by Max Brand
“By day or night,” said the other, “and with little parties or in great armies whose horses shake the prairies. To steal horses or scalps, we ride most often against the horse-stealing Pawnees.”
“And the Crows?”
“Against the long-haired Crows and the Blackfeet we make fewer expeditions. They are farther away.”
“And the Comanches?”
“Against the Kiowas and the Comanches we ride only in great armies with our best warriors and our best horses.”
“Good! And do we never take small parties against them? Do not the young men of the Cheyennes ride out in small numbers to take the warpath against the Comanches?”
“No,” said Yellow Wolf, “because the horses of the Comanches are the fastest horses in the world, and they are the best riders. And if a small number of warriors rode far off to the land of the Comanches, might they not quickly be overtaken by the thousands of fast-riding Comanches or the Kiowas, who are their allies? So we ride against the Comanches only in armies. And we would be willing to have those terrible fighters for our friends, if it could be managed.”
Thunder Moon said finally: “There would be honor for the young men who rode out against the Comanches — would there not? — rode out in a small number, and journeyed far off into the land of the Comanches, and came back with their scalps?”
“Honor?” said Yellow Wolf, and he shuddered. “Yes, and death also! Because the Comanches have horses which would overtake our best ponies in a day’s running.”
“Listen to me,” said Thunder Moon. “I have chosen the five bravest men among the Cheyennes, and I am going to lead them south and west against the Comanches. Which of you will be afraid to go?”
There was a deathly silence, and each youth looked straight before him.
“Tomorrow,” went on Thunder Moon, “I make sacrifice to the medicine arrows; and after that, at the rising of the moon, I shall wait for you here by the river. For each of the five who has a heart for this warpath there will be two fine running horses. Now let us go home and speak to no man. Let us tell no one where we go, except that we are riding south, and hope to find Pawnees first.”
All of these latter speeches were made to a silent audience; and when the six walked back across the moon-whitened prairie, not a word was spoken, except a murmured adieu when they reached the circle of the outer lodges.
Thunder Moon went on to his own tepee with a cloud over his mind. He had had no doubt of these men, before this time. He had not dreamed that they could possibly fail him. But the reputation of the Comanches stood very, very high, at this time. Small parties of the Cheyennes which had in recent years ventured against the wild riders of the southwestern deserts, had all been wiped out to a man, and only a desert-born rumor had swept back to tell their kinsfolk what had come to them. For that very reason, it had seemed to Thunder Moon that the one great feat which was worth performing would be an expedition against these same famous Comanches, with only a few companions, as he had expressed it, to share the glory.
But the silence in which his final proposal had been received was a severe check to him. He went back toward the lodge feeling that he would have to make the expedition alone. Make it he must, for he had announced his intention of sacrificing to the medicine arrows. But to voyage forth alone on the prairies on a journey of such a length seemed to him madness. For such work he needed the keenest of eyes for the trail, the keenest of wits to read every sign of the changing weather, the keenest of trail sense to know in what direction to ride, and always to keep in mind the clearest picture of the way. Such wits, he knew, were possessed by Yellow Wolf and by Young Hawk, at least, and perhaps by others of these selected men. Them he might trust to bring him into the vicinity of the enemy, and once there, he would be capable of leading them to the attack with credit. Only, for the crossing of the great inland sea, he knew that he was most inefficient. For in that direction his talents did not lie.
So the gloom in which he reached his foster father’s tepee was very deep, and it was increased by the scene that met him on his arrival there. For he found Big Hard Face and White Crow waiting for him, with darkened, unhappy faces; and the cause of their gloom stood with folded arms near the fire. It was White Rain, the great medicine man!
Chapter Twenty-one
IT WAS PLAIN that the medicine man had been in the midst of a long harangue. His nostrils still were expanded, and his headdress, which was the mask of a great grinning wolf, quivered with the fury of his last utterances. Yes, it seemed to the youthful warrior whose entrance had stopped the speech, that the very echo of the voice of the man of mystery still hung thick in the air.
White Rain concluded tersely: “Here is the man. Let him know what I have said. For all shall be fulfilled as I have spoken!”
He swept his robe about him and prepared to leave, but as he strode out, Thunder Moon said to his foster father: “I shall accompany White Rain to his lodge and return at once.”
“Do so,” muttered Big Hard Face, “and with all respect. For he sees that the anger of the Sky People already hangs heavily above you, my son! Speak to him gently. Here — there is our newest rifle — give it to him from your own hand.”
But Thunder Moon, as though he had not heard this last speech, turned and hastened from the tepee and his light step instantly carried him to the side of the striding man of mystery. He plucked the robe of White Rain, but the latter continued on his way, unheeding. He plucked again, and White Rain answered in a sepulchral tone: “Let no man speak to me! A vision from the Sky People is even now walking across my eyes!”
They were between two lodges, so that they had entered a deep shadow, and sheltered from observation by that darkness, the iron hand of Thunder Moon gripped the shoulder of the medicine man and whirled him about.
The latter was a man of professional dignity and of professional craft. He ruled by wisdom and trickery rather than outright force, but still he had ridden many a time on the warpath, and his hand on the war bow was as much to be dreaded as any man’s. Now, as he was whirled about, he lunged straight at the throat of the younger man with the dull glint of a knife in his hand.
For all the speed of that darting arm, it was seized at the wrist. Fingers with the contracting force of shrinking steel sank into the cords. A twisting pressure ground the flesh of the arm against the bones, and the knife dropped from the nerveless hand of White Rain.
But though disarmed, the medicine man did not wince; for he knew that, except for an offense which the eyes of half the nation had witnessed, no man would dare to strike the official wizard of the tribe with a deadly weapon. And the darkness had covered his thrust at the throat of the sneering youth.
“You have seen a vision from the Sky People, have you not?” said Thunder Moon. “A dark vision, then, my friend!”
And he pointed to the sky, where the dark clouds had suddenly been rolled across the heavens by a changing wind. Behind them, the moon sailed up the long arch of the sky like a ship through a troubled sea.
“Go home, young man,” said the wizard. “Go home, and listen to the words which are waiting for you there. As for me, I only know that the gods are waiting in thirst for the blood of Thunder Moon to cover the earth!”
“Liar!” said the youth. “When you speak to me, speak as to your elder, White Rain. For I know the truth of many things which you only pretend to know. This very night I have raised my hands and turned the moon into a white fire. Its roundness was lost, because I spoke to it and it wished to give me a sign. Moreover, the Sky People are my friends. Even now, they have stopped the hand of White Rain on its way to my throat!”
The medicine man, rather unnerved by this speech, snarled like a baffled dog, but he could not help casting a covert glance over his shoulder at the sailing moon in the sky.
“The Sky People,” said White Rain, “keep you for a worse death. In the southland Comanches have sharpened their knives for your scalp. They have asked the Yellow Man to give them your
life, and he has promised. This I know. For this reason I have spoken in your father’s lodge today. For the Yellow Man is the greatest of all spirits, next to those of the Cheyennes. He has made the Comanches great. Cannot he easily give them your scalp, also?”
“You have crossed me many times,” said Thunder Moon. “But I am a tall wolf, and I pay no heed when a sneaking coyote flies across my way. However, my patience is ending. Once before, when you carried your lies to White Crow, I told you what I would do if you bothered me again. As for your magic, it is good to make rain, but for nothing else. It raises a little wind in summer, but never a storm. I despise you, White Rain, because I understand the ways of the Sky People. To me they speak, and to you they never will!” He paused, because at that instant there was a long roll of thunder out of the east. “Listen!” said Thunder Moon, “it is the echo of my voice in the sky!”
White Rain, utterly overwhelmed by this minor miracle, could not help shrinking before the tall form of the young man, and, as he shrank, the other said sternly: “This time again I shall have mercy on you, but see that you go tomorrow and tell them that you have asked the Sky People again, and that they have had only good messages this time. This is to help you to remember!”
And with the full strength of an ample hand, he laid his staff twice and again on the shoulders of the medicine man.
White Rain moaned with rage and with pain, but he fled from the shower without attempting to strike back, while Thunder Moon turned and walked lightly back to the lodge of his father. On the way, the first of a thunder shower began to fall, and before entering the tepee, he stood a moment and raised his face to the sky, and laughed as the little stinging drops hit his face.
“That is the magic of White Rain!” he laughed.
He went into the lodge. He found that the two were waiting there in unabated gloom, and Big Hard Face at once broke into excited speech. It seemed that the medicine man had told them with much emotion that he had news from the Sky People that their son was about to ride away on a distant expedition, and that all would be lost to him, unless he postponed his departure for a fortnight and paid ample sacrifices to the gods.
Thunder Moon listened with a nodding head.
“He knows that I am going on a distant expedition. But does he know against what tribe?”
“That he did not say.”
“He has heard only a rumor in the camp, then. This day I went to see Lame Eagle, as you know. However, I walked with White Rain to his tepee. He said that he felt the Sky People were changing their minds, and that their answer would be favorable in the morning when he consulted them again. Have no fear. All is well, and he smiled as I left him!” And Thunder Moon, thinking of the grimace which he had last seen on the face of the wizard, could not help laughing aloud.
And as Big Hard Face studied him, that grim old warrior finally remarked: “The ways of the young are not as the ways of the old. This would have cost any young Cheyenne his scalp in the next battle, when I was first hunting coups. But now all is different. Perhaps you are right to laugh at White Rain.”
“Ha!” gasped White Crow. “What do you say?”
“Sit with me by the door of the lodge,” said Thunder Moon to his father, turning his back upon the squaw. “I wish to have quiet words with you. And silence the woman, and let her sleep while we talk!”
Big Hard Face merely grunted to his ancient aunt: “You have heard a man speak!” And he also turned his back on her.
They sat at the entrance to the lodge, deaf to the mumblings of the old squaw, while Thunder Moon said: “Father, I am about to ride where war parties of the Cheyennes have never ridden before and returned with scalps and safety! I shall need twelve horses so swift that no other horses on the prairie can compare with them!”
“It is done!” cried the warrior instantly. “They stand waiting for you in my herd with the boy watching them as they graze apart from the short-legged ponies of the tribe. Choose twelve of them.”
“Sunset!” said the youngster with satisfaction, “and eleven others. The worst of the herd will be better than the best of the other horses on the plains!”
“Yes,” said his foster father with quiet satisfaction. “The worst will be better than the best that the other tribes can find!”
“That is finished, then.”
With no words of thanks for the generosity of his father, he hurried on to the next detail:
“How many good rifles have we?”
“Three,” said the father.
“I need two for each warrior. I need twelve rifles; for the path is long to the scalps which I intend to take, and the way back is longer still, perhaps. Where shall I find nine new rifles and plenty of ammunition?”
The father pondered. “There are not that many rifles in the tribe — of the kind that you want! Take older guns. I will give you robes to exchange for them!”
“I know! I know!” said Thunder Moon. “I have seen the other guns. The insides of them are red with rust. They kill the man that shoots them more often than the man they are aimed at. The bullets they fire fly wide of the mark. Arrows are quicker and better. No, I shall have to have new guns! New guns! I must have them!”
He struck his hands together and glanced at Big Hard Face in a fury of impatience; but the latter smiled and half closed his eyes.
“Good!” said he. “I have told you my mind. Do now as your wits tell you. I cannot say any more. Besides, I am sleepy!”
And he went back into the lodge to his bed.
But his son remained with his knees hugged in his mighty arms and his head bent far back, watching the stars, as they swirled in and out of view through the rifts in the clouds. Where should he find guns? Where should he find guns?
Chapter Twenty-two
YES, AS HE had said to his father, he did not want the old guns such as could be found in the village. He and his father knew that the rifle must be fed oil or grease, as a horse must be fed grass. But the rest did not seem to understand. They were more apt to worship their firearms than to take care of them. A rifle was medicine in every Cheyenne lodge except that of Big Hard Face.
Thunder Moon had thrown away one peerless rifle as a mighty sacrifice to the moon. On account of that sacrifice, he was reasonably sure of some success on this expedition, but he believed in helping himself. And good new rifles he would and must have. Where should he get them?
If one wanted good furs, one traded with the Blackfeet from the mountains, and they in turn brought them down from the distant Ojibways, who lived in the frozen north, or from the Blood Indians, or the Crees. And if one wanted colored pottery, or beautiful blankets, one traded with the Kiowas or Comanches, who had them in turn from the stately Navajos. So it was with all things. One went to the source where they were provided, and took what one wished.
But guns came from the palefaces. And there were no traders expected for many a moon. Even then, the guns which they carried were often very poor ones. This year there had been none which caught the fancy of Big Hard Face or his discriminating foster son.
However, the traders themselves brought in the guns from more distant Eastern cities where the white men lived in numbers which some people said were as great as the herds of buffalo which blackened the prairies for miles at a time. Not that Thunder Moon believed the wild tales he heard about the palefaces. He knew, as any wise Indian knew, that the Cheyennes were the greatest people in the world. However, the palefaces were clever in the production of weapons. They knew how to make heads for arrows, knives, lance points, and above all, guns big and little!
Straightway Thunder Moon determined that he would direct his course eastward, first of all. He and his men would take the rifles that they needed, either by trading in buffalo robes which Thunder Moon would carry with him, or else by theft, or, best of all, by superior force of craft and of hand.
With that determination, which was eventually to have so much influence upon the course of his life, he went to his bed, turned on his
side, and was instantly asleep.
The next day he rose, bathed in the river, and straightway started to perform the sacrifice to the medicine arrows which would assure still better fortune to this expedition. As he went slowly to the arrow lodge, he saw the people looking strangely upon him; and he knew that the rumor was abroad that he was about to attempt some great thing. The little boys, particularly, followed at his heels, half delighted, half sorrowful. For they worshiped him with a constant affection.
Thunder Moon, as he tied the gift of eagle’s tail feathers to the sacred bundle of arrows, spoke as follows:
“Oh, arrows,” he said, “grant me one thing: Let me have good rifles for myself and for my friends. This is the only thing that I ask of you. Consider the eagle feathers. Each of them is stiff and new. They are not frayed, and the edges of the feathers are not turned up, and they would steer you straight through the air even at a distant target, without failing. Therefore, give me the guns which I yearn for — good, straight-shooting guns, with a gleam of oil inside the belly of the rifle, to show that they have been well kept, and that the red devil, rust, has not eaten them!” Such was the prayer of Thunder Moon.
Then he went back to his father’s lodge, ate a huge meal, and went to sleep. He slept soundly until the evening of the day, in spite of all of the noises of the camp; and when at last he stood up, he felt that his nerves were calm, and that his heart was eager.
In the dark of the late evening, he bade Big Hard Face and White Crow farewell. He went past the tepee of Lame Eagle, and bade him farewell, also. Then he turned out of the camp and went among the horses.
The boy who served Big Hard Face had already segregated the twelve chosen horses, with Sunset at their head. The saddles were ready for two of them, two more were loaded down with robes, to be used for trade, if necessary, and two more were burdened with dried meat.