In the silence of the early morning came the distant sound of hoof beats.

Louder and louder, nearer and nearer grew the sound.

Many Indians rushed from their wigwams, put their ears to the ground and listened.

Nearer and nearer it came, while the Indians listened and waited.

Suddenly from the nearby forest dashed a beautiful black pony.

On the pony’s back sat an Indian youth about fifteen years old.

He sat tall and straight. His eyes were bright and shining.

He had only a small skin wound about his body, though the night was cool and chilly.

Quickly he rode and at last reached the wigwam of the chief.

Then he leaped lightly to the ground and began talking in great excitement.

He had been riding hard for many hours and was tired and worn.

But he carried an important message, and must lose no time in giving it. He said, “Chief, the enemy is upon my people. My father, the chief of his tribe, sent me to ask for your aid.

“Our tribe is not strong enough to ward off the attack of the enemy.

“I fear that the enemy has already burned our village and destroyed our crops.”

The Indians at a signal from their chief collected about him.

They decided to go at once to the aid of this friendly tribe.

It did not take them long to get their war clubs and tomahawks. They were always ready for battle.

Some rushed off in canoes. Others, headed by their chief and the youth, jumped upon their horses and went galloping away as fast as the wind.

Still others remained at home to protect their village, fearing that the enemy might come that way.

On and on the Indians rushed through the forest, along the river edge.

The canoes skimmed along the surface of the water like birds in the air.

But alas! they were too late.

When the Indians reached the village of the friendly tribe they saw a mass of flames. The enemy had gone after setting fire to all the wigwams.

The Indian women were running about, their long black hair flowing in the wind.

They were wringing their hands and calling on the Great Spirit for mercy.

They carried their babies strapped to their backs while the older children clung to their mothers, badly frightened.

The men simply stood and looked at their burning village.

They were grateful to the other Indian tribe even though it could do nothing to help them.

These two tribes had sealed their friendship by means of a belt of wampum.

Wampum, which was the only kind of money these Indian people knew, was made from various colored shells shaped into beads and strung on deer sinews. Some Indian tribes wore the strings of wampum wound about their necks, while others wove them into strong belts of many colors.

When two tribes wished to seal their friendship they did so by giving a wampum belt.

Mewanee’s father felt very sorry for these Indian people. Indeed they were a very unhappy tribe of Indians. All of their wigwams were burned, and all of their food gone.

As they collected about their chief, he told them that Mewanee’s father had invited them to share his village until they could rebuild their own.

So they set out toward the neighboring village. Most of them had to walk because all of the horses and canoes had been destroyed by the fire.

Father Sun sent upon them his friendly light as they trudged along.

The birds chirped from the tree-tops. They seemed to understand that these people were very sad.

At last, tired and footsore, they reached the village in which Mewanee lived.

They were glad for a place to rest.

They threw themselves face downward upon the ground and gave thanks to the Great Spirit for sending this friendly tribe to their aid.