by Max Brand
“And there is the knife,” said Torridon. He took it again from his belt, and, with a little flick of the wrist that he had learned from Rising Hawk, he drove it half the length of its blade into the ground before their companion.
Then he rose to attempt the venture. On the edge of the bank he took off his clothes. White as polished marble he flashed beneath that strong sun. The wind blew his hair aside, and he laughed with pleasure at the cool touch of the air and the angry hand of the sun.
The Indians looked significantly at one another, partly admiring and partly in contempt. The Cheyennes were huge specimens of manhood. He was of small account who stood under six feet in height, and they had shoulders and limbs to match, but Torridon was made slenderly, tapering and graceful. He was fast of foot, the Indian youth knew. How would he appear in the water?
He did not leave them long in doubt. He merely paused to adjust a headband that would bind his unbarbered hair. Then he dived from the bank.
There was only a slight sound as he took the water. Then, through the black shadow of the pool under the bank, they saw him rise glimmering. He struck out through the current. It was true that he had not the might of arm that many of them possessed. But neither did he have their bulk to drag through the water, and he used the stroke that Roger Lincoln, that flawless hero of the plain, had taught him.
“It’s only in the brain that you can beat an Indian,” Roger Lincoln had been fond of saying. And he had taught Torridon many things as they voyaged over the plains together. A most unreceptive mind had dreamy Paul Torridon for woodcraft or for the arts of hunting, but at least he could learn the craft of swimming from a perfect master.
He glided rapidly through the water, now, lying face down, rolling a little from side to side to breathe, and the long strokes of the arms and the thrashing feet carried him rapidly through the stream.
He could hear them on the bank behind him calling: “Hai! He is being pulled by a string!”
He swerved past a reaching rock, stepped on another, and leaped onto the farther bank. There he wrung the water from his long hair and waved a flashing arm.
“Ashur!” he called.
The black stallion was already at the brink of the stream, looking wistfully after his master. At this call, he advanced his forehoofs into the water and sniffed at it, but immediately he withdrew and bounded away, throwing his heels into the air.
The wagerer shouted with triumph: “The knife is mine, White Thunder!”
Torridon made no reply. He sat down, dripping on the bank, and seemed more interested in the flight of a hawk that was swinging lower and lower through the sky above them.
“Come back, White Thunder!” cried the brave. “You see he never will take the water!”
Now for an answer, Torridon raised an arm and pointed. He was more than half ashamed of himself to resort to such trickery and sham. But, after all, these people had forced the role of medicine man upon him quite against his will. They had dressed him up in fake garments of mystery; they had stolen him away from the girl he loved and from his best of friends. It was hardly more than fair that they should be called upon to take something for which they were even asking. So he pointed at the descending hawk, as though it were a symbol sent down to him from the Sky People, who were so eternally on the tongues of the Cheyennes.
It made a great sensation among the three braves. Torridon saw them pointing and whispering together, and he with whom Torridon had made the wager hastily caught up a handful of pebbles and sand and began to shift them from hand to hand, blowing strongly on them—making medicine against the medicine maker.
Torridon laughed. They would take that laughter for invincible scorn of them. As a matter of fact, it was pure amusement and good nature. Of Ashur he had had no doubt from the first.
Now, indeed, the black horse returned to the edge of the water. He sent one whinny of complaint across to his master, and straightway he plunged in. Torridon was very confident. Out here on the plains the rivers were few and far between. They were apt to be comparatively still, also. But where Ashur was raised, two stormy creeks had cut the grazing lands, and the horse that aspired to the richer, farther pastures had to cross them both. From colthood Ashur had been a master of the difficult craft.
He came swiftly, snorting the froth and water from his nostrils, so low did he carry his head, stretching it forth over the surface. A smooth, strong glide of water seized him and dropped him through a narrow passage between reaching rocks. That instant the heart of Torridon stood still and he regretted the bet. But now Ashur came again, more strongly than ever, pricking his little ears in recognition of the master who waited for him. A moment more and his forehoofs grounded. He climbed out, shook himself, and then, leaping to the side of Torridon, he turned and cast back at the young warriors a ringing neigh of almost human defiance.
III
A shout of mingled wonder and applause came across the water to Torridon, but he had turned his head toward the plains that stretched off to the north. Naked as he was, weaponless, for an instant he was on the verge of throwing himself on the back of Ashur and flying away into the wilderness. But when he looked back to the farther shore, he saw that three rifles were gripped in three ready pairs of hands. It was their business to watch him, and watch him they would—aye, and scalp him gladly if the worst came to the worst!
He abandoned his thought with a sigh, and then swam back to the waiting three. Ashur followed him obediently, his nose in the little smother of water raised by the kicking heels of his master. The rocks reached for the fine horse again, and in vain, and Torridon stood again with his guards, whipping the water from his body with the edge of his hand, laughing and panting.
“Look!” cried the youngest of the three warriors suddenly, but in a voice muffled with awe. “He has brought down the power from the clouds, and now he is going back again!”
He pointed, and Torridon, turning his head, saw that the hawk was rising even more swiftly than it had descended. He laughed again to himself. No doubt this tale, liberally reinforced by the imaginations of the three, would soon be circling the village and adding to the great stock of folly and lies that already circulated about him among the Cheyennes.
The eldest of the trio took up his rifle and laid it at Torridon’s feet.
“When I made the bet,” he said, “I forgot that you could command the air spirits out of their places. Of course they made the horse light and showed him where to swim through the rocks.”
“I saw a ripple go before him,” said the youngest of the three gravely. “Of course something invisible was stopping the current to let the horse through. This is a great wonder. I, who did not see the making of the rain, at last have seen this.”
Torridon dressed quickly. There was not much dressing to do, for he was equipped like any other young Cheyenne in breechclout, leggings, and a shirt. There were distinctions, for the leather was the softest of deerskin, white as snow, and worked over in delicate designs with beads and porcupine quills, while the outer fringe of the leggings was enriched with glittering beads and even some spurious hoofs of buffalo, polished highly. He put on his moccasins first, and stepped into the rest of his apparel, after wriggling into the tightly fitted shirt. Then he sat down and began to dry his hair, by spreading it to the sun and the wind.
The three regarded him with profoundest silence. They had seen such things that it was well to be quiet for a time, and rehearse the affairs in their own minds. Afterward, even the elders would be glad to invite them to feasts and let them talk of the prodigies that White Thunder on this day had performed. One of them had turned the hawk into an eagle, already, in his mind’s eye. And another had made out the form of the water spirit that drew the stallion through the river.
At last, Torridon took up the rifle that was his prize. He examined it with care.
“Rushing Wind,” he said to the young man who had given up the gun, “how many times have you fired this?”
“Three t
imes.”
“And what did it do?”
“It killed three buffalo,” said Rushing Wind, his breast heaving just once with mingled pride in the weapon and grief because of its loss.
Torridon handed it back to its first owner. “Take it again,” he said. “It is good medicine in your hands. I already have many guns in my lodge. I do not want to empty yours. Besides,” he added shamelessly, “as you have seen, I have other things than guns with which to do what I wish.”
The latter part of this speech was accepted by the young men with nodding heads. But Rushing Wind hesitated about the return.
“My brother is rich,” he said. “Nevertheless, even a rich man wants something with which to remember a great day.”
“That is true,” agreed Torridon. He reached out and took the knife from the belt of Rushing Wind. He replaced it with his own rich knife and waved his hand. “By that exchange,” he said, “we can remember one another.”
Rushing Wind returned no answer. He had seen himself, a moment before, compelled to fall back upon the war bow and arrow. Now, not only was the rifle his once more, but, in addition, he wore at his belt such a jewel as would make even the great war chiefs look on him with envious eyes. His heart was too full for utterance, so that he was forced to scowl bitterly.
Torridon, understanding perfectly, arose to cover the confusion of the warrior and led the way back to the camp. At the door of the lodge he invited them to enter; they perfunctorily perfunctorily refused, so as to remain lounging outside, while he entered the cool shadow of the teepee. He was still amused, still inclined to laugh to himself so that Young Willow, at her beading, glanced keenly at him.
She was a little afraid of this youth, though as the daughter of one great war chief and the wife of another, she despised this counter of no coups, this taker of no scalps. He was an outlander. The joys and the sorrows of the tribe did not affect him; he pretended no interest. Their victories were things at which he shrugged his shoulders; their dances and celebrations left him cold and unstirred. Therefore, she both hated and despised him, but also she was afraid. She, with her own eyes, while all the tribe was witness, had seen him call up the rain clouds. At his bidding, the lightning had flashed and the thunder had roared. He had disappeared in the middle of the confusion. Some said that he simply had ridden off through the darkness of the storm, but it was whispered everywhere that no mortal could have ridden through the assembled Cheyennes at that time. Had he not been wrapped in a storm cloud and snatched away?
For her own part, she knew that she was honored to have been selected as the keeper of this lodge, and, as such, all that she said was now listened to, and the chief men of the nation stopped her when she was abroad and asked after the latest doing of White Thunder. If there were little to tell of interest, fortunately Young Willow had a sufficient imagination; no audience that asked wonders of her should go away with empty ears.
Now the youth sat smiling to himself. “White Thunder,” she said, “where is the knife that you wore at your belt?”
“I have given it to Rushing Wind.”
She raised her head. “Do you know that that is a medicine knife, worth five horses if it is worth a handful of dried meat?”
“So I was told.”
She muttered angrily: “One spendthrift makes a naked lodge. You gave away the white saddle yesterday?”
“The young man had nothing but a buffalo robe to ride on.”
“It is not the seat that makes the horseman,” said this quoter of proverbs, “neither is the horse judged by the saddle.”
“Saddle and mane make a horse sell,” he retorted, having picked up some of the same sort of language from this ancient gossip.
Fairly stopped by this, she returned to her beading. It was true that the goods in this teepee were not hers, and it was also true that the generosity of the Cheyennes was flooding the lodge constantly with more than the master of it could use. Nevertheless, she was old enough to be parsimonious. The aged ask for a full house and larder.
Torridon lounged against a supple backrest and raised his eyes to the top of the teepee with a great sigh. Time, time, time! How slowly it goes.
“Aye,” said Young Willow, spiteful after her last silencing, “you may well sigh. For in a hundred winters we shall all be bald.”
“That is true,” he answered, “and it is also true that even a little time will hatch a great mischief.”
She looked askance at him, rather suspecting that there was a sting in this speech, but not quite confident of the point. So she pursed her withered lips and consulted her profound heart to find something more to say.
He, in the meantime, began to finger some of the articles that hung beside the backrest, taking down a great war bow of the horn of mountain sheep, tough and elastic, able to send an arrow four hundred yards in battle, or, in the hunt, drive a shaft to the three feathers into the tough side of a buffalo bull.
“A strong bow for a strong hand . . . for the weak hand it is a walking staff,” said the venomous old woman.
“Yes,” said Torridon, “or it would do as a whip.”
She caught her breath and mumbled, but the reply was too apt not to silence her again.
He laid aside the bow and picked up the favorite solace of his quiet hours. It was a flute of the juniper wood, from which one could draw plaintive sounds, and by much practice upon it, he was able to perform with a good deal of skill. He tried it now, very softly. And he half closed his eyes in sad enjoyment of the harmony he made, for the sorrowful love sorrow.
As for Young Willow, she would have admitted at another time that it was excellent music, and she would tomorrow attribute the skill of the youth with the instrument to the direct intervention and assistance of the Sky People. Now, however, she was looking for trouble.
“Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow,” she muttered. “A sorrowing child is never fat.”
He lowered the flute from his lips and looked vaguely upon her, as though he had only half heard what she said.
So she, glad of a quiet audience, went on sharply: “And sorrow and love are brother and sister. They go hand in hand. Who is the girl that you make music for, White Thunder?”
At this, he actually dropped the flute and sat bolt upright, staring at her, and very wide awake indeed.
Young Willow pretended to go on with her beading, but her grin was very broad, so that it exposed her toothless, dark gums. She had stung him at last.
IV
Busy at her work, or apparently busy, Young Willow said: “There are many beautiful maidens among the Cheyennes. Even the Sky People draw down from the clouds, and wonder at them.”
“That is true,” he agreed absently.
He had been too amazed by her remark to pay much heed to what followed.
“So,” said Young Willow, “it is no wonder that you, White Thunder, should have come down to us. Tell me, therefore, the name of the girl.”
“Of what use would it be if I should tell you?” he asked.
“Of what use? I would myself go to High Wolf, and he would go to the father of the girl. Presently all would be arranged with the father.”
“And she would be brought home to this lodge?”
“Yes.”
Torridon smiled faintly, and the squaw frowned, unable to read his mind, no matter how she tried. She was angry with herself, when she found that she was baffled so early and so often by this youth. His white skin was a barrier that stopped her probing eyes, as it were.
“What should I do with a woman?” said Torridon.
“A wife is better than many horses,” said the squaw sententiously.
Torridon fell amiably into that mode of maintaining the discourse. In a way, he feared to be left to his own thoughts, for since Young Willow had turned the conversation into this channel the picture of Nancy Brett stood like life before him, in all her beauty, her gentleness, her grace. He tried to turn from that hopeless dream into the present. So he answered the squaw: “A ba
g of fleas is easier to keep watch over than a woman.”
“Ha?” cried the squaw. “I think you are talking about the Arapahoes, or the Dakotas. You do not know our Cheyenne girls. After the sun has gone down, they still have firelight to work by.”
“People who work forever,” quoted Torridon, “are dull companions. You cannot dig up wisdom like a root.”
Young Willow grunted. Her eyes had a touch of red fire in them as she glared across the teepee at her young companion.
“You cannot judge a woman by her tongue,” she replied.
“No,” said Torridon, “but with a small tongue, a woman can kill a tall man.”
“Very well,” grumbled Young Willow, “but you know the saying . . . a woman’s counsel may be no great thing, but he is a fool who does not take it. I am giving you good advice, White Thunder.”
“No doubt you are.” Torridon yawned rather impolitely.
“Aye,” she answered, “but only a pretty woman is always right.”
“No,” he replied, “a pretty woman is either silly or proud.”
“For a proud woman,” she said, “take a heavy hand.”
He raised his slender hand with a sigh. “My hand is not heavy, Young Willow. Even if I had a lovely wife, how could I keep her?”
“With a whip, perhaps.”
“A Cheyenne girl,” he said more seriously, “wants a strong husband. She wants to see scalps drying in the lodge and hear her man counting his coups.”
“You are young,” said Young Willow tactfully, for she had been pleased to the core of her heart by the remark dispraising beauty in a woman. “You are young, and a man is not grown in a summer.”
“I never shall take scalps,” said Torridon, sighing again. “I never shall count coups, or steal horses. How could I be honored among the Cheyennes or by a woman in my own lodge?”
This plain statement of fact took Young Willow a good deal aback. It was, in short, what she had said at greater length to High Wolf. But at last she replied: “Take a wife, and I shall teach her how to behave. She will not be able to draw a breath that I shall not count. Afterward, you will have sons. You will be a great chief.”