The manner of the Sioux, in the meantime, was thoroughly Roman and perfectly delightful. Not a muscle in his face stirred. He looked each man in the face, in turn. When Black Feather had ended his second jargon, the Cheyenne horse thief turned on me, because I was nearest, and reached out a hand toward me. I was ready to sink a bullet in his brain when I heard a deep-voiced monosyllable from the Sioux. I did not need a translator to tell me that the word was “No!” Oh, sweetest of all music and most beautiful of all words.
There stood the Sioux, pointing down to the heap of loot and shaking his head. The price was not high enough. There began a hurried roar of voices, each of the twelve registering his protest, but the Sioux stopped it with a single wave of his hand. After that, all talk ended. Each of the twelve emissaries in silence picked up his rejected gift, and they trooped out. Each, as he went, gave me a side glance that cut like a whip.
Black Feather, the rearmost of the procession, turned suddenly around and delivered himself of half a minute of concentrated hate and defiance. I knew that he was telling the Sioux that another day was coming when the memory of what was happening now would be poison. Our host said nothing in reply. Not until the Cheyennes were well out of the village - not until on their return a wild yell of disappointment and rage had gone up from their fellow wolves - did the big man speak, and then it was only a guttural murmur. It brought another squaw straightway from the tent. She went to the gray mare, stripped off saddle and bridle, and led the gentle beauty away by the mane, until they disappeared behind the tent. Oh, wise chief. He had been able to read horseflesh value with a very sure eye. Now that the mare was his, he turned on his heel, lifted the flap of the teepee, and disappeared inside. The two other squaws went off. Morris and I were left alone, except for a few gaping, naked children.
“I’m sorry about the mare,” I told him.
He gave me a frowning glance that said it would be best to avoid that tender topic. Then he said: “I don’t know whether we’re lucky or unlucky. This fellow who has turned the Cheyennes about their business is Standing Bear himself.”
“I never heard of him,” I said.
“You’ve never heard of a great deal that you ought to know,” said Morris tersely. “Anyway, he is a great man in his nation. No one agrees about him. Everyone admits that he’s a bang-up warrior… a real fighter fit for any company. But some say he’s a cunning devil. Others swear that he’s a fine fellow. The first guess looks nearest the truth to me.”
“A great deal,” I agreed. “He’s taken one of our horses, and now he as much as says …go about your business. He’s saved us from the Cheyennes for a moment, but what will happen when we try to leave this village?”
Morris nodded. He dropped his head for a moment in thought, then he nodded to me, as much as to say: “I have it.” Then he stepped forward, lifted the flap of the teepee, and entered. I was at his heels. Inside we found the three squaws I had noticed already, together with a fourth one. By that I knew that whatever he might be in war, Standing Bear was certainly a great man in time of peace. There was much more comfort in this teepee than I had expected to find in an Indian’s habitation. The tent itself was stretched around very long, strong poles, and it was made of buffalo skins sewed firmly together with rawhide. These skins were painted on the inside with flaring pictures of hunting scenes. As studies of anatomy the figures were not masterpieces, of course, but they always seemed wonderfully bright and cheerful to me. There were four small basket beds, filled with buffalo robes, and one big one. In a corner were packages of dried meat. There were clumsily made racks, here and there. Some of them were filled with bows and arrows. And there were three excellent rifles of the latest make. I could not help wondering if the chief had secured them by honest purchase. There were other things in the tent. For instance, there were heaps of buffalo robes for everyone to sit on. The other details I can’t remember. At least, these were the main articles of every Indian household.
It was an ideal scene of domestic thrift, in a way. Standing Bear was looking over the mechanism of a rifle, taking it carefully apart and knotting his brows over it. I knew by that he was an exceptional Indian, for as a rule they are willing to take a rifle for granted. They class all machinery with the mysteries of life. The four squaws were beading moccasins. Every hand in the group was busy. Their tongues were not a whit less active. Only Standing Bear went on with his work without giving us a glance, but the women poured out a tide of talk that never ended. All the time they were prying at us with their eyes, making new discoveries, and then talking over their opinions with one another in the most naive manner. I was frightfully embarrassed, both because of their chatter, and because I felt that we were forcibly intruding ourselves on the chief’s household. However, Morris was magnificent. He took a pipe out of his pocket and lighted it. He went on smoking as though this were the most ordinary scene in his life, and he gave them back look for look. Those big, clear blue eyes of his were always a heavy weight for even a white man to bear, and I have never seen an Indian, man or woman, whose glance did not flick downward after fronting Morris for a moment.
After a time he finished his pipe, knocked the ashes out, and made a motion with his hand to his lips. The youngest squaw got up at once and brought us some dried buffalo meat. It was tough chewing, but I was famished and thought I had never tasted anything so good. After that, they brought us water. And there we sat. What would be the end of the play I could not imagine.
Presently Standing Bear got up, threw open the flap of the teepee, and, looking at us, he pointed outdoors. He could not have said more plainly: “You have rested enough. Now kindly take yourselves off.” I got ready to stand up until I saw that Morris had no intention of stirring. He was smoking again, and he continued to puff in a dreamy, contented way, looking at big Standing Bear as though the chief were no more than another painting on the side of the tent.
I would not have been surprised if the Indian had snatched out his knife and come for us, but after a frowning moment he went out. Then the squaws tried their hands at us. Gestures, fluent Indian prattle, were nothing to Morris. He kept a face as composed as granite. The youngest sat down beside him, began to smile and nod, and then rose, still talking, and went toward the entrance, looking back at him. Even this was not enough. Morris looked at her with a bland lack of understanding.
Night dropped over the village. The fire in the center of the teepee threw a wild, red light on the faces of the Indians and over the long golden hair of Morris. Then Standing Bear returned. He gave us a dark look, then muttered a word to the squaws, and they brought us two buffalo robes apiece. Morris had won again.
A LAST STAND
There we spent the night. At first I thought that I should never close my eyes in so strange a place. For, if I did, might I not be wakened by the point of a knife? Might not my last glimpse of life be the thousandth part of a second during which the blade slid into my heart? My own scalp would not be very highly prized, of course, but the long blond tresses of Chuck Morris would be an immense addition to the trophies of even so great a chief as Standing Bear. Just as this thought came to me, I heard the deep, regular breathing of Morris, and an instant later I was buried under a towering wave of sleep.