by Max Brand
It came to the mind of Rushing Wind that there might be much in the warning that had just been given to White Thunder by the squaw, but both the girl and the white man seemed oblivious of any such thought. Rushing Wind greeted all within the house with ceremony. He was given a place. Nancy Brett, smiling as a hostess should, offered him meat from the great pot in the center of the teepee, and he ate of it, as in duty bound. Then a pipe was passed to him and he accepted it, after White Thunder had lit it. Standing Bull inquired after the fortune of the young brave in the prairie, and the latter said simply: “I saw many days of riding, and many days of prairie, and many days of blue sky. But I found nothing but buffalo.”
“Long journeys make good warriors,” said Standing Bull sententiously. “I, before long, if the medicine is good, will start against the Crows. I shall remember you, Rushing Wind.”
The young brave heard with eyes that sparkled. He was working his way up through the crowd of the younger warriors. Such a patron as White Thunder—and now the kindness of Standing Bull—promised him a future to which the doors stood wide.
“Now,” said White Thunder, “you are very welcome to us, Rushing Wind. But is there any special reason why you have come to me?”
“My father is sick,” said the young Cheyenne sadly. “It must be a very strong spirit that is harming him, because now there are ten rattles being shaken in his lodge, and still he grows sicker and sicker.”
White Thunder rose at once. “Come,” he said. “I shall go with you. I heard that your father would not have me near him. Otherwise, I should have offered to help long before.”
“His mind is gone now,” said the son, “and his eyes are in the other world. He cannot help but let you treat him.”
They came to the lodge and at the entrance flap the steam and heat and smoke from the interior boiled out into the face of Torridon. Inside, there was a wild tangle of figures, dancing in a crazy maze, raising a dust that thickened the haze, and chanting a howling dirge in unison.
“Listen,” said the son in admiration. “Is it not wonderful that all this medicine cannot make my father well?”
Torridon stepped back from the lodge. “Send those rascals away,” he said, flushing with anger. “Send them scampering. Clear every one of them out of the lodge. Then I will come in.”
Rushing Wind was in desperate woe at this request. He was fairly overcome with anguish at the thought that he might offend one of the great doctors now at work in the lodge.
He said eagerly to Torridon: “If one gun is good, two guns are better . . . if one doctor is good, two doctors are better.”
Torridon was too excited and angry to listen to this reasonable protest. He exclaimed again: “Send them out, Rushing Wind, or I’ll turn my back on your lodge! Send them out. I’ll tell you this much . . . they’re killing your father as surely as if they were firing bullets into him.”
Rushing Wind rolled his eyes wildly. But at length he hurried into the lodge and after a few moments the doctors began to issue forth, each puffing with his late efforts, each followed by a woman loaded down with rattles and animal masks, and other contraptions. They strode off, all turning baleful eyes upon Torridon as they went by. He had offended them before merely by the greatness of his superior medicine. But now he had interfered directly with their business, and they would never forget it, as he well knew.
He was in a gloomy state as he entered the lodge. Life in the Cheyenne community was dangerous enough already, but the professional hatred of these clever rascals would make it doubly so.
The women were on their feet when he came in, looking at him with doubt, awe, and fear in their eyes. He crossed at once to the sick man and saw that he was at death’s door. Most mightily, then, did Torridon wish that he possessed some real knowledge of medicine. Instead, he had only common sense to fall back upon to save this dying man.
He ordered Rushing Wind and the squaws to roll up the sides of the lodge and to open the entrance flap. There was a groan in response. The air, they told him, was fairly rich and reeking with purifications and charms. All these were now to be dissipated. All these high-priced favors were to be blown away.
He was adamant. The tent was opened and fresher wind blew the foulness away. Yet it was very hot. The sun was relentless. The breeze hardly stirred. Torridon made up his mind at once.
“The underwater spirits,” he said to Rushing Wind, “might help me to carry away the evil spirit that is in your father. He must be carried at once to the side of the river. Put two backrests together and then we will carry him. Let the women come after. They should bring robes, food, and plenty of skins to put up a little tent. Let this be done quickly.”
It was done quickly, with many frantic glances at the man of the lodge, as though they feared the veteran warrior would give up the ghost at any moment. Rushing Wind took the head of the litter. Torridon took the feet—and light enough was their burden. For the fever had wasted poor Black Beaver until he was a ghost of his powerful self.
They bore him from the camp and then up the river to a considerable distance, so that the merry sounds of the boys at the swimming pool floated only dimly to their ears, like the broken songs of birds. Here Torridon chose a place high on the bank between two lofty trees. The tent was put up with speed and skill. Cut branches made the foundation on which the bed was laid, and Black Beaver was made warm and comfortable.
He had begun to roll his head from side to side and mutter. Sometimes the muttering rose to a harsh shout.
“He is dying,” the younger squaw said, and fell on her knees beside the bed.
“Peace,” said Torridon, who was reasonably sure that she was right. “The underwater spirits are now trying to take the evil out of him. That is why he shouts and turns. Because there is a battle going on in his heart.”
He next asked what had been eaten by Black Beaver, and was told that for three days the warrior had refused everything, even the tenderest bits of roasted venison.
No wonder he was failing rapidly—a three-day fast, a burning fever, and a lodge choked with foul air and smoke!
Torridon had a broth cooked for the sick man. Then the head of Black Beaver was supported, and the broth poured down his throat. In the end the brave lay back with a groan. His eyes closed. Torridon thought that death actually had come. Silence fell on the watching group. But presently all could see that the sick man’s breast was rising and falling gently.
“That is good,” whispered Rushing Wind. “He sleeps. Oh, White Thunder, how mighty is your medicine. The others are nothing. All the other doctors are the rattling of dead leaves. You, alone, have power.”
Torridon sat down, cross-legged, under a tree and looked at the hushed squaws, at the tense face of Rushing Wind, and wondered at himself. All his amateur attempts at cures had been strangely successful. Those powerful frames of the Indians, toughened by a constant life in the open, seemed to need nothing but a quiet chance and no disturbance in order to fight off every ill that flesh is heir to. The torments of the doctors, felt Torridon, had killed more than unassisted disease could have done.
He looked farther off at the prairie, wide as the sea and more level, no bush, no tree breaking its monotonous outline, and he wondered whether, when he returned to his own kind—if that ever was to be—he could accomplish among them work half so successful as that which he had managed among these red children. Among them he was a great man, he was a great spirit walking the earth by special permission of the Sky People. Among his white cousins he would be insignificant Paul Torridon once more.
So he wondered, half sadly and half with resignation. He could see that his affairs were now involved in so great a tangle that his own volition was not sufficient to straighten matters out. Nancy Brett was in his hands. That situation could not continue. Vaguely he hoped that a priest might be found, somewhere, who would be brought to the camp to perform a marriage ceremony. Until then, he passed the days in constant dread of the future, and of himself.
/> That long silence on the bank of the river continued the rest of the day. About evening, the sleeper wakened. He remained restless from that point until midnight. Torridon managed to give him a little more broth, but, after eating, Black Beaver became more restless still. His fever seemed higher. Throughout the night he groaned continually, and sometimes he broke out into frightful peals of laughter.
After midnight it was plain that he was weakening. The squaws, with desperate, drawn faces, sat by the bed, and their eyes wandered continually from their lord and master to the face of Torridon. He felt the burden of their trust, but he knew nothing that he could do.
Some hours after midnight, there was a convulsive movement of the sick man. Torridon ran to look at him and found that Black Beaver had twisted over and lay face downward. He did not stir. This time Torridon made sure that death was there.
He touched the back of Black Beaver. To his astonishment, it was drenched with perspiration. He leaned lower, and he could hear the deep faint breathing of the Cheyenne.
Once more the power had been granted to Torridon. One more life was saved. He looked up reverently to the black of the trees, to the fainter blue-black of the sky beyond, dappled with great stars.
“He will live,” said Torridon. And then he added, with irresistible charlatanry: “The underwater spirits have heard me calling to them. They have come and taken the evil spirit away.”
VI
When Torridon and Rushing Wind had left the lodge, Standing Bull showed no inclination to depart from it. As a matter of fact, it was rather a breach of etiquette for him to remain there after the man of the lodge had departed—particularly since the squaw, Young Willow, was gone out, also. Nancy Brett was perfectly aware of this; however, she made light of the matter and began to talk cheerfully, in her broken Cheyenne, about the illness of Black Beaver.
The war chief listened to this talk without comment, fixing a grave eye upon her.
However, he finally said, as though to end the subject: “White Thunder will cure Black Beaver.”
“He is very ill,” said the girl.
“White Thunder,” the chief said, “has power from the Sky People . . . over such matters as this.” He added the last words with a certain significance.
And Nancy Brett, canting her head like a bird to one side, asked him gravely what he meant.
“Heammawihio,” the warrior explained, “is jealous of men on earth. He does not give double power to one man. The great warriors are not the great medicine men.”
“White Thunder,” said the girl readily, “has led the Cheyennes against the Sioux and beaten them badly. Is not that true?”
“He was with the war party,” said the chief in answer. “He saw signals from the Sky People, which they had sent down because they love the Cheyennes. All that he needed to do was to read those signs. He has power to read them. Just as certain of the old men are able to read the pictures that are painted on a lodge. That is all. The eye of White Thunder is clear to read dreams. He has read my own dreams.”
The girl suppressed a smile. She had listened to many absurd interpretations that her lover had put upon the dreams of the Indians. However, now she maintained a straight face. Apparently there was more to come, and it was not long before the chief spoke.
“But as for battle,” said Standing Bull, “he never is great. He never has counted a coup. In the fight against the Dakotas, he was not in the front rank. He ran weakly behind the others.”
“He killed two men. I thought,” said Nancy Brett.
“The Dakotas,” explained the Cheyenne, “were herded together like buffalo that do not know which way to run. A child could not have missed them with a headless arrow. But White Thunder did not count a single coup. He did not take a single scalp. When the warriors returned home, White Thunder was not seen at the war dance. He did not come to the feasts to boast.”
“He never talks about what he has done,” the girl said readily.
“Of course, he does not,” answered Standing Bull. “And the reason is that he knows he does nothing of himself.”
“Who has made rain for the Cheyennes and saved them when their corn was dying?” she asked.
“Heammawihio,” Standing Bull answered with perfect satisfaction in his face.
The girl was silent, wondering at these speeches. Standing Bull appeared in the camp as the greatest friend to Torridon. Certainly, however, he was attacking him now.
“Then,” she said at last, “everything that White Thunder has seemed to do really was done by Heammawihio?”
“Everything,” said the warrior. “And since he has done nothing in battle, is it not plain that Heammawihio does not wish to strike through his hand at the enemy of the Cheyennes?”
There was a certain childishness in this species of reasoning that she saw could not be answered. Therefore, she was silent. Another thought was entering her mind. She fairly held her breath.
“In war he is weak,” went on the chief. “And that is a sad thing. We have spent many days together. I have waited to see White Thunder strike down a single enemy, or count a single coup, or take a single scalp. He never will do that. His spirit turns to water. I have seen his knees shake and his face turn pale.” His lip curled as he spoke.
“I don’t think that you understand him,” she ventured at last. “He always has been very high-strung and nervous. He’s not like other men. But I’ve seen him ride a wild horse that even Roger Lincoln could not ride. And I’ve seen him stand up to a bully three times his size. He may tremble and turn pale, but he’s not afraid to attempt all sorts of things.”
Standing Bull merely shook his head. “You,” he said, “are a woman, and you know nothing about battle. But I know about battle. I understand such things. You should believe what I tell you.”
To this blunt speech, no rejoinder was possible.
“You, just now,” went on the chief, “think that he is a very great man. You look on him kindly. You love White Thunder. Is that true?”
She answered frankly: “That is true.”
“Women,” said the warrior after a moment of gloomy reflection, “are like children. They see the thing that is not and they believe it to be true.”
“Perhaps,” she said, rather afraid to contradict him.
“Yes, it is true. All wise men know that this is true. So you look like a child at White Thunder. You see that the children follow him, expecting marvels, and the young men talk about him, and the old men ask for his voice in the council. You would say, therefore, that the Cheyennes have no chief greater than White Thunder.”
“I would say that he is a great man among the Cheyennes,” she agreed cautiously.
“But you do not know,” Standing Bull went on, “that in their hearts, when they speak among themselves, all the Cheyennes despise this man.”
She was struck dumb.
“All,” he continued, “except some of the young braves, like Rushing Wind. They, also, do not think clearly. Their minds are full of clouds. But the warriors who have counted many coups and taken many scalps see the truth about this white man.”
She listened, seeing that a crisis was rapidly approaching in the conversation.
“After a while,” he continued, “even the younger warriors will understand White Thunder. They, also, will smite to themselves when they see him pass. And then how will you feel?”
“If I love him, I shall not care,” she answered.
“Why do women love men?” asked the chief. He did not wait for an answer, but he continued swiftly: “Because a man is brave, because he does not fear the enemy, because he breaks the ranks of the Dakotas in the charge and counts coups upon them and takes their scalps.”
She could not speak. He was growing more and more excited.
“You think,” he went on, “that someday White Thunder will grow older and bolder and that then he will begin to do these things, but you are wrong, for he never will do them. I, Standing Bull, will tell you that, because
it is true, and I want you to know the truth.” His breast was beginning to heave and his eyes to shine. Then he said: “But there are others among the Cheyennes who have done these things. I, Standing Bull, have done these things. It was I who went out and dreamed by the bank of the river, with the underwater people reaching out their hands for me. It was I who went up among the Sky People and found White Thunder and brought him down to my people. All this is known to the Cheyennes. All the chiefs and even the children know of these things that I have done.”
“I have heard them say so,” the girl said, still careful to a degree.
“And also in their councils the old men send for me. They put me in a good place in the lodge. The medicine of Standing Bull is good, they say. It is very strong. When I speak, they listen. I have a strong brain. It thinks straight as a horse runs. When I speak, the Cheyennes all listen. Before long, when High Wolf dies, I shall be the greatest of the chiefs. I tell you this, because it is a thing that you ought to know.”
“I have heard all the people speak well of you,” she replied. “White Thunder praises you, too. He is a great friend of yours.”
She hoped that this remark might soften the humor of the chief, but it had a contrary effect.
“He cannot help but be a friend of mine,” said Standing Bull. “The Sky People sent him to me. Therefore, he is forced to be my friend, but all the time he hates me in his heart. He knows that I first brought him here. When he ran away, I went after him. I found him among the white men. They had many guns. They were great warriors. They were his friends and they were ready to strike a blow for him. But Standing Bull was not afraid. He went in among them. He took White Thunder as a mother takes a child. He carried White Thunder across the wide prairie and back to the Cheyennes, and all the people shouted and were glad to have the great medicine man among them once more. So White Thunder still pretends to be my friend, but it is only because he knows that I am strong. I am stronger than he is. In spite of all his medicine, I can do what I want with him. He was given to me by the Sky People.”