“Do the birds work for White Thunder, then?”
“Yes. Do you see that buzzard still hanging in the sky above us?”
“Perhaps he is waiting until we go, so that he can drop down on the dead buffalo, yonder?”
“Perhaps,” said the boy, but his smile showed that he was confident in his superior knowledge.
“Farther,” he expanded suddenly, “than they can smell dead meat, the buzzards and all the other birds can hear the name of White Thunder, and they come to listen, and to talk to him.”
“It is a great power,” Roger Lincoln said, keeping a grave face.
“I myself,” said the youth, “have seen a sparrow fly out from the lodge entrance of White Thunder.”
Roger Lincoln, after this crushing proof, remained respectfully silent for some time. “Now tell me,” he said finally, “if he has this great power, and if he is not happy among the Cheyennes, what keeps him from one day striking a great blow against the Cheyennes?”
“We are his people,” said the boy uneasily. “He was sent to us. Standing Bull brought him.”
“Did not White Thunder once ride away from you?”
“That is true,” admitted the Cheyenne.
“May not White Thunder be waiting patiently, hoping that because of the great services he has rendered to your people they will soon set him free, and let him go, with many horses to carry him and his possessions over the prairie?”
The young warrior was silent, scowling at the thought.
“And when he finds that the thing is not done, may he not lose his patience at last? May he not strike down the whole village with sickness, and while they die, he will ride away?”
Rushing Wind opened his eyes very wide.
And, striking while the iron was hot, Roger Lincoln continued: “Now I shall tell you why my rifle did not strike you today. A dream came to me. My friend, White Thunder, stood before me and said . . . ‘Every day I say to High Wolf and the other Cheyennes that I wish to be gone. They will not listen. Therefore, come and tell them for me. They may believe you. They are like children. They do not think that I shall strike them. Tell them. They may believe your tongue when they will not believe mine.’”
He paused, and Rushing Wind sat tense with fear and excitement.
“If I live to reach the village, I shall carry the word to High Wolf,” the young Cheyenne said.
“That would be the act of a very young man,” said Roger Lincoln.
“What should I do?”
“If you tell the chiefs, they will sit and do a great deal of talking with the old men. Everybody will talk.”
“That is true.” The young warrior nodded. “A great many words . . . many feasts . . . and nothing is done.”
“At last they will not be able to give up White Thunder,” Lincoln said. “He is precious to them. A man does not like to sacrifice his best rifle.”
“True,” said the Cheyenne again, wincing as he let his gaze rest upon his beloved weapon.
“And White Thunder is like a rifle to the Cheyennes.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Be a brave and bold man, for your own sake, for your friendship to White Thunder, for the sake of your whole tribe . . . and for the sake, perhaps, of the life that I have given back to you this day.”
Rushing Wind listened to this solemn prologue with grave, bright eyes.
“The day will soon come when you will be a guard with White Thunder in your care.”
“True,” said the youth.
“Let him ride out with the girl. Let him ride straight north. I, night and day, shall be waiting and watching for his coming. I shall have fast horses with me. It will be your part to handle the guards so that the two have a chance to get a little start. You are a strong young brave. Perhaps you will be the chief of the guards on that day.”
“Perhaps,” said the boy, stern and tense with excitement.
“Your own horse could stumble in the hunt. The other two or three you could first have sent back a little distance for some purpose. You could fire your rifle, and the bullet could miss the mark. These things all are possible.”
“Among the Cheyennes,” said Rushing Wind, “after that day I would be counted less than a dog in worth.”
“You could leave the Cheyennes and come to us. We would make you richer than any chief.”
“I would be known as a traitor. My tribe would scorn me.”
“Time darkens the mind and the memory. After a little while you could come back. You would have fine horses and guns to give to the chiefs. You would have splendid knives, and horse loads of weapons and ammunition. You would make the whole tribe so happy with your return and the riches that you gave away that they would never raise a voice against you in the council.”
Rushing Wind drew a great breath. His eyes were dim. The adventure was taking shape before them.
“And if you were not condemned in the council, you would be able to meet the warriors who spoke to you with anger or with scorn.”
The breast of the youngster heaved with pride and with courage.
“But if you do not do this thing, no one will do it. I have been led by the dream to find you. The medicine of White Thunder is working already. It has brought me here. It fills your own heart, now. His bird is watching above us to listen to your answer. Tell me, Rushing Wind, will you deliver your people from danger, or will you not?”
Rushing Wind leaped to his feet and threw his hands above his head. “I shall!” he cried.
“Look,” said the other. “The bird has heard. He departs to carry the news to his master.”
For the waiting buzzard, which rapidly had been circling lower, now, startled as the Indian sprang up, slid away through the air, rising higher, and aiming straight south and east.
Young Rushing Wind stared after it with open mouth of wonder. “Great is the medicine of White Thunder,” he said. “I am in his hands.”
IV
When Rushing Wind returned to the Cheyenne camp, he wrapped himself in as much dignity as he could, because his expedition had not been successful. Not that this was a matter to bring any disgrace upon him. As a matter of fact, nine-tenths of the excursions—particularly the single-handed ones—never brought any results. But they were valuable and were always encouraged by the chief. No one was more valuable during the hardships of a long march than the young man who had learned to support himself for many days, weeks, or months, riding solitary on the plains. He who had made several of these inland voyages was looked up to almost as though he had taken a scalp or counted a coup. A chief gathering a party for the warpath was sure to try to include as many of these hardy adventurers as possible.
As he crossed the river, he saw some boys swimming. They spied him at once and came for him like young greyhounds, whooping. Around him they circled, rattling questions, but when they gathered from his silence and the absence of any spoils that he had not done anything noteworthy, they left him at once, scampering back to the water. For the day was hot, the air windless. Only one careless voice called over a shoulder: “You have come back in good time, Rushing Wind. Your father is dying!”
Rushing Wind twisted about in his saddle. Then he galloped furiously for the village, quite forgetting his dignity in his fear and his grief.
He passed like a whirlwind through the village. Vaguely he noted what lay about him. Rising Hawk had a new and larger lodge than ever. Waiting River, in front of his teepee, was doing a war dance all by himself, looking very like a strutting turkey cock. In front of the home of Little Eagle seven horses were tied, and Little Eagle was looking them over with care. Ah, Little Eagle had a marriageable daughter, and no doubt this was the marriage price offered by her lover.