked him about the mysterious horseman.
“After all, it was I who wanted to kill him, and he not only did not take advantage of the victory, but helped me as a friend. This white man knows nothing about Black Lightning, and, therefore, cannot betray us.”
Navah slowly, with visible relief, lowered his gun and whispered:
O great Manitou! I hate whites and am ready to die fighting them. But I cannot kill the man who treated me so generously.
An interesting scenario for a birthday celebration, which is suitable for a birthday boy aged 5 to 9 years. The main characters in it are cowboys (pale-faced) and Indians (red-skinned). The hero of the occasion (according to the script) will become the sheriff of a small town in Texas.
A Cowboy and an Indian will lead all the children’s actions. They can be one of the adults (fathers of invited children). The children themselves will be cowboys, friends of the sheriff, who is celebrating his birthday.
After all the invitees have gathered, the Cowboy appears and says:
- I am glad to welcome you, dear friends! Today is a wonderful day - we will celebrate the birthday of our beloved and respected Sheriff Anthony! (The child’s name is remade in the Western style - Anthony - Anton, John - Ivan, Bill - Boris, etc.).
— Our birthday boy is always in great shape, and today is especially so, because he is a full five (6, 7, 8, 9) years old! And he has already become the best sheriff in our state!
- Let's greet him with a loud salute from our Colts!
The adults present fire several shots from New Year's crackers, with a colorful scattering of confetti.
The cowboy continues:
“You should know that an old Indian, Proud Eagle, lives in the same house as the sheriff.” He is with us now, and at my request he will tell you his story, which not everyone knows, but only the most worthy and respected cowboys. But in order for you to find out everything, you will have to show all your dexterity, intelligence, perseverance and skill. So let's prepare a little and get started!
The cowboy hands out wide-brimmed hats and scarves to the children—mandatory attributes of every settler of the wild prairies. A hat protects your head from the harsh, scorching sun, and a neckerchief is essential in case of dust storms, which often occur in large open spaces.
The old Indian (an adult dressed in an Indian costume) also adds his word:
- Greetings, my dear pale-faced brothers! I can tell you my story only if you successfully pass all the tests and prove that you are worthy of my attention and favor!
Cowboy (pointing to a piece of Whatman paper attached to the wall):
- Here is the honors board! It has your names on it. For each test you complete, you will receive a deputy sheriff star. Proud Eagle will be the primary judge in determining the worthy recipient of this award. Gather all your strength and get ready to complete all the tasks that start right now!
Bridge over the abyss
You will need two clotheslines 3-4 meters long and the help of two adults.
Adults stand at a distance from each other and one rope is stretched between them (on the floor), and they hold the second in their hands, at a height slightly higher than the height of the child participating in the test.
“In my young years, I lived in a wigwam, which was located at a distance from the main camp of our tribe. And in order to come to their relatives, it was necessary to cross a deep chasm, which could not be avoided, since it would take the whole day. During all the time I lived there, not a single pale-faced person was able to use the simple method of crossing the chasm. After all, not everyone dares to walk along two stretched ropes when there is an abyss under their feet!
Let's see if you have the dexterity and courage to follow my path? Who can do this?
Children take turns walking along the rope on the floor, holding on to the one stretched from above. The one who managed to never stumble and successfully cover the entire distance receives a deputy sheriff’s star with the name “Agile Grizzly,” which is drawn by an Indian, under the child’s name on the honors board.
The task can be complicated by announcing (at the moment of passing) the obstacle that a sandstorm has begun. The subject must cover his face with a scarf (leaving only his eyes), and two adults (holding the top rope) begin to swing it slightly, preventing a calm passage along the bottom rope.
Gather a herd of cows
For this task, cow figurines (about 30 pieces) drawn on thick paper and then cut out with scissors are laid out in a separate room. You can place them in a variety of places, but do not hide them in cabinets or drawers. The main condition should be the discreet position of the figure.
Cowboy (addressing the children):
“You did an excellent job with the Indian’s task.” And while I was watching you, my cowboy assistants, failed to cope with their work on the ranch and lost a herd of cows. There were thirty of them, but now there is not a single one - they fled. And now they need to be found, gathered into one herd and driven into a pen. Can you cope with this task? After all, time is running out while this melody sounds.
Children, to the sound of a cheerful song, look for figurines of cows and give them to the Cowboy. For every five cows, the child receives a “Keeping Eye” star, which immediately appears on the wall with the honors board.
Catch a mustang
To conduct this competition you need to stock up on a rope (5-6 meters) and a simple wooden stool.
“I know that experienced cowboys can throw a lasso masterfully. In this way, wild mustangs are caught on the prairies for their further domestication. But the lasso is also used on ranches to catch the desired cow or bull. Therefore, everyone who works as a cowboy must have a lasso attached to the pommel of the saddle. But even simple travelers across prairies and valleys with deep canyons always keep at hand this item necessary for overcoming obstacles.
Cowboy (holding a rope of the required length in his hands):
“I’ll show you how to make a lasso and teach you how to use it.” I think our Sheriff Anthony will be happy to help me, and then each of you will try to catch at least one wild mustang.
The cowboy shows how to tie a loop at one end of the rope and then lasso it for the next throw. A stool turned upside down with its legs is used as a mustang.
To complicate the task, you can tie another rope to an inverted stool and slowly drag it so that the target is in motion.
Anyone who successfully catches a mustang using a lasso is awarded a deputy sheriff's star with the name "Strong Hand".
Outwit the Indian
As prizes in this simple competition, you can use small toys, souvenirs or sweets (a pack of cookies, a chocolate bar, etc.). The awards are placed in a linen bag and distributed by the Indian when a winner is determined. A pair of children take part in the game. The one who makes the first mistake is left without a gift, but can continue the game in pairs with another child.
- In order to become a skilled warrior, you must always be very attentive and quick-witted. I suggest playing a game called “Do It Wrong.” I have several commands in stock that you will have to follow me. Based on these commands, I will carry out the actions prescribed in them. But sometimes, I won't do what I say. And if someone repeats the wrong move after me, then, alas, he lost.
— Proud Eagle is a very cunning warrior! Don't fall for his traps! He really likes to arrange them.
The children are divided into pairs and the performance begins. The Indian says the command and carries it out himself, and the children repeat after him. From time to time, Proud Eagle will allow a discrepancy between commands and their execution. For example, on the command to raise his left leg, he raises his right arm, or on the command “head down,” he, on the contrary, lifts his chin.
Remove the unnecessary (logic competition)
You will need cards or separate sheets of paper with prepared words and concepts that are relevant to this word.
— To move across the prairies, in the mountains and forests, every Indian takes with him on a trip only the essentials, so as not to overload himself while moving. Sometimes you have to not only walk, but also run, make your way through thickets or overcome steep climbs. Every extra kilogram will take away strength, and therefore there is no place for unnecessary items in the travel bag of every Indian.
- Our Indian, seasoned in campaigns, invites you to choose only suitable items from the list he listed. And not only for travel, but in general, in accordance with the keyword. For example, in a village you can do without a “cow”, “tractor”, “TV”, “lawn mower”, “shovel”.
Words in cards (sheets) with tasks:
- river (sand, water, algae, fish, boat, fisherman);
- city (crossroads, sidewalk, pedestrian, car, tram, metro);
- game (chess, lotto, cubes, counting, rules);
- travel (tent, sleeping bag, map, compass, fishing rod, net);
- reading (glasses, eyes, book, letters, bookmark);
Instant reaction
To play the game you need any ball that is easy to throw and catch and, of course, a prize (a bag of candies).
- And now, guys, I suggest you check your reaction! We will play a simple game - you stand in a circle around me, and I will throw this ball to each of you in turn. Proud Eagle, while the ball is in flight, will say some word. If it is associated with danger, you put your hands behind your back, and if it means something that is not dangerous for you, you catch the ball.
- Be careful and focused! A mistake will result in you being eliminated from the game! Let's start!
- Rain, bread, thunder, shot, fire, tree, swamp, stone, lightning...
The winner of this competition receives his well-deserved prize and generously shares (at the prompting of adults) with all participants in the game.
Accurate shooter
To determine the most accurate shooter, you will need a cardboard box in which a model of the monster and several tennis balls will be placed.
“I heard rumors that an unprecedented monster has appeared in the area, which everyone is afraid of!” You and I need to defeat him and rid people of fear. Let's all try our luck together and show miracles of courage and incredible accuracy in battle with this terrible monster!
There is a tape on the floor that serves as a firing line (you cannot cross it). A few meters from it, a box with a monster is placed (it can be an old white pillowcase stuffed with crumpled paper and a monster’s face drawn with felt-tip pens).
Children take turns throwing tennis balls, trying to hit the target. The most accurate shooters are awarded prizes and “Sharp Shooter” stars.
Swamp
Using a long rope, a large oval (4-5 meters in diameter) of irregular shape is laid out on the floor of the room. This will be a “swamp” that needs to be crossed using two cardboard sheets slightly larger than the child’s foot. Approaching the borders of the swamp with two cardboards in his hands, the participant places one of them in the swamp and, stepping on it, puts the second cardboard further, after crossing onto which he turns back, picks up the first one and moves it further. Thus, while making hummocks out of cardboard, the competition participant must move to the other side of the swamp as quickly as possible.
The winner is determined using a stopwatch and receives a prize, as well as a star on the honor board, with the name “Swift-footed deer”.
Indian (addressing the children):
- Well, dear friends! You have pleased me with your skills, courage and excellent attitude towards completing assigned tasks. Each of you has received many deputy sheriff stars with different names that indicate where you excelled. Now I can tell you my story with a pure heart. And according to our ancient tradition, when an Indian tribe makes friends, everyone sits around the fire and smokes a pipe of peace.
Peace pipe
You will need several blankets (so that children can sit on the floor), a plastic cup with soapy water, and a straw (a straw for cocktails).
Everyone sits on the floor and, passing each other a glass with a straw and a soap solution, takes turns blowing several soap bubbles.
After this, several Indian dances are performed around the fire to cheerful music.
- Proud Eagle! While waiting for your fascinating story, we completely forgot why we gathered here!
- Let's once again congratulate our birthday boy on his birthday, and give him our congratulations and wishes, which everyone will write on these horseshoes!
The cowboy hands out cardboard horseshoes and markers or felt-tip pens to the children. The birthday boy’s friends write their wishes and congratulations, and if suddenly someone else doesn’t know how to write, then he simply draws what, in his opinion, the hero of the occasion will like.
Then all the horseshoes are attached to the honors board.
Map
You will need a large sheet of paper with a plan of the room in which the celebration is taking place. A cross is drawn on it with milk or lemon juice in a certain place (the treasure will be hidden there). The card is then cut (or torn) into many fairly small pieces.
The Indian leads the children to a cave (made of several sheets thrown over a stretched rope). The children take turns crawling into it and taking out a piece of a piece of paper found at the end of the cave with a map plan, where the location of the hidden treasure is indicated. Before the child begins to crawl into the cave, one of the adults places another piece of the map at the end of the cave (by lifting the edge of the sheet in the right place).
Having collected all the pieces into one whole, the children see the plan, but there is no designated place for the treasure on it.
— I remember exactly that a cross was drawn in the right place on the map! Where did he go?
I know what's wrong! The card needs to be warmed up. Surely the mark was left on it in secret ink!
Using a lighter, Cowboy heats a sheet of paper and a cross appears on it in the right place.
Everyone goes there and finds another sheet of paper, which is rolled into a tube and tied with a thin ribbon.
Treasure
The treasure is a small cardboard box (covered with white paper with chest attributes drawn on it) filled with coins made from chocolate wrapped in gold foil.
Indian (pointing to a found sheet tied with a ribbon):
- Take your time, friends! There may be traps around this scroll! Therefore, we must entrust the most experienced of you - Sheriff Anthony - to get it!
The birthday boy takes out a folded note and opens it. It is written there:
“The treasure is on the balcony, on the edge of the window sill.”
Everyone goes to the balcony together and finds a chest with gold coins, which are immediately divided like brothers among all the guests.
After all the adventures, guests are invited to the table, and a new celebration begins of a significant day in the life of the magnificent sheriff of a small town in Texas - Anthony.
When I worked in Canada for a long time, I was concerned about the problem of the indigenous population of America. I came into close contact with one of its sides - the attitude of the white population towards the Indians (today's whites to today's Indians).
Some Indian
My neighbor Raymond invited me to go fishing.
“Few people visit this lake,” he said, “you can still catch two or three trout there.” And not just any short ones, but three or four pounds each. If you're lucky, you might even catch a northern pike worth twenty pounds. We'll take the boats and gear from old man Corley.
It was so tempting that I could only agree. The case took place in Canada, not far from the US border. At about four o'clock on Saturday, we were driving around in Raymond's Chevrolet. Already at dusk we reached the lake and, with some difficulty, found Corley’s hut on its shore. However, hut is not the right word. Since the ancient times of colonization and wars with the Indians, white settlers built fortified houses for themselves, a little reminiscent of Russian log huts, fortunately there was still a lot of forest then. This is exactly what Corley's house looked like. The black water began literally at my feet, and something was tapping continuously to the side: probably boats tied nearby. There was no electricity, only a kerosene lamp glowed dimly in the small window of the house behind me. Little by little the eyes got used to the darkness; To the right and left, high cliffs and hills densely covered with forest began to be discerned. A huge, curly-haired husky suddenly came out of this darkness, came up to me and nuzzled my leg. Looking at the good-natured shaggy face, I decided to pat it on the neck, which, to my relief, the dog really liked. He sighed long, sat down and leaned at my feet. “This is a good omen,” I thought, “if the dog is good-natured, it’s clear that his owner is also a good person.”
Suddenly, very far away, in the darkness, a tiny light appeared, somewhere across the water. He appeared and disappeared, but after a few moments he appeared again and never disappeared. There was complete silence, except for the rustle of the incoming wave. At this time, the door behind me opened and Corley came up to me. A dim light crept from the door, which remained half open, and managed to capture the shadow of the retreating dog.
“Oh,” said Corley, “Chief is already here, he likes to meet new people, it’s fun after all.” You probably can’t imagine how desolate it is here. Everyone goes to the city. There is no land here, only stones, rocks, spruce trees and lakes in which there are almost no fish left.
Just don’t think that there’s nothing in this either,” he realized, “there is something for amateurs, but to live on pasture, like in the old days, this is not enough...
Corley fell silent, the Chief appeared from the darkness and this time sat down next to the owner, who did not pay the slightest attention to him. The chief scratched himself anxiously and reluctantly moved towards me. It became quiet again.
“What is this light,” I asked, “over there, between heaven and earth?”
It's about three miles from here at that end,” Corley said. - An Indian lives there. It's been many years, I don't even remember when it appeared. Let's go to bed, it's time to get up early tomorrow.
No one waited for a second invitation, and ten minutes later Corley showed me three doors leading somewhere from the kitchen-dining room of his house:
Choose any one, they are all the same.
Opening the far door, I found a tiny room with a bed and a chair - nothing else. A small window, located strangely low above the floor. The glass was all cracked. I quickly undressed, climbed under the blanket and only then noticed that there was no ceiling in the “cabin”, and decrepit rafters and roof boards on them were visible directly above my head.
Sleep did not come to me, it’s true that the unusual surroundings got in the way. I turned on my side, facing the window and again saw a lonely light at the other end of the lake...
I woke up from a quiet noise in the large room. A strange light came through the window - dim and gray. I quickly got dressed and went into the kitchen. Corley stood at the table and whittled a piece of bacon straight into the frying pan with a large hunting knife...
“Run to the lake,” he said, “wash yourself and come back.” Raymond is already there.
When I came out, I was immediately engulfed by a thick fog, and although it became lighter, I still couldn’t see anything.
The water was damn cold. When I straightened up and began to dry myself, I finally saw the boats tied to the side. Two wooden and one aluminum, old and quite badly beaten on the sides.
Breakfast passed in silence.
Well, now let’s go,” Corley said, addressing either Raymond and me, or the Chief.
The fog was gradually lifting, and somewhere to the side the sun could already be seen.
Corley handed the Chief a tin plate with the remains of breakfast at the porch and went down with us to the water.
“Climb into this wooden boat,” he told me. “The engine here is reliable, go at the lowest speed in this direction,” and he pointed his hand at the wall of fog. “The bay here is about three miles long, and it’s about a mile wide.” Make wider turns to avoid tangling the lines. Just like that, walk along it. Try to stay in the middle, there are deep crevices where the trout are found. Don't come back before one o'clock in the afternoon.
Probably, the strip of fog along the coast lasted longer, because the boat quickly jumped out into open water, and a harsh picture unfolded before me.
The lake, or rather its bay, was surrounded on one side by high hills covered with forest. They directly abutted the water, their steep slopes were completely overgrown with spruce trees, and not a single even slightly level place was visible. And on the other side, colossal stone cliffs rose - rocks, on the tops of which the same jagged spruce trees were visible from below.
The shores were strewn everywhere with large stones and driftwood of the most bizarre shapes, whitened by the sun, wind and frost. In the distance one could see several stone islands, smooth, as if combed. Here and there individual trees stuck out along them.
The engine made a dull noise, the last shreds of fog quickly disappeared, and finally the shore where the Corley house stood disappeared.
Probably forty minutes passed, and the opposite end of the bay slowly began to approach. And then I saw a hut on a gentle bank in the center of a small lawn-clearing, also built in the same old way as Corley’s house, only smaller.
In this house there were two windows with white curtains, smoke was coming from the chimney, a small net was hanging on the fence, and a boat was leaning against it. But what! A very real canoe, the kind that Hiawatha, Uncas, their friends and their enemies rode around, hunted and fought in in the old days. It was difficult to see what it was made of, perhaps not birch bark. It was too dark. But the shape was the most authentic, a real war canoe of the Red Indians. I've seen these in museums.
Around eleven o'clock I finally caught one trout weighing three pounds.
At exactly one o'clock in the afternoon I approached the shore. Corley and I walked to the water and sat down to smoke on a thick piece of wood.
Corley,” I said, “what do you know about this Indian who lives on the other side?”
“Nothing,” he answered, “he lives and lives, it’s good that he doesn’t steal and doesn’t seem to drink.” He also has a wife there.
She's white, just think. Both are quite middle-aged. So they appeared here together. They must have escaped from somewhere. And no one knows what they live on.
And who needs to know this? - I asked.
No one, perhaps,” Corley answered hesitantly. “The police know about them,” he continued, “but they don’t touch them.” Apparently, they really don’t bother anyone here. We saw him a couple of times in the local town, there are shops and everything else there. He brought furs there. Trapping, of course. And how much do they need, these pagans?
Why are you sure that they are pagans, since his wife is white? They said it themselves.
It's white, but they've never been seen in any church in the area. But, to tell the truth, they don’t even have a car. There isn't even a boat motor. Canoe only. He probably gets to the States in early spring across the lake on it. They pay more for furs there. But it costs nothing for an Indian to travel thirty miles in a canoe. They do well in the summer. They even had a cow, but it hasn’t been seen for two years now. She probably died of old age.
Are there any wolves here? - I asked.
There is, but not enough. But there are black bears, but not too many. There are quite a few elk, and even those beavers survive, destroying the forest with their dams, and elk are not keen on climbing rocks. The Indian must be beating them. Well, a couple of moose will last him all winter. He's even better off than the Indians on the reservations. There they idle on state subsidies, and this one at least feeds itself. I pay taxes, but there’s nothing to take from him.
What if he gets sick? - I noticed.
Oh, they don’t get sick, and if something happens, they know the old secrets and forest remedies. This is where I envy him! - exclaimed Corley. - Doctors and medicines are incredibly expensive for me. You just get lost sometimes. Especially when the grandchildren are sick.
And then Corley decisively turned the conversation to his sorrows and difficulties.
When we drove back, Raymond was silent, and I did not ask him anything. What could a little clerk add from a big city where his family lived, where he didn’t have enough income and had to constantly dodge to make ends meet?
It cannot be said that Corley, and especially Raymond, hated the Redskins. Raymond had no specific reasons for this at all. His life in the big city completely absorbed all his spiritual and physical strength. He had a precise goal, the task of surviving and providing the minimum conditions for survival for his children. Corley was in somewhat different circumstances. After all, the Indian was his immediate neighbor, and although Corley did not harbor hatred towards him, real racial malice, he, like Raymond, was indifferent to this Indian. But, it seems to me, there was a somewhat peculiar element in this situation. Corley unconsciously envied the Indian. But in fact, this Indian fulfilled the eternal dream of a little man in a bourgeois society. Independence, independence from society, in this case white society, independence from the predatory services of official medicine, life in nature, and who knows what other advantages of living as an Indian could subconsciously arise in Corley’s mind? But he certainly had an element of envy towards the Indian. Corley just didn't dare admit it even to himself.
Raymond and Corley were ordinary people, barely making ends meet, and they had no time for the Indians. They had neither evil nor good towards them... Only indifference...
Gone...
The complex problem of the current state of relations between Indians and the white population turned out to be not so difficult. At best, ordinary people in both the United States and Canada are indifferent to Indians, regardless of where these Indians are located - in cities, on reservations or in remote places in the very north of Canada, for example. I happened to learn a little more about the fate of this last category than is usually discussed out loud - in the newspaper, magazine, cinema and on television.
I knew where to go and who to ask. Ottawa has a museum dedicated to natural history. It has six or more halls dedicated to the life, culture and history of the Indians of North America.
In this museum I met two of its employees - a husband and wife. He is a well-known - in narrow circles, of course - archaeologist, a specialist in the history of the cultivation of wild corn by ancient Indian tribes in Mexico and Central America. She is an ethnographer, a specialist in the northern Indian tribes, and told me about her just released work, which seems to be the last page in the history of the traditional Indian tribes of North America. We had one of our conversations with Annie right in the museum. I became interested in an old buffalo hide stretched over a wooden frame and covered with drawings: little men, stylized figures of animals, applied in faded paint.
What does this mean? - I asked Annie.
“This was left over from the Sioux tribe,” she answered, “but now there is no one to read it.” I tried to figure out the meaning of this, but... The fact is that the traditions have been lost. And how could they survive?
In 1885, in those places where the prairies end and the forests begin, that is, in the northern regions of the Canadian provinces of Saxachewan and Manitoba, Indian uprisings broke out. Troops were sent there, just as had been done earlier in the United States, and the uprising was drowned in blood. That was the end. The legal end, the military end, the economic end - there were no more bison, they were all destroyed. There could be no life without bison, and the fate of the Indians was sealed. But some pitiful remnants of them went north, into the forests in the territory between Labrador and Hudson Bay and the Yukon and Alaska. They went to the most remote places. It's deserted for thousands of miles. That's where they settled - not thousands or hundreds, but dozens of Indian families living according to old laws and customs. The basis of life is hunting. Extracting furs and selling them hundreds of miles from the camp to white buyers. From them Indian hunters receive weapons, equipment, some tobacco and salt, and very rarely red and blue cloth for women. Nothing else. Their permanent habitats are virtually unknown. They change place when there is no more hunting in the area. They live there both in winter and summer. Life is even easier in winter. You can go everywhere. Not like in the summer.
For several years now, Annie has been visiting them in the early spring and returning in the late fall. This is the last opportunity to see with your own eyes many things or, conversely, to overcome preconceived notions about the life and customs of the Indians. At first they did not accept her into their circle. But she, as a woman, quite soon gained the trust of the old squaws in one of the distant camps. These old women occupy an important place in the family hierarchy. A man's job is to hunt and be warriors, and old women manage life in the family, in the life of the camp. In short, Annie is now accepted as one of their own in two or even three camps. She just needs to arrive in the spring at a certain place on a certain lake, accessible to a small seaplane. There the Indians with canoes are already waiting for her. Sometimes she has to wait for them for several days. This is an important detail, since the locations of the camps are constantly changing, and without friends Annie simply will not find them. The most expensive things she takes there are needles, threads and colored beads. There is no need to bring food. They have everything. Forest and caribou, sometimes moose feed and clothe them well. They do not mix with the Eskimos, their close neighbors. They know each other well, but these are two different worlds, two worldviews. However, they are so far from each other that meetings can only be accidental.
The authorities have a very vague idea about the Indians. After all, there are so few of them. Annie said she was dealing with two births, that's about seventy to eighty people. Well, who will bother with them? They were left alone, forgotten about. Everyone forgot except Annie. She believes this is the best way. From direct communication with modern civilization, they will die of disease or, even worse, get drunk, since the sale of alcohol to any Indian is now allowed. However, Annie did not hide the fact that they have a very high infant mortality rate there. The life of this last remnant of the former great Cree tribe hangs in the balance. The balance is unstable.
Annie gestured with her hand at the endless line of bows and arrows, oars and cribs behind the glass display cases in the deserted halls of the museum.
The only thing that supports them is the feeling of the need to preserve traditions. From generation to generation, and if you count from the 80s of the last century, there have already been three or four of them, the elders in this small world preserve the traditions and foundations of the spiritual world. In our understanding,” Annie said, “this is a religion, but in theirs it is simply a way of life, where all living things in the forests and the forest itself are spiritualized. Remember Longfellow's Hiawatha and you will immediately understand the spiritual world of the people from these two camps. But still, some degradation and simplification of customs are noticeable. For example, I have never seen them perform rituals with sacred dances. They do not have names filled with poetic, fresh feeling. There are no women with names like, say, "Morning Dew" or "Evening Star Light." Names are now simple, often associated with duties in the home or hunting, and for men, names are associated with the animal world, such as “Wandering Wolf” or “Flying Owl”. One feels that they have mixed customs of the past, preserved only from random memories and coming from different tribes. Annie heard them say these words from a song they sing around the fire:
I'm walking along the road alone,
Which leads nowhere...
But then I'm leaving
From here, where there is no one left...
According to Annie, similar lines were recorded by folklorists at the end of the last century among the Indians from the prairies. The content can be dated back to very ancient times, but now these words sound in a new way. Annie sighed bitterly.
The old generation has gone forever to hunt in the eternal prairies above, where the great road leads - the Milky Way. But in recent years, a younger generation has grown up in the same forests in the north, and they have a different life...
