He cried out to the rest, "Run, run,
Old Man is killing us"; and all the other ducks flew away, but ever
since that time that little duck's eyes have been red. It is the
horned grebe.
Old Man took the ducks and went off a little way and built a fire
and hung some of the ducks up in front of it to roast, and after the
fire was burning well, he swept away the ashes and buried some of
the ducks in the ground and again swept back the fire over them.
Then he lay down to wait for the birds to cook, and while they were
cooking he fell asleep.
While he slept a coyote came sneaking along and saw Old Man sleeping
there, and the ducks roasting by the fire. Very quietly he crept up
to the fire and took the ducks one by one and ate them. Not one was
left. Pretty soon he found those that were roasting under the fire,
and dug them out, and opening them, ate the meat from the inside of
the skin and filled each one with ashes and buried them all again.
Then he went away.
Pretty soon Old Man woke up and saw that his ducks were gone, and
when he saw the tracks about the fire, he knew that the coyote had
taken them.
"It was lucky," said Old Man, "that I put some of those to roast
under the fire." He dug them up from under the ashes, but when he
took a big bite from one, his mouth and face were full of ashes.
THE ANCIENT BLACKFEET
Long, long ago, before our fathers or grandfathers were born, before
the white people knew anything about the western half of North
America, the Indians who told these stories lived on the Western
plains.
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