Wolf Brother E-Book

Jim Kjelgaard

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The Western Writers of America awarded the Golden Spur Award to Jim Kjelgaard for this "Best Juvenile Novel", a novel for young readers about an Apache boy. Will appeal to adult readers as well. Jonathan, a full blood Hawk Apache, returns to his tribe after six years in the white man's schools.

Leseprobe

Wolf Brother 

by Jim Kjelgaard

First published in 1957

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

WOLF BROTHER

by 

JIM KJELGAARD

THIS BOOK AND MY HEART ARE DEDICATED TO KAREN

This is the story of a young Apache in the 1880's, when Indian reservations were new. Returning to his "home" after six years in the white man's schools, Jonathan hoped to help his people adjust to new ways of life. Instead, he was forced by circumstance to flee the reservation and join Cross Face's band of outlaws, who would not be confined.

Jonathan soon learned that the lost cause of constantly raiding, fighting, or eluding the white soldiers was no solution. How he was captured, escaped, and worked out his own destiny form the climax of an eventful, moving book told entirely from the Indian viewpoint.

Although fiction, Wolf Brother

Foreword

A few years ago, in downtown Phoenix, an Apache beggar touched me for a quarter. As I walked on, I was more than a little depressed.

Like so many of my generation, I had been brought up on tales of villainous fighting Indians, heroic Indian fighters, and ferocious encounters between the two. And of them all, the Apaches were the most courageous, the most fiercely independent, the most resistant to the white man's domination.

Was it all a myth? If not, was there any way to reconcile the derelict in Phoenix with the proud traditions of his haughty ancestors? What was the Apache side of the "winning of the West," anyway? I determined to find out.

Since I already lived in Arizona, which is as rich in Apache lore as in minerals, I was ideally situated. I visited battlefields, forts, libraries, museums. I read every book I could find. I consulted Indian authorities, in particular Odd Halseth of the Pueblo Grande Museum. I went to see present-day Apaches at their prosperous cattle ranches in Arizona's White Mountains, and talked with Apache rodeo performers at dusty little desert stockades.

When the material had been sifted, the obviously false information discarded, the legends and the facts evaluated, I knew the book I wanted to write. This is it.Wolf Brotherdoesn't even pretend to be history. All the characters are fictional, and I have made no attempt to fit the events to any actual chronological sequence. However, much of it is based on historical happenings, and I have done my best to keep the spirit true to Apache traditions.

Jim Kjelgaard

ONE Renegade

When the train mounted a crest, Jonathan saw soldiers in the valley beneath him. Superbly mounted and armed, obviously well trained, they were maneuvering in precise formation. Jonathan kept his face turned toward the window so that the car's other two passengers could not see his eyes. Again to his ears came the words of Father Harvey, the beloved Jesuit who had taken an orphaned Jonathan into his care as a child of ten and was sending him back to the Hawk Apaches as a youth of sixteen. Father Harvey had spoken sadly at parting.

"I have taught you what I may, Jonathan, but there is still much to learn. Will you not reconsider and go on to school in the East?"

"I thank you, Father," Jonathan had replied gratefully. "With my whole heart I thank you. But my heart aches for the scent of pine, the bite of wind, the feel of snow and the joy of rain. Most of all, it aches for my people."

"Then go back to them," Father Harvey had counseled. "Return to them with all you have learned. Continue to learn. Be a teacher and I promise you that, as surely as did the Israelites, your people will emerge from the wilderness. Show the path to those who cannot find it and soften the hearts of any who still rebel. For if they continue to resist, they are lost."

Now, as he looked out the train window and saw the cavalry, Jonathan understood in part what Father Harvey had meant. There had been many bitter battles between the Apaches and their white opponents. In one such battle, Jonathan's father, mother, and three older brothers had all been killed. The blue-clad soldiers had swarmed up the butte, and except for smaller children had mercilessly slaughtered anyone they found. But Dango Crisley, blood brother to Jonathan's father, had taken no part in that battle and was now living on the tribal reservation at Quartz Flat. It was Dango Crisley whom Jonathan was now seeking, after six years in the Jesuit school.

Jonathan turned to face the front of the lurching car, his thoughts bitter. His people had suffered a series of crushing defeats, and their only choice had been surrender. But it had not always been thus. There had been a time when the very thought of an Apache raid had caused white men to tremble in their homes or flee to their forts. Indeed, it was not wholly one-sided now. Jonathan had heard that a warrior named Cross Face and his band, which the white men said numbered anywhere from two to five hundred, still raided almost at will across the border. Even in this year of 1884 Apache was still a name to reckon with.

He sat quietly, apparently unmindful of the sweltering heat that filled the car like a heavy, damp blanket. But behind his unreadable eyes, an alert mind worked furiously. Go back and teach, Father Harvey had said. Teach what? He could speak the white man's language, read his writing, was acquainted with his mode of living, and thought he understood white men. But how much food would such knowledge put into any cooking pot or how many horses would it bring to any lodge? Father Harvey never spoke idly or without meaning. But exactly what had he meant? Jonathan comforted himself with the thought that he possessed two keen eyes. After he had looked about Quartz Flat, no doubt he himself would discover what should be taught.

The far door opened. A blue-clad conductor thrust his head through and intoned nasally, "Mus-Tang! Mus-Tang! A-ha-hall out for Mus-Tang."

The other two passengers, a sweating drummer in a loud-checked suit and a grizzled miner whose face had been burned by so many suns and creased by so many winds that it was dark as an Indian's, rose and started toward the landing platform. As they passed, Jonathan heard the drummer mutter, "Gad! What a dump!"

Jonathan looked steadily out of the window. Quartz Flat was the next stop, and since it was only ten minutes from Mustang it stood to reason that it must be very much the same sort of desert country. Where were the whispering pines, the snorting deer, the cool breezes, the flowing streams, the leaping trout?

Although Jonathan tried not to judge in advance, he still could not quell a rising uneasiness, and knew that it sprang from the lessons given him by Father Harvey. No Apache ever borrowed trouble or worried over problems that had not yet arisen. White men did, and Jonathan had had a white man's training. He pondered about Quartz Flat.

Some aspects of the desert, such as the fruit of various cacti and the skulking deer and bighorn sheep that lived in the cactus, were good, and a part of Apache life. But even though the rockbound, almost treeless mountains that rose on one side were a mile away and the mountains on the other side a good five miles, that was not enough room or variety for Apaches. They were born to limitless horizons.

Nevertheless, Jonathan reminded himself, his people did have a place to live. And in spite of the fact that some unconquerable warriors like Cross Face were said to prefer death to submission, it was better to be alive than dead. Also, as Jonathan had learned during his stay with Father Harvey, the whites were not without mercy. They would never spare the lives of captured Apaches only to let them die in some barren desert.

As the train descended a slope, Jonathan glanced out upon a large adobe building flanked by various smaller ones also built of sun-dried bricks. The large building was perhaps thirty feet long by twenty wide. Sun glanced brightly from its windows. The door stood open. A slat-ribbed, dun-colored dog dozed in the shade the building cast.

To one side was a pole corral holding a dozen horses, some fat and some scrawny. Near the corral was a wagon in which a man lay sleeping. There was a stack of hay from which wandering horses and cattle had cropped just enough to give it a ragged appearance. A windlass and bucket, mounted on a circular stone platform, must be the well. The whole place was hemmed in by prickly pear and saguaro. The only tree in sight was a sad-looking palo whose green needles drooped beneath the sun.

The conductor stuck his head back into the car and said, "Quartz Flat, bub."

In spite of himself, Jonathan bristled. If the conductor had not been affable when announcing Mustang, at least he had been impartial. Now, addressing an Indian, his manner was more than a little supercilious and bordered on contempt. But Jonathan said nothing.

Gathering up the carpet bag that held his few possessions, he made his way to the front of the car, descended the steps, and waited until the train stopped. As he stepped onto the landing platform, a searing blast of heat attacked him. He looked about uneasily.

Apaches needed meat for their pots and grass for their ponies. Here, insofar as he could see, was neither. Jonathan fought down a rising discouragement. The reservation granted the Hawk Apaches, Father Harvey had said, was a large one. Naturally some portions would be less desirable than others, and no doubt the train's passengers disembarked at one of these less-favored places. Surely no Apache would be content to have a permanent home here.

The sleeping dog raised its head, looked at Jonathan with little interest, and went back to sleep. Jonathan skirted the large building, a combined depot-store-warehouse, and walked over to the wagon in which he had seen the man sleeping.

The man was an old Apache, aged by both years and trouble. He wore cast-off clothing which must have come from some white man's trash pile, and his body was fat and flabby. His mouth hung open, and even though his eyes were closed, Jonathan knew as he looked that they would be dull.

A swelling pity stirred in Jonathan's heart as he touched the sleeping man's shoulder. The sleeper came instantly awake—he still had some Apache instinct left—and Jonathan recoiled in shocked surprise.

The man was Manuelito. At one time a leader second only to the great Cochise himself, and sometimes surpassing even that master of audacity and daring, Manuelito had been a symbol of Apache resistance. It was he who, with a single companion, had skulked 150 miles into white man's country, killed seven men, and brought back eighty mules. It was he who, single-handed, had held thirty besieging whites at bay while his companions made good their escape. It was Manuelito who had always argued for further rebellion and derided reservation life. Now he was a leader no longer, only a broken, pathetic old man in whom the breath of life somehow persisted.

Jonathan reverted to the tongue of his ancestors. "I seek Dango Crisley. Where is he?"

"That way." Manuelito pointed indifferently and went back to sleep.

Carrying the carpet bag, Jonathan trudged on, assailed by doubt. Had Father Harvey known what he was talking about? Or had this land, so barren and bitter, been granted to the Hawk Apaches because no white man wanted it? The horses he saw beside the wretched hovels were little more than bone racks; in the old days, any warrior would have been ashamed to mount such a one. Jonathan swerved to where an old man was skinning a jack rabbit.

"I seek the lodge of Dango Crisley."

"Next one." The old man did not even look up.

Jonathan went sadly on. Plainly his people had fallen. Formerly, no matter whose house he approached, he would have been invited to rest himself and share the contents of the cooking pot. The present Hawk Apaches seemed fearful that they would not have enough for themselves. Jonathan mounted a rise and looked down on the home of his uncle.

It was like all the rest, a small adobe structure with glassless windows and the inevitable smoke hole on top. Only, in this instance, the smoke hole was surmounted with a small, square chimney. A burro so old that his hair was gray sniffed listlessly in a pile of refuse, and half a dozen rawboned horses dozed in the heat. A few vari-colored chickens scratched here and there, watched by a small, short-haired black dog with pointed ears. A girl about twelve years old was picking small pieces of wood from a pile. When she saw Jonathan she ran eagerly forward.

"Hello!"

"You speak English!" Jonathan said in surprise.

"Oh yes! The Sisters had a school for almost three years and I attended." She finished proudly, "I can even write!"

Her features were vivacious and expressive, probably because age and hardship had not yet had time to dull them. Her bright eyes were aglow with friendly curiosity.

"The Sisters called me Helen, but my Apache name is Ee-Lah and I like that better. Who are you?"

"Jonathan."

"Oh. And have you been to school too?" she asked.

"For quite some time. Six years."

"Did you come to see us?"

"I surely did. That is, if your father is Dango Crisley."

"That's right!" the girl said eagerly. "I'll bring him!"

She flitted like a butterfly into the house and came out leading an older man by the hand. Jonathan looked at him appraisingly. Dango Crisley seemed to be afflicted by the same curse that had touched all adult Hawk Apaches when they submitted to the whites. Like all the rest Jonathan had seen so far, he seemed spiritless. But he came forward with his hand outstretched and friendliness in his eyes.

"Greetings! Welcome to my home and all within it!"

"Thank you. I am Jonathan."

"Jon-A-Than?" Dango Crisley wrinkled questioning brows.

"I was not so called by the Apaches," Jonathan said, "but I have lived long among the white men, who gave me one of their names. I am the son of Big Antelope, who fell in the battle of Ragged Butte."

The girl cried out in delight, and Dango Crisley came forward and embraced Jonathan.

"My brother's son! Long shall this happy day be remembered! Come!"

He led Jonathan into the house and seated him on a steer hide which was obviously a place of honor. Jonathan dimly recalled other days and other lodges, where the distinguished guest's seat was fashioned of softest baby elk skin upon which no one else had ever sat and which was destroyed as soon as the guest departed. There was a wide gap between those days and these, but Dango Crisley was upholding the finest Apache tradition insofar as he was offering the best he had.

Jonathan said feelingly, "It is good again to see one's people!"

"It is good to have you come. Your father would be pleased to know that you have returned, and have not forsaken your people."

"And what," Jonathan asked sadly, "has happened to our people?"

With a gesture, Dango Crisley indicated the entire reservation. "You have seen." His voice was tinged with bitterness. "There is food assured for all. No longer must we worry whether our hunt succeeds or fails. Our enemies threaten no more. Our women and children may go their way in peace."

Jonathan asked, "Is that a life for an Apache?"

"It is when there are enough soldiers with enough guns to tell us what we must do and how we must live."

"I have heard that Cross Face still holds out."

"Ah! Cross Face!"

Dango Crisley's face changed. His eyes lighted, and some of the old fire again danced in their black depths. Jonathan sensed that Cross Face, a hated and despised renegade to the soldiers who were trying to catch him, was a Messiah and standard-bearer to his people. He and those with him were evidently the only Apaches left who dared defy the white man's soldiers and continue to live as Apaches had always lived.

Dango Crisley's eyes were still aglow as he said quietly, "Since your journey must have wearied you, nephew, refresh yourself."

The girl brought him boiled chicken on a platter, peeled cactus fruit, sweet potatoes, piñon nuts, and a gourd filled with water. Jonathan ate and drank, and did not speak while doing so for it was not the part of courtesy to talk while partaking of food in another's house. He finished, pushed the empty dishes aside, and the girl came to take them. Jonathan turned to his host.

"Who provides your food, Uncle?"

"The agent for this reservation, named Dollarson."

"Is there enough?"

Dango Crisley shrugged. "There is not as much as we ourselves used to have at times, but more than we've had at others. If there are no feasts, neither is there any famine."

"Is it good food?"

"One eats it."

"Do you supply any of your own?"