CHAPTER VIII
PLAYING A MAN'S PART
The two men rode silently, one behind the other, trailing their ledponies; the hoofs of their horses going out in sound on thepine-needles, anon cracking a dead branch as they stepped over fallentimber, or grunting under the strain of steep hillsides. Far across thewide valley the Shoshone range suddenly lost its forms and melted intoblue-black against the little light left by the sun, which sank as astone does in water. In swift pursuit of her warrior husband, came Sheof the night, soft and golden, painting everything with her quiet,restful colors, and softly soothing the fevers of day with her coolinglotions.
Wolf-Voice and John Ermine emerged from the woods, dog-trotting along ontheir ponies after the fashion of Indian kind. Well they knew thedeceptions of the pale light; while it illumined the way a few stepsahead, it melted into a protecting gloom within an arrow's-flight. Anunfortunate meeting with the enemy would develop a horse-race wherenumbers counted for no more than the swiftest horse and the rider whoquirted most freely over the coulee or dog-town. The winner of suchraces was generally the one who had the greatest interest at stake inthe outcome,--the hunted, not the hunter.
As the two riders expected, they traversed the plains without incident,forded the rivers, and two hours before sunrise were safely perched onthe opposite range, high enough to look down on the eagles. These vaststretches of landscape rarely showed signs of human life. Oneunaccustomed to them would as soon expect to find man or horses walkingthe ocean's bed; their loneliness was akin to the antarctic seas. Thatwas how it seemed, not how it was. The fierce savages who skulkedthrough the cuts and seams made by erosion did not show themselves, butthey were there and might appear at any moment; the desert brotherhoodknew this, and well considered their footsteps. Seated on a rockpinnacle, amid brushwood, one man slept while the other watched. Longbefore nightfall they were again in motion. Around the camp, Indians areindolent, but on the war-path their exertions are ceaseless to the pointof exhaustion. It was not possible to thread their way through thevolcanic gashes of the mountains by night, but while light lasted theyskirted along their slopes day after day, killing game with arrows whichWolf-Voice carried because of their silence and economy.
These two figures, crawling, sliding, turning, and twisting through thesunlight on the rugged mountains, were grotesque but harmonious. Americawill never produce their like again. Her wheels will turn and herchimneys smoke, and the things she makes will be carried round the worldin ships, but she never can make two figures which will bear even aremote resemblance to Wolf-Voice and John Ermine. The wheels andchimneys and the white men have crowded them off the earth.
Buckskin and feathers may swirl in the tan-bark rings to the tune ofMoney Musk, but the meat-eaters who stole through the vast silences,hourly snatching their challenging war-locks from the hands of death,had a sensation about them which was independent of accessories. Theirgaunt, hammer-headed, grass-bellied, cat-hammed, roach-backed ponieswent with them when they took their departure; the ravens fly high abovetheir intruding successors, and the wolves which sneaked at theirfriendly heels only lift their suspicious eyes above a rock on a far-offhill to follow the white man's movements. Neither of the two mentionedpeople realized that the purpose of the present errand was to aid inbringing about the change which meant their passing.
Wolf-Voice had no family tree. It was enough that he arrived among thetraders speaking Gros Ventre; but a man on a galloping horse could seethat his father was no Gros Ventre; he blew into the Crow camp on somefriendly wind, prepared to make his thoughts known in his mother tongueor to embellish it with Breed-French or Chinook; he had sought the campof the white soldiers and added to his Absaroke sundry "God-damns" andother useful expressions needed in his business. He was a slim fellowwith a massive head and a restless soul; a seeker after violence, withwicked little black eyes which glittered through two narrow slits anddanced like drops of mercury. His dress was buckskin, cut in the redfashion; his black hat had succumbed to time and moisture, while a hugeskinning-knife strapped across his stomach, together with abrass-mounted Henry rifle, indicated the danger zone one would passbefore reaching his hair.
At a distance John Ermine was not so different; but, closer, his yellowbraids, strongly vermilioned skin, and open blue eyes stared hard andfast at your own, as emotionless as if furnished by a taxidermist. Hiscoat was open at the front as the white men made them; he wore blanketbreeches encased at the bottom in hard elkskin leggings bound at theknee. He also carried a fire-bag, the Spencer repeating carbine givenhim by his comrade, together with an elk-horn whip. In times past Erminehad owned a hat, but long having outlived the natural life of any hat,it had finally refused to abide with him. In lieu of this he had boundhis head with a yellow handkerchief, beside which polished brass wouldhave been a dead and lonely brown. His fine boyish figure swayed like atule in the wind, to the motions of his pony. His mind was reposefulthough he was going to war--going to see the white men of whom he hadheard so much from his tutor; going to associate with the people wholost "ten thousand men" in a single battle and who did not regard it aswonderful. He had seen a few of these after the Long-Horse fight, but hewas younger and did not understand. He understood now, however, andintended to drink his eyes and feast his mind to satiety on the peopleof whom he was one.
As the sun westered, the two adventurers blinded their trail in themanner most convenient at the time; a thing not so difficult to do inthe well-watered northwest as in the dry deserts of the south; besideswhich the buffalo-hunting, horse-using Indians were not the equals ofthe mountain foot brethren in following trails. After doing this theydoubled and twisted back on their track. While the sun was yet brightthey broiled their evening meat on a tiny fire of dry sticks. Blowingthe tobacco smoke to the four corners of the earth, Wolf-Voice said: "Wewill be rich, brother, if the Sioux do not get a chance to dry our hair;the soldiers always make their scouts rich; there is plenty to eat intheir wagons, and cartridges cost nothing. The soldiers always fight;they are like the gray bears,--they do not know any better,--and then isthe time when we must watch close to get away before the Sioux have anadvantage of them. They are fools and cannot run. They are tied to theground. If you get a chance to carry the talking papers from one whitechief to another, they pour the money into your blanket. I have neverhad a paper to carry, but I think they will give you one. If they do,brother, we will take the silver and get one of the white soldiers tobuy us a bottle of whiskey from the sutler." And Wolf-Voice's malignantfeatures relaxed into a peaceful state which made Ermine laugh outright.
A bottle of whiskey and ten thousand dead men--quite a difference,thought Ermine. "That is it--that is it," continued the musing white manto himself; "he goes to war for a bottle of whiskey, and I go for tenthousand men." His unframed thoughts wrestled and twisted, lined androunded, the idea of ten thousand men; yet the idea never took a formwhich satisfied him. Ten thousand buffalo--yes, he had calculated theirmass; he had seen them. Ten thousand trees--that, too, he could arrange;he had blocked them out on the mountain-side. But there were many timesten thousand men who had not been killed; that he gave up altogether.Nothing had saved him but blind faith in his old comrade.
Leaving the mountains again, they stalked over the moon-lit land morelike ghosts than men, and by day they lay so low that the crawling antswere their companions. By the Elk[8] River Wolf-Voice pointed to a long,light streak which passed through the sage-brush: "Brother, that is thesign of the white men. The buffalo, when they pass once, do not make adeeper path than that, and, brother, what is that in the road whichshows so bright?"
[8] Indian for Yellowstone.
Appropriating the gleaming thing, the Indian reached from his pony andpicked it up, holding it close to his eyes for a moment before passingit to his companion. "What is that, brother?"
Ermine examined it closely, turning it in the moonlight. "I do not know;it is a paper; I will keep it until daylight."
A few steps ahead was found an
other glistening article, dropped by thepassing soldiers. They knew what that was; it was the canteen, lost onthe march, by a pony soldier. Wolf-Voice appropriated it.
"We must not stay here; the trail is old, but the Sioux will be near thesoldiers. They are between us and the white men; you may be sure ofthat, brother," said one; and the four ponies stumbled off through thesage-brush, melting into the night.
They stopped for the day at the head of a rocky coulee, eating driedmeat for fear of making a smoke. Ermine drew the paper from his pocket,laid it on the ground before him, and regarded it for a few moments;then he turned it round, seeing it was upside down by the writing on thebottom. "Bogardus," he read on the left-hand corner. The image on thecard spread, opened, and flowered in Ermine's mind; it was apicture--that was plain now; it was a photograph such as he had heardCrooked-Bear tell about--an image from the sun. He had never seen onebefore. Wolf-Voice bent his beady eyes on the black and white thing, butit suggested nothing to him. Nature had not been black and white to hisscarlet vision. The rude conventionalized lines painted on thebuffalo-robes differentiated buffalo, ponies, and men, but thisthing--"Humph!"--he lighted his pipe.
Before the persistent gaze of Ermine the face of a young womanunravelled itself from a wonderful headgear and an unknown frock. Theeyes looked into his with a long, steady, and hypnotic gaze. The gentleface of the image fascinated the lad; it stirred his imagination andadded "a beautiful white woman" to his "ten-thousand-dead-men" quest.Wolf-Voice had to call him twice to take his watch, saying as he laydown, "Put the paper away, brother; it takes your eyes from the Sioux."
The travellers could not make long journeys in the short summer nightsthrough the open country, and exercise a proper vigilance at the sametime. The moon rose later every night, thus cutting their time. Neitherdid they see any signs of human beings or know where to find the whitemen; but recourse to the trail along the river, from time to time,assured them that the wagons had continued down the stream. The trailwas very old, and was full of Indian pony-tracks which had followed it.
One day as they lay in a washout, Wolf-Voice pointed to columns of dustfar to the south. Was it buffalo, Indians, or soldiers? The dust stayedall day in one place; it might be a buffalo-surround or big herds aboutcamps, but this they were not able to determine.
"We will go to the dust this sleep and we will ride the war-horses; theothers which we have been riding are stiff and sore; we will leave themhere and come after them if we can," spoke Ermine as he braided the tailof his favorite pony. When Wolf-Voice's attention was directedelsewhere, he took his medicine, the dried hoof of the white stallion,and rubbed it gently on his pony's heels. The prophet would not approveof this, he felt, but it could do no harm, since he also prayed God tomake his pony run fast and not stumble, to blind the Sioux, stop theirears, and otherwise to cherish appropriately the poor life of JohnErmine who believed in Him and now wanted His help.
Slowly they made their way south through the gloom, trusting theirrange-bred ponies to pick out the footing. Hour after hour they steppedalong, stopping at intervals to listen.
Late at night as they made their way down a long ridge, they heard ahorse whinny somewhere far down in one of the breaks of the land.Without a word they turned away from the noise. Later Wolf-Voicewhispered: "Indians; the white men never let their horses loose in thenight. That pony was alone, or we should have heard more sounds. He wascalling his brothers. Now we must blind our trail; their scouts willfind it in the morning."
Accordingly they allowed their horses to feed slowly along, notattempting to guide them, and after a mile felt that any one who shouldfollow those tracks would think that they were loose horses grazing. Bythe light of the late moon they made their way more quickly, but alwaysstopping to separate the sounds of the night--the good sounds from thebad. They could see that they were coming to the river, and as they roseon a wave of the land, they saw a few faint sparks glitter far down thevalley.
"It is the white soldiers--the big fires of the white men, brother. Wewill go in when the sun comes up. If we should go near them now, theywould fire at us. The white men shoot at anything which moves in thedark; a wolf is not safe near their camps when the sun has gone."
Before the gray of morning they were safely ensconced under a bluff,waiting for the daylight and within a mile of the long line of Sibleytents. They heard the hungry mule chorus, the clank of chains, themonotonous calls of the sentries; and the camp slowly developed beforetheir eyes like a photographic negative in a bath of chemicals; thenJohn Ermine began to understand ten thousand men.
Softly the metallic reveille drifted to their ears; it spread from onegroup of tents to another until the whole air danced with the delightfulsound. The watchers on the sage-brush hillside were preoccupied with themovements of the soldiers. They listened to the trumpets and saw the menanswer them by forming long lines. In a moment the lines broke intohurrying individuals, the fires began to send up the quiet morningsmoke, while the mule chorus ceased.
As though shot out of the ground by some hidden force, Wolf-Voicebounded up. "G---- d----! Mit-wit![9] Coo-ley!"[10] he yelled, and asresponsive as a swallow which follows the swift flight of another inplay, Ermine bounded on to his horse. One look behind told the story.The Sioux were coming. He saw the lightning play of the ponies' legs,heard the whips crack on their quarters, and was away like a flash,bearing hard on the soldier camp. Before many bounds he recovered fromhis surprise; it was not far, and his horse was answering the medicine.He had never run like this before. The Sioux had found and followedtheir trail and had nearly caught them napping. After their long journeythey had almost been cut off during the last mile of it. Seeing thattheir prey had escaped, the Sioux swerved like hawks, pulling up on thehill.
[9] Get up!
[10] Run!
Turning, Wolf-Voice and Ermine shouted back taunts at them, fired theirguns at the group, and then leisurely loped toward the camps. While yetquite a way out, three white soldiers rose suddenly from a dry wash withtheir rifles: "Halt! Who goes there?"
"'HALT! WHO GOES THERE?'"]
The riders drew down to a walk, Wolf-Voice raising his hand in thepeace sign, and saying, "We are your frens, we aire two Crow Enjun; don'shoot!" and continued to advance.
The soldiers stood with their guns in readiness, while one answered:"Get off them ponies; lay your guns on the ground. I guess you are allright." And then, looking at Ermine with a laugh: "Is that blonde therea Crow? Guess them Sioux scared him white. I've often heard tell of aman's hair turning white in a single night."
"Ach sure, Bill, and it don't tourn a mon's face red to be scharedsthiff," observed another picket.
The faintest suggestion of a smile stole over John Ermine as hecomprehended.
"No, soldiers, we are not afraid. Why can't you let two men go into thebig camp; are all those soldiers afraid of two men?" And the picketslaughed at the quaint conjecture. Shortly an officer rode up on a horseand questioned Ermine.
"Who are you?"
"We are friends of the white people. Did you see that we are not friendsof the Sioux?"
"Yes; I saw those Indians chase you. Were they Sioux?"
"We took that for granted." And again the corner of John Ermine's mouthrelaxed.
"Yes, of course, I admire your judgment; come with me," replied theofficer, as he turned to ride back. The three ambled along together."Who are you?"
"I am a white man, and my comrade is an Indian."
"What is your name?"
"My name is John Ermine, and I want to be a scout. Will you take me?"
"That is not my business; but I have no doubt the proper authority willbe glad to put you on the pay-roll. You don't seem any more popular withthe Sioux than we are."
John Ermine of the Yellowstone Page 12