by Max Brand
A bullet hummed past his head. And, as he flattened himself along the back of the horse, he heard a voice of thunder, distinct above the rushing of the hoofs, the whistling of the wind at his ears.
“Stop, White Thunder! Stop, or we will catch you with bullets! Stop, and you are safe as a brother in our hands!”
He would not stop. He had freedom, and the return to his own kind and sweet Nancy Brett all before him. Death was not so terrible as the loss of such treasures. Desperately he rode. But he could not keep on in this direction.
Straight before him the line of riders from the east was storming, drawing toward him in a group now. He could see the flogging of their arms, as they punished their horses. Their wild whoops seemed to check the pulsation of his heart.
Like a fool he had ridden into this open trap. They simply had driven him into the lion’s mouth from one side, while the other side waited to catch him. They were brushing him up, as a housewife brushes dust from the floor into a pan. He groaned with rage as well as terror.
Then he drove Comanche to the due north, or a little east of it. She had gone well before. But her speed now startled even her rider.
He thought that he could detect a note of rage rather than triumph in the shouting behind him. Certainly the noise was growing dimmer. With unflagging speed she kept on, running straight and true.
There were two Indians on the right flank of the Cheyennes who were rushing at him from the east. Those were the two on whom the greatest share of the burden of catching him must lie, now. With a falling heart he recognized in one of them that glorious young warrior, that peerless rider and rifleman, Rising Hawk. Like a bronze statue endowed with life he came, erect in the saddle, the rifle ready beneath his arm. His left hand was raised. He was shouting to Torridon to warn him to a halt, and the fugitive saw that he must play his last card now or lose the game forever.
He had Ashur running lightly beside him, turning his lordly head as though he scorned these men of the prairies. Now he drew the big horse closer with a single word. Shoulder by shoulder ran mare and stallion, and it was a simple thing to slip from one saddle to the next. It was a trick that he had practiced many and many a time before, and now his labor was well spent. He was on Ashur—and at his first call the big black leaped away from Comanche as though she had stumbled in full stride.
Like a human being afraid of being left behind, she whinnied with terror, but Ashur was leaving her with every stride. They were past Rising Hawk, now. Standing Bull’s party was far behind. Then Torridon heard the crashing of many rifles. Yet he did not hear the whistle of a single bullet. He wondered at it. Then, glancing aside, he saw Rising Hawk deliberately fire his weapon high into the air.
At last he understood. They would frighten him into surrender if they could, but they would not deliberately harm him. And, as that amazing knowledge came to him, Ashur swept him into a shallow draw just deep enough to shelter horse and rider. They raced a furious mile along its winding course, and when they left it again to bear straight north, Standing Bull and Rising Hawk and all the rest were hopelessly behind, and every moment they were being distanced more sadly. Even Comanche, with all her speed, and without a rider to burden her, was a full two hundred yards behind.
XIV
After the foolish manner in which he had allowed himself to be so nearly snared by the Cheyennes, Torridon lost his confidence. He felt no better than a boy, and an irresponsible one, at that. But two things struck him with a lasting wonder out of this adventure. The one was the blinding speed of Ashur—for never before had he seen it so tested—the other was that the Cheyennes had chosen to spare his life.
He did not try to deceive himself on that point. He had been in their hands, to all intents and purposes. If they wanted his scalp, it could have been theirs for the asking. The twenty rifles that had risen with Standing Bull to block his flight could have riddled him with bullets. But they wanted his life, not his death. And gravely, gravely did he wonder over this state of affairs.
He had the stallion and the mare to carry him, and he vowed that he would give them nothing but short halts for the next two days. Let the Cheyennes follow if they could. So he set his teeth and narrowed his eyes, and embarked upon two days of weary, continual labor and effort.
The weather broke before midday, but, though the sun came out bright and clear, the going was frightfully heavy under foot. The weight of it, however, was not all a disadvantage. He was able to get fresh meat on that account, for the antelope that at last he struck down with a lucky shot was kept in range only by the softness of the ground over which it raced. He paused to roast bits of the best of the flesh. He carried two large cuts of the antelope with him, and with them he could consider the food problem settled on that trail.
After that he voyaged through empty prairie until the fourth day out, when he struck into rolling ground, and in the distance to the north and the west there were tall mountains, dark with forests.
He came to a river, swift and mighty. When he first came to the bank, he was in time to see a drowned tree floating rapidly past and he knew that the stream was not fordable here. He would have to go higher up before it could be passed. So he turned to the left and went on for another two hours until he saw a canoe paddled in the flatter shallows of the stream by two men in frontier costume of deerskin, dark, almost, as Indians, but identified even in the distance by the sunburned paleness of their hair.
Torridon, from behind a great tree, watched them working, their paddles flashing rhythmically, and the wake dotted with small whirlpools where the wooden blades had dipped and pulled. Rapidly they approached. The craft was long and slender, made roughly, but with infinite grace. In the center was a mound, covered with a buffalo robe. A rifle lay at the hand of either paddler, but they seemed to pay no attention to the banks of the stream until—there was a sudden shout. The steersman backed water strongly, and the paddler in the bow shipped his paddle and caught up a long rifle. Lightly he balanced it, and stared straight at the tree that sheltered Torridon.
So alert and keen did the two appear that Torridon felt as though the tree were small protection, indeed. He shouted in haste: “A friend! White man!” And he cautiously exposed himself a little, waving a hand.
The man in the bow nodded. “Come out and show yourself!” he called.
Torridon slowly stepped into view.
“What might you be aiming at?” said the steersman at this.
“Fort Kendry,” said Torridon eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”
The bowsman turned and chuckled and the steersman chuckled as well. They let the canoe drift slowly ahead, the faint wake darkening the water behind them. There was not a sound. Then a fish leaped and splashed heavily, but still the two allowed their craft to float on, paying little heed to Torridon’s question, but staring at him curiously.
“Do you know?” cried Torridon. “Is it many days away?” He followed them along the bank, imploring: “For God’s sake, come to the bank and tell me where I am. I’ve been lost. . . .”
They laughed again. Either they were mad or else they were callous brutes. Then, as they began to dip their paddles once more, the bowsman called over his shoulder: “Go round the next bend!” And they swept on down the shining river.
Torridon, sick at heart, looked after them until his eyes were blinded by the sun path over the water. He had so yearned to be among his kind again, and this was a sample of their greeting.
He went back to Ashur and mounted him with a sigh. He hesitated. It might well be that the proper course was down the stream, and yet he was curious about what might lie around the next bend. He sent Ashur forward at a dog-trot, the mare following leisurely, picking at tempting tufts of grass, here and there. And so, finally, he rounded the broad bend of the stream and through the margin of trees he saw before him a dazzling flash, as though a powerful glass had been focused in his eyes. He rushed on through the trees.
It was the reflection from a windowpane, an
d not a quarter of a mile away he saw the tall rock walls of a little fort, with three small cannon topping the walls—each gun hooded to the muzzle with tarpaulin. Around the knees of those strong bastions were scattered huts, lean-tos, dog tents, Indian lodges.
Fort Kendry!
Torridon clasped his hands together. He was very young. And his sensitive soul had been long and hardly tried. He had been through the long valley of death, as it were, and now he hardly resisted the impulse to weep, but let the hot tears tumble down his face. Sobs rose and choked him. These, out of awe of the forest silence, he kept down.
But no, that silence already was broken. Out of the distance came the brisk and ringing noise of a hammer, rapidly applied, and on the heels of it a dog began to howl—a scream of fear and pain, that died in a succession of rapid yelps.
Torridon sighed again. He almost forgot that this was the happy goal; he almost forgot that beautiful Nancy Brett was somewhere in that collection of tents and houses, or in the solid circumference of the fort itself. Between her and him there existed a thick veil of brutal humanity, and this he must try to brush aside. It seemed to poor Torridon, indeed, that the dog had cried out to say the thing that was in his own soul.
Then stifled laughter came from nearby. He saw two men peering out at him, their faces convulsed with mirth. Brutal, savage faces he thought them, more brutal than the face of any Indian. He gasped at the sight of them, and, as he showed fear, a leering joy gleamed in the eyes of the larger of the pair. He thrust himself out into the trail and laid a hand on the bridle of Torridon’s horse.
“What’re you blubberin’ about?” he asked. “Who are you, and where are you goin’?”
“And where,” asked the second fellow, stepping forward in turn, but keeping a bit to the rear, “did you get them horses? Who give ’em to you?”
“Who’d you steal ’em from, you better ask?” said the first of the worthies. “Get down here on the ground and let me have a look at that horse.”
Torridon shuddered as he heard the command. Many a time a man passed through many perils, through many dark moments, and the cup was dashed from his lips at the very moment when he had won to it.
“D’you hear?” bellowed the first speaker, and laid a hand of iron upon the knee of Torridon. “Down off that horse, or I’ll pick you outten the saddle and throw you in the river, you sneakin’ thief. That’s what you are. I can see it by the coward look of you. Get out of the saddle! Move!”
The miracle had happened to Torridon before, more than once, and, when the supreme moment came mind and forethought vanished. A sheer physical instinct took command. So it did now. Into his hand winked a long, slender, double-barreled pistol, and he thrust the barrels straight into the throat of the other.
“Sufferin’ jack rabbits . . .” began the big man. He paused, mouth agape. His eyes, round and wide, read the face of Torridon as a child reads indecipherable print in a primer.
There was the other, however, to consider. He was circling cat-like to the rear.
“Keep your friend back,” said Torridon, “or I’ll give you one barrel and try the other on him. Tell him to get here behind you, where I can keep an eye on him.”
To his own amazement, the thing was done. Like two awed children they stood before him.
“Now,” said Torridon, wicked pleasure coming to him, “tell me if I am a horse thief?”
The first man, rascal though he might be, had recovered from the first shock. He was able to grin down the pistol barrels. “Son,” he said, “you got the bill of sale right there in your hand. I didn’t see it at first. Matter of fact, I guess you got two bills of sale.”
“Then drop your rifles and back up to the trees,” ordered Torridon.
It was done, in turn. They let the long guns fall—then slowly moved back, watching Torridon cautiously all the time.
“Only, will you mind tellin’ me,” asked one of them, “how you filled your hand? Did you have that gun up your sleeve all the while?”
He said it wistfully, and Torridon could not help smiling. Then, at a touch of his knee, Ashur moved forward. The gray mare cantered beside him. He rounded the next turn among the trees and, glancing back, saw that the pair of ruffians had not moved. He was not overjoyed as he went on, but he had an odd interest in the knowledge that those heavy, trustworthy rifles, even in practiced hands, had proved but clumsy protectors at close range, where speed was of avail.
Then his heart began to lift. No doubt he was riding into a brutal society, but it might be that he would find in himself a sufficient manhood to face the members of it down.
He was entering the town. There were no streets. Between the houses the ways were simply surface soil, beaten to a muddy pie by rain and the cutting of ten thousand hoofs. The horses dislodged one foot at a time, with a loud, popping sound. The pedestrians going here and there wore to a man strong boots, clotted with the mud. And altogether it seemed to Torridon the dreariest little patched and crazy quilt-work village that ever he had seen.
And yet it was Fort Kendry.
A thousand times he had heard that name. It had been ringing through the stories that came in from the frontier. It was one of those last outposts of civilization, hardly civilized itself. Men said that the rapid river that slid past Fort Kendry ate a man a day—and nothing done to the murderers. Still he had some doubt, and, calling to a bearded, little, ratty-looking man, he asked if this were indeed Fort Kendry. The latter, in reply, merely gaped, and then broke into loud laughter and went on his way.
He went farther, until he saw a squaw standing with arms akimbo in the door of a miserable shack. He asked of her in English. She merely stared insolently at him, eying him with contempt, and the two splendid horses with curiosity. He tried her in Cheyenne.
She started convulsively and sprang forward. To the bare ankles she sank in the mud. Yes, this was Fort Kendry. Did he come from the Suhtai? Had he been with them long?
Yes, Roger Lincoln was at the fort. He lived inside the fort itself. Had he known in the Cheyenne tribe a great warrior, Yellow Wolf, who . . . ?
Yes, Samuel Brett was here, and living with his niece in the big, square house just outside the gates of the fort. So she poured out answer and question intermixed. But he did not wait to satisfy her curiosity. He merely waved his hand to her and pressed forward. He was, indeed, too choked by the wild fluttering of his heart to be capable of speech.
XV
He went toward the square house that had been pointed out to him. A big man with a square-cut beard was chopping wood beside the building. His brawny arms were bared to the elbow; the axe flew like a feather in his grasp. There was something deeply familiar to Torridon in the appearance of the stalwart. And he called in a trembling voice to know if this were the house of Samuel Brett.
The other turned, axe poised for a stroke. Slowly he allowed it to sink to the ground as he stared, and then he shouted: “By grab, it’s the thief!”
And dropping the axe, he snatched up a rifle. Resistance was not in the mind of Torridon. In blank terror he whirled the horse and fled, and heard the click of the rifle hammer, followed by no explosion, then the furious growling of the other.
Before him the gate of the fort was wide open—a double gate, in fact, with men leaning on their tall rifles nearby. Through the gate he fled, and drew rein inside, a badly frightened youth. Loud and angry voices demanded the reason for thus pushing into their midst, without leave begged. Stern faces closed around him, and a hand was laid on the bridle rein.
“Roger Lincoln . . .” was all he could stammer. “Is Roger Lincoln here?”
“And what d’you want with Roger Lincoln?” asked one while another exclaimed: “By gravy, it’s Comanche!”
“Comanche, you fool! She’s a half a hand taller’n that gray runt!”
“I tell you, I know her. It’s her. Didn’t I match my pinto ag’in’ her last year? Didn’t she leave him like he was hobbled?”
A crowd of the idle
and curious was gathering, and suddenly, through that crowd, Torridon was aware of a tall man stepping lightly forward, his long hair gleaming over his shoulders, a jacket of the most beautiful, white deerskin setting off his fine torso.
“Roger!” shouted Torridon. “Oh, Roger Lincoln!”
Would he, too, have a rifle and curses with which to greet him? No, no! For Roger Lincoln came with a leap. He took Torridon in those slender, mighty hands of his, lifted him to the ground, and held him at arm’s length, by the shoulders.
“My boy,” said Roger Lincoln softly, “this is the greatest and the happiest and the finest day of my life. Lad, how did you come back to me from the dead?”
They sat in Lincoln’s room in the fort. Fort, indeed, by courtesy, for it was held by a trading company and not by federal troops. Hundreds of miles to the east the formal authority of the government ended. With an armed rabble, the fur company held this outpost; according to the whim of the moment it made its laws. Half hotel and store, and half fortress, it ruled the wild country around it.
They had interchanged stories eagerly. The tale of Roger Lincoln was simplicity itself. Out hunting, and not three miles from his starting place, he had been snatched up by a wandering band of Crows, far from their own hunting grounds. Death and scalping would have been the end of him, had it not chanced that the chief knew Lincoln to be a famous man and decided on accepting a ransom. They proceeded straight to the vicinity of Fort Kendry, and there Roger Lincoln had no difficulty in procuring a score of good horses to pay for his scalp.
That done, he secured the best mount be could find and spent two days in letting the Crows learn that no bargain could be altogether one-sided. He had pursued them, caught two stragglers, sent them to their long account, and returned, eager to get back to the spot where he had left the boy.
But, of course, he found that Torridon was gone. The letter placed on the site of the campfire was gone, also. And after hunting in vain for sign that he could follow, Roger Lincoln had returned to the fort, hoping that his young friend might be able to win through to it, even against heavy odds.