But what was this that happened?

Never yet had a February moon waned but that the powerful Onondaga tribe had offered the burnt “Sacrifice of the White Dog,” that most devout of all native rites.  But now, search as they might, not a single spotlessly white dog could be found.  No other animal would do.  It was the law of this great Indian tribe that no other burnt sacrifice could possibly be offered than the strangled body of a white dog.

We-hro heard all the great chiefs talking of it all.  He listened to plans for searching the entire Reserve for a dog, and the following morning he arose at dawn, took his own pet dog down to the river and washed him as he had seen white men wash their sheep.  Then out of the water dashed the gay little animal, yelping and barking in play, rolling in the snow, tearing madly about, and finally rushing off towards the log house which was We-hro’s home and scratching at the door to get in by the warm fire to dry his shaggy coat.  Oh! what an ache that coat caused in We-hro’s heart.  From a dull drab grey, the dog’s hair had washed pure white, not a spot or a blemish on it, and in an agony of grief the little pagan boy realized that through his own action he had endangered the life of his dog friend; that should his father and his father’s friends see that small white terrier, they would take it away for the nation’s sacrifice.

Stumbling and panting and breathless, We-hro hurried after his pet, and, seizing the dog in his arms, he wrapped his own shabby coat about the trembling, half-dry creature, and carried him to where the cedars grew thick at the back of the house.  Crouched in their shadows he hugged his treasured companion, thinking with horror of the hour when the blow would surely fall.

For days the boy kept his dog in the shelter of the cedars, tied up tightly with an old rope, and sleeping in a warm raccoon skin, which We-hro smuggled away from his own simple bed.  The dog contented himself with what little food We-hro managed to carry to him, but the hiding could not keep up forever, and one dark, dreaded day We-hro’s father came into the house and sat smoking in silence for many minutes.  When at last he spoke, he said: 

“We-hro, your dog is known to me.  I have seen him, white as the snow that fell last night.  It is the law that someone must always suffer for the good of the people.  We-hro, would you have the great ‘Black-Coat,’ the great white preacher, come to see our beautiful ceremony, and would you have the great Onondaga tribe fail to show the white man how we worship our ancient Great Spirit?  Would you have us fail to burn the sacrifice?  Or will you give your white dog for the honor of our people?”

The world is full of heroes, but at that moment it held none greater than the little pagan boy, who crushed down his grief and battled back his tears as he answered: 

“Father, you are old and honored and wise.  For you and for my people alone would I give the dog.”