by Max Brand
“And what if they ask me to explain?” said the warrior.
“Tell them how he scattered twenty Pawnees like twenty sick dogs,” said the other. “That is enough explaining. Only go, quickly.”
So, with that word, the messenger took his horse and disappeared across the plains, while the rest of the party voyaged more slowly after him.
But when they came in sight of the city, the heart of Thunder Moon failed him, and he stopped Sunset.
“I cannot face them, Running Wolf,” he said. “They have heard me scream like a child when I saw the knife. They saw me fall to the ground. How shall I be able to look into their eyes?”
“Do you not understand?” said Running Wolf with some fervor. “The Great Spirit knew that at this time I should be traveling across the land. He saw in the future how the Pawnees would hunt me, and how the arrow would wound my horse. He knew that there was only one Cheyenne who could save me. And if you, Thunder Moon, had been in your father’s tepee, caring for your wounded breast, I should have been lost! So he devised it all. He shamed you before the people, so that he could make you glorious, afterward. Tell me, Thunder Moon, is there any other way of explaining these things? Tell me, when you stood on the hill and faced the sun, did you not feel the hand of Tarawa making you weak as a woman?”
Weak, indeed, Thunder Moon had felt, but he could not attribute it to Tarawa and the rest of the Sky People. He knew that if he faced the knife again the same weakness would come upon him, and that there was something lacking in him which all the rest of the tribe possessed. He could not despise pain as they did.
He had no chance to turn the matter over in his mind, however. For here was Running Wolf riding beside him, his hand on the shoulder of Thunder Moon, when a rout of men and boys and girls, riding their fastest ponies, swept out from the village and tore across the plains toward them.
Thunder Moon would gladly have turned rein and fled at full speed, but he could not leave that kindly hand of the warrior. And before he could think again, a screaming horde of excited people had broken around the war party like rapid waves rushing around a rock. The noise deafened and almost blinded Thunder Moon. He saw Running Wolf hold up the captured scalps and the medicine bag, and he heard a scream of joy from the multitude.
For in the medicine bag was something even more important than the scalp of the great Pawnee. There was literally his soul, which could never depart in happiness to the far Hunting Grounds, to ride across the pleasant blue fields and course after the phantoms of the buffalo which had died on earth. And if that medicine bag were destroyed, the soul of Three Feathers would be destroyed also, and wander, forever, without rest.
No wonder that the Cheyennes yelled with joy; for too many of their families had lost members when Three Feathers took the warpath.
The pandemonium grew. The whole rout pressed slowly on toward the town, and then the whirling mob divided a little, and before the eyes of Thunder Moon appeared the most dignified figure of the tribe — Lame Eagle in person, riding upon a magnificent black stallion, and dressed in his full regalia as a chief.
“He has come to forbid me to enter the city except on foot, like the dog that I proved myself to be on the hill when I faced the sun!” thought Thunder Moon.
He would have checked his horse, but he was suddenly too numb of brain and body to make a movement. And now Lame Eagle was just before him. He raised his hand. Silence swept over the multitude, except for the snorting and the trampling of the horses.
“Running Wolf,” cried the chief, “you are welcome to me because you have come back with glory, after making fools of the Pawnees; but better than that, you have found us a new warrior. He shall be the greatest among his people. The Blackfeet and the Crows, the Comanches and the Pawnees, shall sleep lighter than wolves because they know, now, that we have with us Thunder Moon.”
He said more than this, but a delicious mist of happiness pervaded the soul of Thunder Moon, and he could not hear the rest.
He hardly knew what was happening; but presently they all moved slowly forward toward the village, and the noise recommenced and reached a vast crescendo as they reached the outskirts of the village, where the dogs joined in with their barking and howling.
“Let us go first to the lodge of Little Beaver,” said Thunder Moon to Running Wolf.
“Go wherever you will. Every lodge in the nation is open to a great warrior,” said Running Wolf, who had been worked up into a frenzy of joy by this huge reception.
So they turned aside and reached the tall lodge of Little Beaver.
That chief, barely returned from the hunt, was in the act of springing into his saddle again, when he saw the procession come toward him.
Thunder Moon jumped hastily down, and taking Sunset by the bridle, he led the stallion hastily forward. It was impossible for his anxious eyes to read the face of Little Beaver. Time and ferocity had so marred the features of that warrior that no human expression could possibly work its way to the surface. But before him Thunder Moon stopped and extended the lead rope.
“Tarawa told me to borrow this horse from you, Little Beaver,” he said, to cover up his theft in the best possible manner. “He needed to send me far away on a fast horse, and so he told me to borrow this one. Now I have brought him back to you. Look at him and make sure that he is not lame and his wind is still good. And there is your saddle, also, on his back!”
Little Beaver jumped in turn to the ground. He seized the lead rope, and glanced hastily over the big horse.
“It is true,” said he, “that the Sky People have given you this horse; and therefore what am I, to take him from you? Take him again, and the saddle on him, and only remember to pray that Tarawa may look on my son with favor and make him as brave and as successful as Thunder Moon!”
He replaced the lead rope in the hand of Thunder Moon, and the latter climbed back into the saddle in a daze of joy. He had not dreamed that the thing could turn out in this manner. But here he was, restored to more than good standing in the tribe, and the stolen horse given to him freely!
He looked anxiously at Lame Eagle.
“Is it right?” he asked.
Lame Eagle smiled.
“It is right, friend,” said the war leader. “The gods have given you that horse. You will have more and more glory riding him. And if Little Beaver tried to take him back, he would stumble and throw Little Beaver over his head. I have seen such things happen! Be sure that Little Beaver would rather point a gun at his own head than to ride that horse after you have made it yours!”
And they turned, with the whole procession, into the heart of the village.
Chapter Thirteen
THEY WENT FIRST of all, as though by mutual consent, straight toward the tepee of Big Hard Face; and that famous fighter they found standing in front of his lodge. It was no longer the lodge which Thunder Moon knew. That tepee had been a huge and handsome one, covered with fine paintings of buffalo, and hunting and battle scenes; but this new tepee was a ruinous old affair. At the very first glance at it, Thunder Moon knew what had happened. At the same time that Big Hard Face had given away all his splendid horses, which were the apple of his eye, he had also given away all of his other possessions. Even the lodge which sheltered him had been made a present to some friend; and now the house of Big Hard Face was simply a battered and patched and staggering old wreck of a leather tent, hardly large enough to shelter two dogs, let alone two people.
The buffalo robe in which the celebrated warrior was wrapped, was a mere flea-bitten rag of leather of which even a boy might have been ashamed. There was no rifle in his hand, but only an old war bow, greased up, and put into service.
At the very first glance, Thunder Moon understood that Big Hard Face felt that the disgrace of his son had been the result of the judgment of the gods, and that to propitiate those mighty powers he had straightway given away all that he possessed and reduced his wigwam to an empty shell. He had undone all of his lifework, and the life
work of White Crow, also. Such a vast sacrifice choked the throat of Thunder Moon, you may be sure.
All of the possessions of that warrior of the terrible face, were not worth the price of the rifle which Thunder Moon carried in his hand! For all of that, it seemed to him that Big Hard Face, in the midst of wealth and envied by all the other Cheyennes, had never been half so noble as he was now, in the midst of his poverty.
There was no need for Lame Eagle to say:
“Behold your father, Thunder Moon! See what he has done! Out of the greatness of his grief for you, he has given away everything. He has given away such a wealth in horses as no Cheyenne ever possessed before. He has made himself poorer than the poorest Cheyenne, to see if such a sacrifice would change the minds of the Sky People and make them good to you. Tarawa did change his mind. He sent you glory and courage and strength such as no Cheyenne boy ever before showed in battle!”
Lame Eagle went a little before. He led the great charger, Sunset, with one hand; with the other, he led Thunder Moon. Behind him came Running Wolf, leading the Pawnee horse; and the other warriors of the party followed, and all the other inhabitants of the village pressed up behind them.
Lame Eagle knew exactly what gracious words to say at a time like this, to make happiness more perfect. He said in his strong, and deep, and gentle voice, which penetrated into the soul of Thunder Moon and remained there forever:
“Oh, men of the Cheyennes, look well and remember this! Here is a father who would lay down his life for his son, and who first laid down all his possessions. The Sky People saw, and relented. They saw the good that was in the heart of Big Hard Face, and they saw the sorrow that was in the heart of Thunder Moon. They made that young warrior suddenly great. They made his eye like the eye of an eagle. They made his hand like the hand of two men. He went from us, he took a swift horse, he journeyed all alone across the prairie.
“There was no one to guide him! There was no old friend to advise him. Who was there to say to Thunder Moon: this is the best trail, or this way leads to the water hole? No, there was no one.
“But he was not afraid. He went forth all alone, and he laughed at the prairies and called them his friend, because the prayers of Big Hard Face were working for him.
“Then, because he had the eye of an eagle, he saw a great distance off, that many Pawnees followed five warriors of our people.
“There were many, many Pawnees. They were like a herd of buffalo, thundering across the prairie. Their feathers sang in the wind. Their horses ran like running fire. Nothing could stand up before them.
“But Thunder Moon was not afraid.
“He stood up and made his great horse stand up. He took his rifle. He would not aim at the little men. He aimed at the greatest man in that band of Pawnees. That was a famous warrior. Twenty times we have heard his name, and it has always been at the head of a war party; twenty times Cheyenne women have wailed and children have wept because of Three Feathers; but the bullet of Thunder Moon went through the heart of the chief!”
There was a wild yell of exultation from the tribesmen, and they leaned forward and followed the narrative of their chief as though they were hearing the story for the first time.
“Yet that was not enough!” cried Lame Eagle, losing his calm dignity in the excitement of his speech. “There were many Pawnees like a herd of buffalo. They had lost only one man. They had only to run a little farther and they would trample down one of the greatest of our braves, a famous man, a man who has taken many scalps, a man who is a boast and a pride to the Cheyenne nation — that man was Running Wolf!”
Running Wolf straightened and folded his arms — not in vainglorious pride, though to be so praised by the war chief was a thing to be recounted to generations of descendants — but, rather, to show that he was the man spoken of, to let all see his face and the resolution which was printed upon it.
“The horse of Running Wolf died with every stride it made. And Thunder Moon saw.
“He was a young warrior. Some would have said that he was still a boy.
“He had done enough. He had done more than most of us accomplish in a long life, with that skillful shot. Still he was not satisfied. His heart was great. There was a god in him. He called to his horse, and the horse leaped forward. He yelled his battle cry, and the sound of it drove like a knife through the heart of every Pawnee. They saw him coming. They were filled with terror. They turned to the right hand and to the left — all except one man.
“For there was one man who did not have fear. He was a famous man among his people. Spotted Antelope was his name. Where he rode, many Pawnees would always follow. He was rich with the plunder of his enemies. He did not know what fear was, even when he saw Thunder Moon rushing down upon the battle!”
Thunder Moon had hardly heard the beginning of this narrative, so great had been his grief, and his joy, and his pity, at the sight of his foster father. He had studied the face of Big Hard Face, and he had seen not a trace of emotion upon that battered mask of humanity.
But now the story, which Lame Eagle told, stirred the heart of Big Hard Face and set his eyes to burning, and the heart of Thunder Moon was set on fire, also. Never had there been, since the beginning of the world, words of such sweetness as those which he spoke in praise of Thunder Moon.
The pick of the Cheyennes stood about to listen. The hearts of the young men were filled with wonder and envy, and the little children who had once scorned Thunder Moon, now wished only to be praised like this — and die!
No wonder that the spirit of Thunder Moon took wings and soared in his triumph, as Lame Eagle continued in a ringing voice:
“So Spotted Antelope remembered all his greatness and his strength. And he saw that this Cheyenne who came upon him was young, though he advanced to the battle like flame running on the prairie.
“Spotted Antelope turned his horse. He thought to gain for himself great glory, and to be remembered for avenging the death of his chief, Three Feathers; and he hoped that he would hear all the Pawnees praising him for this deed.
“He rushed to meet Thunder Moon. He raised his rifle. But Thunder Moon shouted, and the noise of his voice smote the ears and the heart of Spotted Antelope. He sat like a dead man in the saddle. He could not move. Then the bullet tore through his heart and he fell down to the earth; and darkness closed over all his war trails, and his battles, and his fame, and his strength. At that moment, the grief of the Pawnees began to rise from the earth like a cloud of dust, blackening the face of the sun.
“But Thunder Moon swept on. He took the finest horse among the Pawnees. He gave it to Running Wolf. Thus he saved the great chief from death, and brought him safely back from the battle, and gave him again to us — together with the soul of Three Feathers!”
He pointed. Running Wolf raised the medicine bag. The screech of the Cheyennes smote the heart of the hollow sky.
“Be glad, Big Hard Face!” cried Lame Eagle. “You gave away much; but now it is all sent back to you!”
He pushed Thunder Moon forward, and the boy rushed into the arms of his father.
He could not help it. His heart was breaking with joy. He trembled. His face was convulsed and the tears would come.
Suddenly the ample folds of the old cloak were cast around him, and he was gathered against the breast of Big Hard Face, and he heard his foster father saying:
“Peace, dear son. Do not let them hear. Let only your father hear. Because he understands. You are not as others. But you were made by Tarawa to gladden the heart of Tarawa.”
Chapter Fourteen
LAME EAGLE, THE instant he saw the buffalo robe folded about both of those figures, turned about to face the tribesmen and lifted both hands. He did not need to give an order. All understood, and like shadows they melted silently away.
There was something worth marking in the bearing of all of these people. The old men walked with smiles, nodding as though this scene had freshened in their minds memories of the glories of their y
outh and of their race. The strong warriors in the prime of life went off with eyes on fire, because they had never before heard such words from the lips of Lame Eagle. The young men were so many impatient tigers; some day they, too, would be praised like this. Was not such praise worth death, itself?
But the women wept, and embraced one another; and, as they went slowly away, they whispered:
“Have there not been fools among the Cheyenne women, that none of us would marry Big Hard Face and be the mother of such a son as that?”
The medicine man heard, and said:
“No woman was the mother of that boy. Tarawa set him upon the earth. Go ask of Big Hard Face how he found him in the first place, lying naked on the ground!”
So another link was forged in the chain of the legend of Thunder Moon.
In the meantime, Thunder Moon was led slowly into the tepee of his foster father. They walked like two blind men, until White Crow ran out, with tears flowing fast down her face, and seized upon them, and brought them into the lodge.
There she seated them, and they looked on each other with smiles of love and sympathy, each understanding, in this moment, things of which he had never dreamed before. In the meantime, White Crow, with trembling hands, served them with food from the pot of buffalo meat which simmered over the fire.
After a time, as the untasted food lay before them in horn bowls, a voice spoke before the tepee, and White Crow drew back the flap.
“The men of the Cheyennes have gathered around the fire,” said the deep-throated voice of a warrior. “There are Running Wolf and all his followers. They wait to have the dance begin. The drum is already sounding. You may hear it!”
In fact, the rapid, throbbing beat of the drum came like a hurrying pulse across the air, bearing with it vague excitement.
“Tell Lame Eagle,” said Big Hard Face, “that we stay in our lodge and open our hearts to Tarawa. My son will not dance. He is tired with glory. He will rest, and give thanks to the Sky People!”