Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  A smooth-faced young sprig of a lieutenant with a soft Southern drawl remarked: “No wonder that she beat Larned’s horse. She’ll beat him again, most likely. She’s a queer-looking one — but thoroughbred, every inch of her! I’d like to know whose scalp was lifted before she passed into Cheyenne hands! What’s the record of this buck?”

  No one knew. They had never seen this brave before. But they could be sure, though they knew it not, that they would see him again.

  “It’s finished,” said Jeff Larned, bringing the guns out again. “Here’s a loaded revolver for you, Cheyenne. It’ll speak with six tongues for you, just the same as it did for me. You raise the hammer with the thumb of your hand; you aim by pointing; and you fire.”

  The gun was taken. The crowd scattered back. The Colt exploded, and by the grace of purest accident, another round hole appeared in the sign of the blacksmith across the street. Thunder Moon could not help a grave exclamation. He saw himself raised at a stroke to the eminent rank of the most feared and famous brave among the Cheyennes.

  “Are you ready again?” asked Thunder Moon.

  “One minute,” said the storekeeper. “The horse is ready. Hey, Sammy! Come here!”

  A withered youngster of fifteen came hastily forward, grinning with a guilty self-consciousness of the part which he was about to play. He was thrown up into the saddle by Larned, and the latter stepped back with a broader grin than had yet appeared on his face, that day.

  “Now, Cheyenne,” said he, “we’re ready for the second race!”

  “Hello, Larned! That’s a raw trick!” exclaimed the young lieutenant from the South, who was new on the border and still new to its ways and its men.

  “Leave me and my tricks be!” exclaimed Larned. “I told him that I’d race Jester against his mare, again. I didn’t say that I’d be in the saddle once more! Cheyenne, you ride, or you give up your loot, and the mare that goes with it!”

  And as he spoke, he was fortified by a grim chuckle from the crowd. Certainly this was sharp practice, but it was sharp practice at the expense of an Indian, and among the frontiersmen, the red man was looked upon as a sort of hybrid species — a little above the snake and a good deal below the wolf.

  An ounce of lead through the brain was the best medicine for any redskin was the universal belief along the border. Thunder Moon, looking helplessly around the circle, felt that there would be no champions for his cause. And if he attempted to resist the wiles of this brutal white man — he already saw the strong hand of the latter gripping the little revolver in his hip pocket! That would settle all arguments with one swift word. The rifle of Thunder Moon was far away with his saddle, on the ground; so, gloomily, he swung onto the back of the mare. He had little hope of winning. Even The Minnow, strong and swift as she was, could hardly give a hundred pounds to such a horse as Jester and win from him!

  But he turned her head toward the gates, and in his heart, there swelled the first wave of profound, black hatred of the white man, and all of his ways. Scalps? Yes, he would take them willingly, if they could come from the heads of white men!

  “It’ll teach the Cheyennes that here in Fort Brown we’ve got brains,” chuckled Jeff Larned. “Hey, clear the path! Get the race started!”

  In an instant all was ready; the handkerchief dropped and away went the mare as before. Once more she gained the advantage at the start, but even more decisively, this time. She was a full length away, before the weak hands of the boy rider could urge Jester to full speed; and she increased that advantage, whipping instantly into full stride. With every trick of the rider’s trade, Thunder Moon urged her forward toward the gates.

  But now it was a different story; for there on the ground beside him, the shadow of Jester’s head was creeping evenly and smoothly up with him. That handsome head gained, reached his side, the shoulder of the mare — and here were the gates!

  Swinging the mare with a touch of his knee, Thunder Moon hurled his whole weight to the inside of the half circle in which she turned — threw himself with a jerk, and catching the ridge of her back with an expert heel; and the clever trick snapped her around like the lash of a whip. She was away toward the goal once more, with Thunder Moon slipping back into his place and driving her forward with rapid, eager words at her ear, for he had actual hope of winning, now. The turn had cost Jester two lengths. He was laboring hard as he straightened for the finish. But could he make up the distance in this short stretch?

  There at the finish, men were frozen to silence by the greatness of their excitement; and Thunder Moon saw Jeff Larned standing half crouched, with arms held forward, like one about to leap into a death grapple.

  Behind Thunder Moon came the shadow of the Jester. At every stride the beautiful gelding gained with a terrible certainty. But the line drew nearer. Past Thunder Moon went Jester’s head, past the shoulder of The Minnow, and then along her neck. As they came head and head, the line was crossed!

  Who had won? One clearly ringing voice proclaimed the truth:

  “The Indian collects on this race!”

  It was the young lieutenant from the South.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  IN THE WILD confusion of voices that followed Thunder Moon as he went across the line, he distinguished the tall Indian who had been looking on before. Now, as Thunder Moon drew up The Minnow, while Jester flashed on ahead, this Indian said calmly but sharply:

  “You have won, Cheyenne. But you will never take the prize home with you! Here are too many little guns and big ones!”

  Thunder Moon turned anxiously back toward the start, and there he came upon the burly form of Jeff Larned heaping together all of the loot for which the race had been run.

  “Take it back!” he was saying to his assistants. “This here was a dead heat. It was a draw. Nobody won the race, and it’s got to be run over again!”

  He turned to Thunder Moon and repeated those words harshly in Sioux, but the latter shook his head. By trickery and the most clever riding, and by taking advantage of every chance of the race, he had managed to bring The Minnow home a winner, the first time, but he knew perfectly well that he would not be able to succeed a second time. He had won. Therefore there was no need of a second running.

  So he said, gravely and slowly, remembering the manner of Lame Eagle in a crisis. For that great chieftain always floated before the eyes of Thunder Moon as an ideal, often unattainable but always to be imitated as closely as possible. So now, while the hot blood surged up and set his temples aching with the violence of its pulsation, he controlled himself with a severe effort. The voice of Lame Eagle had never been known to grow sharp or high or overloud except when he cheered on wavering warriors to the battle charge.

  “I have won,” said Thunder Moon. “It was said by the men who stood at the finish. I have won. Why should I race again?”

  “Who says that you won?” roared Jeff Larned, glaring around him, and with his right hand gripping the revolver in his hip pocket again.

  His glance roved over many a brave face and many a stern one, passing across that crowd, but there was not one who cared to stand up for his convictions against this known man-killer and expert duelist. Only one slender youth, quietly, almost carelessly, answered:

  “I was standing exactly at the finish line. I know that the mare had her nose, and more, in front as she went across!”

  “You know!” yelled Lamed, lashing himself easily into a fury. “You know! And who might you be? And who made you a judge? And if you made yourself the boss here, I’ll unmake you!”

  Thunder Moon looked in bewilderment at the young, dark-faced fellow. The words he could not understand, but the manner was unmistakable. Here was a man who was maintaining the right of The Minnow in this hostile atmosphere — a man he had never seen before and might never see again.

  It was very strange. Perhaps even among the palefaces there were a few equipped with the indomitable nobility of Lame Eagle. For now the slip of a lieutenant was saying:


  “Larned, you must not speak to me or any other man in this fashion. It won’t do!”

  “You say it won’t do!” raged Larned. “I say that it will do. It’s got to do. I’m here to make it do! You and your family behind you are a bunch of swine and hounds. I’m telling you that!”

  “I’ll give you while I count to ten,” said the youth, “to unsay that, Larned!”

  “Ten? Not while you count a hundred!”

  Thunder Moon needed no explanation. There was to be a fight. The form of the soldier had become stiff and straight. His face was gray. But he did not falter. Plainly, he knew that he had no chance against the trained gun of the storekeeper, but still he would not flinch from his duty.

  However, even a white man must not fight the quarrels of Thunder Moon.

  One long, gliding step placed him between the two.

  “Speak to me,” said he.

  He had folded his arms, and perhaps that was what tempted Larned to use his hands instead of his gun. Besides, his hands were his favorite weapons. Guns and knives were delightful, to be sure; but there was infinitely more satisfaction in laying a man low with a pile-driver punch, and then grappling him, and breaking him.

  He smote from the hip up, leaving the gun behind. But his punch clove the air. Thunder Moon had wavered back just the proper distance to escape a blow attempted without warning, and before the other fist of the storekeeper could be whipped across to the head, Thunder Moon was in close and fixing his grip.

  He had wrestled all his life, with the sturdy Indian lads of the Cheyenne village. He had learned lightning speed from them, but he had a natural power of hand and arm which no Cheyenne could ever have possessed.

  Now, under his fingers, he felt such swelling, surging muscles as he never touched before. However, a wrench, a twist — and the storekeeper fell with a crash. He gasped, more stunned in fallen dignity than hurt in body. Then he writhed for a new hold, but a cold bit of steel was pressed beneath his chin. His own revolver had been snatched from his hip pocket, and it was with this that Thunder Moon threatened him, holding the hammer back with his thumb.

  “Help!” yelled Jeff Larned, seeing Providence unwelcomely close to him. “He’s goin’ to murder me!”

  But no one stirred. Revolvers are not to be tampered with. Besides, this was the bully of the fort, and it was time that he had his lesson, no matter how he had to pay for it. And the Indian was saying gravely:

  “You wear the first scalp that I have ever wanted to take. Thank your good fortune that you are not alone with me on the prairie. Now lie here like the dog that you are. Move a hand, and I kill you!”

  He rose and stepped back, and the trader lay deathly still. He still had his knife, but in the hand of his enemy was the revolver, and he had seen that the instinct for revolver play was in this strange Indian youth.

  Thunder Moon, stepping back, shoved the revolver inside the belt which held up his trousers. And with half an eye upon the prostrate form of Jeff Larned, he loaded all his winnings upon the backs of Jester and of The Minnow. All the heavy bags of powder and of leaden bullets, and all the strong rifles, and above all those beautiful little new weapons, he packed together.

  Last of all, he leaped upon the back of The Minnow.

  “Lie still, dog of a white man,” said he. “I have not seen you for the last time. I go on a long journey, but I shall return. Your scalp is loose on your head. I shall take it. The Sky People hear me promise. It shall dry in the tepee of Big Hard Face.”

  He swept his eye over the crowd. He picked out the face of the lieutenant, and extending his muscular arm, he grasped the lad’s hand. He knew only one word of the white man’s tongue, but he said it now with his heart in his voice: “Friend!”

  “Friend!” repeated the lieutenant, much moved. Then Thunder Moon sent the mare ahead, and, still turned back, covered the trader’s body with his rifle.

  At length, he was at a safe distance, and turning about in the saddle, he jerked the lead rope to bring Jester into a gallop, and so swept through the gate and out onto the level ground beyond.

  Behind him, he heard one frantic yell of rage and despair from Jeff Larned as that worthy leaped to his feet at last. But the victory remained with Thunder Moon. He had the horse and the loot of the storekeeper. There was nothing on four feet within the fort fast enough to attempt a pursuit of him. So, utterly secure, as though an ocean lay between him and his recent enemy, he gave The Minnow her head, knowing that she would steer straight back to the spot where she had last parted from the rest of the horses. And The Minnow went, straight as an arrow.

  In the meantime, his thoughts were dwelling on the strength of Fort Humphrey Brown. And vague plans formed in his brain. War was a great vocation. He loved it with all of his heart. Twice and again, he had burst through the lines of Pawnees. Twice, also, in the open battlefield, he had charged the Blackfeet home. There was a small spot under his right shoulder, silver-white, where a Blackfoot lance had sunk deep in his body. And there were other minor cuts and bruises to remember. Nevertheless, war was inexpressibly sweet.

  But war against the might and the cunning of the white man? War against his thunder guns and his many new devices? That would be a thing to test nerves of steel, and on the spot, he vowed that one day he would grow great enough to gather the Cheyennes behind him, and with the warriors armed with fine rifles, and trained in the use of them, he would storm Fort Humphrey Brown. He would pass through those brutal, savage, sneering, cynical white men. He would leave them lying in their own blood. Their scalps should be tied to the spearheads of the noble Cheyennes. And that victory would give the tribe the looting of the lordly place!

  What loot! What incalculable riches to be taken home! And with the might thus added, to turn from side to side, and send the Pawnees and the Blackfeet reeling back from their established ranges, and afterward, to crush even the lordly Sioux, and in their desert fastnesses, to teach the Comanches that they had masters.

  The beautiful dream of conquest, unfolded like a flower in the brain of Thunder Moon. He had seen hostile Indian powers, before this. But none had so irritated and thrilled him as had this visit to the whites. He raised his hands palms up to the heavens, and there he saw his familiar cloud of shining white floating in the heart of the sky. It was like a supernatural promise, to Thunder Moon, that the Sky People would help him to the great things for which he hoped!

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THESE GREAT ASPIRATIONS, which now first entered the brain of Thunder Moon, and which were afterward to involve him and others in so much trouble, so completely occupied him that when he returned to his companions, their wonder and joy at seeing the rifles and the loads of ammunition, and the fine new horse, Jester, and even their ecstasy when he demonstrated the possibilities of the little revolvers to them, hardly moved him. They were like things that pass in a dream; for in his imagination he was still taking scalps and plundering cities, and he felt himself lifted above the world which he had known before. He had found an enemy truly worthy of his steel, and he rejoiced in the discovery. He had taken the one great step which passes a youth into full manhood.

  His companions felt the difference and thought that it was because they were now viewing him with a newer and intenser vision because of his great feat. Their eyes had been opened by this achievement of his in entering the fort and returning with such unhoped-for treasures. Now and again, hardy and daring youngsters as they were, their minds were sometimes overawed by the tremendous venture to which they had committed themselves so carelessly; and as the days and weeks found them farther and farther west and south, they took thought and often wished themselves back with their fellow tribesmen; but on such occasions, the unshaken calmness and gravity of their leader reassured them. He had, in fact achieved a greater victory over his fellows than over Jeff Larned. For this stroke of business gave them the utmost confidence in their leader; knowing him brave and successful in battle, they now felt that he was the complet
e man, incapable of serious mistakes. He had hypnotized them perfectly by his stroke in the fort. It made no difference that Snake-that-talks or some of the others had to point out the way across the prairies. It made no difference that Big River, or one of the other keen hunters, was always the first to solve the trail problems when they were in the pursuit of difficult game. The deficiencies of Thunder Moon were not noted by his followers. They served him with a blind devotion, always feeling that he was the brain and they the mere hands of this enterprise. And the time came when a word of praise from Thunder Moon was as much to one of the others as a scalp taken or a coup counted.

  Perhaps it would be best to think of these voyagers of the prairie as of people embarked in a ship, crossing a vast ocean under slow and uncertain sail, compelled to digress from the course from time to time, by the necessity of hunting food, and delayed by mishaps to the craft which must be repaired.

  In the meantime, like a good ship’s captain, Thunder Moon constantly exercised his crew at their arms. They were going against desperate warriors, and therefore he had them work with lance and shield every day, and the war hatchets were flung, and the war bows were aimed constantly at targets until his heroes were perfected in the art of war. Thunder Moon’s heart swelled with pride at their skill.

  But most of all, he kept them working with the rifles. He knew that there were two great faults with Indian marksmen: that they were more apt to worship a gun than to practice with it, and that they were not likely to keep the weapon in good condition. In the old days of his clumsy and backward boyhood, when he despaired of ever equaling the other youngsters with bow, or knife, or club, or ax, he had devoted himself with all his mind to the rifle, where skill counted more than strength, and he had mastered all of its arts with the patience of an Indian, and the craft of a white man. And now he taught his braves every detail of their weapons, how to take them apart and reassemble them, and how to oil, and grease, and clean them. More than this, they had a constant drill in pointing the long guns, and a certain amount of powder was burned and lead spent each day in actual shooting. And, at length, he felt that every one of the five far surpassed the most practiced warriors left behind in the tribe. But there was another result; for as they felt their skill increasing, their confidence in their teacher-leader and in their own prowess grew limitless. They would have followed him into a whole host of enemies!