From the carcass, the Cheyenne took only the tongue. He returned to the cow, took from her the tongue, also, and then prepared to remove some other choice bits. He would gorge himself in a great feast, dry the flesh that remained in strips, and then set himself for the homeward journey. It was not a great thing to have killed two buffalo, but it was better than nothing, and it was, perhaps, the explanation of the dream that had sent him forth to try his fortune in the open country alone. At least, he had not so much as broken the shaft of an arrow in this encounter. The arrows, soon cleaned and restored to his quiver, were as good as ever, though they might be the better for a little sharpening.
On the whole, the heart of Rushing Wind was high, and he returned cheerfully to the point where he had left his other weapons, hastening a little on his still sweating horse, because he was as anxious about the welfare of the rifle as though it were a favorite child.
He sighed with relief when he found that lance and shield and rifle and pack were all in place, and, dismounting, he looked first to the gun, stroking it with a smile. It was half weapon and half medicine, in the eyes of Rushing Wind. He had only one thing more precious, and that was the richly ornamented hunting knife in his belt, the gift of that prince of doctors and medicine men, White Thunder.
Something stirred just behind the Indian. It was no more than the slightest of whispers in the grass, but it made the young Cheyenne twist sharply around.
He found a white hunter risen to his knees in the grass, a long rifle at his shoulder, and a deadly aim taken upon his own heart.
“Stand fast,” said the white man. “Drop your rifle. You still may live to return to your lodge.”
He spoke in fairly good Cheyenne, and the young brave said with a groan: “Roger Lincoln!” Clumsily the English words came upon his tongue. “And the dream was a lying dream that was sent to me.”
II
In the first place, Rushing Wind was disarmed. Some brush grew nearby, hardly ankle high. Then, at the suggestion of the white man, they gathered some of this brush. They made a fire and began to roast bits of the tender buffalo tongues on the ends of twigs. While they cooked, they talked, the Cheyenne with a rising heart.
Roger Lincoln said in the beginning: “You were with Standing Bull when he came to Fort Kendry and first stole away Paul Torridon, who you call White Thunder?”
“I was not,” said the Cheyenne.
“But you were with Standing Bull when he came up again and captured the white girl, Nancy Brett, and took her away across the plains?”
The young Indian raised his head and was silent. His eyes grew a little larger, as though he were in expectation of an outburst of enmity. But Roger Lincoln pointed to the little fire that was burning so cheerfully.
“We are cooking food together. When we eat together we are friends, Rushing Wind, are we not?”
The other hesitated: “It was I who was with Standing Bull,” he said. “Why should I deny it? You saw me with him. I was with him when you offered all the guns and horses if he would set White Thunder free.”
“But he would not do that.”
“How could Standing Bull promise? How could any of us promise? Not even High Wolf, the greatest of our chiefs, could send him away. The people would not endure to see him go. They know what he has done for us.”
Roger Lincoln nodded and frowned. “He has made rain for you, and through him you’ve killed a good many Dakotas.”
“And he has healed the sick and given good luck to the men on the warpath. He brings the buffalo to the side of the village,” added Rushing Wind.
“Those things have happened now and then. He doesn’t do them every day.
“A man cannot hope to take scalps every day of his life,” said Rushing Wind naïvely. “And,” he added, growing sadder, “I never have taken a single one.”
“All is in the hands of Heammawihio,” said the white man. “All that a warrior can do is to be brave and ready. Heammawihio sends the good fortune and the bad. Tell me, are you a friend of White Thunder in the camp?”
The eye of the youth brightened. He took from his belt the hunting knife with the gaudy handle. Roger Lincoln had not troubled to remove that means of attack from his captive, as though he knew that his own great name and fame would be sufficient to keep the youngster from attacking hand to hand.
“This,” said the young Cheyenne, “was given to me by White Thunder. You may judge if he is my friend.”
“And Standing Bull. He also is your friend?”
“He is a friend to White Thunder. Not to me. Standing Bull,” went on the boy carefully, “is a great chief.” He explained still further: “White Thunder has made him great.”
“No,” said Lincoln. “Any man who dared to come into the middle of Fort Kendry twice and steal away whites is great without any help. But although this man is a great chief, he is not a great friend of yours?”
The boy was silent.
“Very well,” said Roger Lincoln. “We cannot be friends with everyone. That isn’t to be expected. But now I want you to look at everything with my eyes.”
“I shall try,” said the boy. “You are a great hunter of bears and buffalo . . . and men.” He let his brow darken a little as he said this.
“Tell me,” said Roger Lincoln. “Before White Thunder was stolen away, was I not a friend to the Cheyennes?”
“It is true,” said the boy.
“He is my best of companions and friends,” said Roger Lincoln. “Once my life lay at his feet like this fire at ours. He could have let it be stamped out, but he would not do that. He saved my life. And at that time I was a stranger to him. I was large and he was small. I was strong and he was weak. Now, after he had done that much for me, I ask you to tell me if he should not be my friend?”
The Cheyenne listened to this story with glistening eyes. “It is true,” he said, and his harsh voice became soft and pleasant.
“However, he was stolen away by Standing Bull, whose life also White Thunder had saved,” continued Roger Lincoln.
“Yes,” said Rushing Wind, “and more than his life, his spirit.”
“And after he was taken away, what should I do? Should I sit in my lodge and fold my hands?”
“No,” Rushing Wind replied carefully. “You should have put on the war paint and gone on the warpath. And you have done it,” he added. A glitter came in his eyes. “Six Cheyennes have died. Their names are gone. Their souls have rotted with their bodies on the prairies.” He looked keenly at Roger Lincoln. “I am the seventh man,” he said.
“You are not,” replied the great hunter. “We eat together, side-by-side. I give you my friendship.”
Rushing Wind replied, still hesitant: “The hawk and the eagle never fly side-by-side.”
“Listen to me, hear with my ears and believe with my mind. In my day I have killed warriors. The list of them is not short. It would be a small pleasure to me to add one more man to the number who have gone stumbling before me to the house of darkness. But you can do a great service to me out of good will and with your life still yours.”
The Cheyenne was silent, but obviously he was listening with all his might to this novel suggestion.
“I cannot buy your good will,” said Roger Lincoln, “but I give your life back to you as a peace offering. This thing I will do, and I promise that I shall not take my gift back. Besides this, I ask no promise in return from you. I shall tell you the thing that I wish to do. Afterward, you will think. Perhaps you will wish to do what I want. Perhaps you will merely smile and laugh to yourself and say that I have talked like a fool.”