We slipped out from the danger zone in ten seconds, and not a bullet came closer than humming distance. I felt that this was the last of the Cheyennes, but a moment later I saw that Chuck Morris was a little excited and a little angered - I could not say that there was any fear in such a man.
“They’re still after us,” he said, “and that means that we may have a month of hell dodging in front of us, Lew. If they turn into bloodhounds, they’ll stay with the scent a long, long time. Probably we killed a chief or a chief’s son.”
That, of course, was exactly what had happened. Morris’s very first bullet of all had killed the only son of Chief Black Feather, and that chief himself was among the nine who gave us that early morning rush.
I did not see exactly what we had to fear when we could ride away from the fastest horses in that party. Morris merely shrugged his shoulders. “You wait,” he said.
About mid-morning he called my attention to two columns of smoke rising close, side by side in the rear. An hour later he showed me two more smoke columns straight before us, for the air was clear with no wind, and those streams of smoke seemed to go like shadow hands into the heart of heaven.
“Now watch these prairies grow Cheyennes thicker’n grass!” said Chuck Morris.
He was right. In the mid-afternoon we came on a party of a dozen braves, headed out of the north, whereas we had been running up from the south. They did not have to be told that we were their quarry. They merely made for us with a yell, and the only reason that we escaped was, again, owing to the superior foot of our nags.
“They can never catch us!” I shouted, as they dropped away on the rolling green sea of the prairie.
“Why, you fool,” said Morris as calmly as you can imagine, “your horse will not be able to raise a gallop tomorrow. There’s no real heart in that mongrel dog.”
There was no doubt that the brown lacked strength of spirit. It was failing fast when, later, we saw tiny forms bobbing against the southern horizon. Our original friends were catching up with us. When I tried to raise a gallop from the gelding, the spur made it groan, but it only broke into a faltering trot.
“Go on and save yourself!” I cried to Morris.
His silence made me fear that he would take me at my word. Then I saw him, sitting perfectly still, and staring straight ahead of him.
“Don’t talk like a fool,” said Morris.
He began to push the gray mare straight ahead toward something he made out, though I could not. What an eye he had, like an eagle’s, always marking down prey. We had gone on for some time when, at last, I saw what he had seen long before - the crisp little outline of an Indian village against the sky. There were scores and scores of teepees.
“Chuck,” I called to him, “are those friendly Indians?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know. Then we may be running bang into the fire. They may be more Cheyennes.”
“They may.”
The very name turned me sick. He answered my thought: “It’s either that or else those fellows behind. They’ll have you in a few minutes at this rate.”
He pointed to the streaking figures coming out of the south, far away.
“They may get me,” I said, speaking with lips that were stiffer than actual cold ever made them, “but they can never catch the gray mare.”
At that he turned on me with a frown, and Morris’s frown, even when he was a boy, was something to remember.
“Look here, Dorset,” he said to me, “as long as I’m your friend, your luck is my luck. The minute I’m your enemy, I’ll tell you about it, and then heaven help one of us. Now don’t let me hear any more nonsense. Whatever comes to you today, comes to me.”
It seemed to me then, and it seems to me now, that was the finest speech I ever heard a man make. Afterward I was to learn what the second promise meant.
I got the brown into a gallop after that, and we rolled straight on toward those teepees that meant either heaven or a very real hell to us. When we were a furlong from the tents, a swarm of young bucks came shooting out toward us, all armed to the teeth, but chiefly with bows and arrows. When they saw that there were only two of us, and that we were apparently running away from the horsemen to the rear, they opened up and let us go through to the teepees.
As we galloped on, Morris turned his head to me and said: “Sioux!”
My heart jumped into my throat with joy. “What’ll we do in the village?” I called to Morris.
“Keep your mouth shut and do what I do,” he said.
IN THE CAMP OF THE SIOUX
The whole village was astir as we rode in. The women and the children were raising a tremendous ruction, and the men were leaping onto the backs of their horses and whirling away to meet whatever danger might be coming on. Morris made for the biggest teepee in the lot. When he came to it, he jumped down from the gray and walked up to a tall Indian who was standing in front of the tent. He was very big for an Indian - within an inch of Morris’s own great height and very well made. He was partially gathered in a robe, but the folds of it had slipped from his right shoulder and exposed a huge arm that glistened and bulged with strength. He had the most savage and impassive face I have ever seen, even among his own kind. Behind him stood a squaw with his rifle ready. On the other side was a young girl, holding his horse by the reins. I dismounted as Morris had done and waited.
Chuck went straight to the big chief and waved to his gray mare. He said something in a harsh guttural, and it was not hard for me to tell that he was offering the chief the mare as a present. It was as if he had offered part of his own flesh and blood. The big fellow gave the mare one glance, then he turned to my brown gelding and walked around it, searching it from head to foot. I could see what was going on inside his brain. That gelding was a beauty, as I have said before, and built for both strength and speed, yet it had been run to a rag, and here was the mare, carrying forty pounds more and comparatively as fresh as a daisy. When he had satisfied himself that the brown was a real horse, he gave one more glance at the mare, and then he turned to meet the Cheyennes.
There were a dozen of them who had been brought into the village by a sizable escort of the Sioux. There were perhaps fifty more gathering beyond the outskirts of the little town, waiting to learn what luck their spokesmen would have. The oldest of the twelve walked in advance of the others. He was a wicked-looking old rascal, and, as he came closer, he gave me a glance that was a foretaste of fire and other torments that would be mine if he got me into his hands. From that instant I never left my revolver out of my grip. If they tried to take me, I was determined to die fighting and keep a last bullet for myself.
Black Feather - for it was he - went to the Sioux chief and began to talk with a good deal of excitement. Now and again he turned to give a point to his remarks by waving at us, and every time he turned there was a red glint from his eyes and a white flash of his teeth. I’ve never seen anything so wolfish. Sometimes, as he talked, great shudders ran through his body, he was so eager to get at us.
The Sioux let him talk himself out without saying a word. As Black Feather ended, he laid a perfectly good rifle and a quantity of beads at the feet of the big chief. Then the rest of the twelve came up and each had his say, most of them using fewer words than Black Feather, but every whit as much emotion. Each, as he finished, put down something in front of the big fellow. It was as plain as plain could be that they were offering a price for the pair of us. And in terms of Indian wealth, what a price they were offering in rifles, powder and lead, and beads and knives and little trinkets. When the last of the twelve had spoken, Black Feather stepped up for a final shot. He pointed to the heap of plunder at the feet of our host. Then he waved to the sky and struck his breast. He was declaring, I suppose, that, if the ugly giant would take the bribe, he would also receive the eternal friendship of the Cheyennes, both past and present.