Here, however, was his father’s lodge. He flung himself from his pony.
Smoke issued in thin breaths from the entrance; he smelled the fragrance of the burning needles of ground pine, and knew that some doctor must be purifying the teepee.
Softly he entered.
There were no fewer than four doctors and their women at work in the lodge. They were walking back and forth or standing over the sick man, shaking the rattles of buffalo skin filled with stones to drive away the evil spirit that caused the sickness. As for Black Beaver, he lay stiffly on his bed, his face thin, cadaverous. His eyes were half opened. They looked to Rushing Wind like the eyes of a dead man.
Along the walls of the tent he saw his mother and the other squaw, watching with strained eyes, already gathering in their hearts, apparently, the fury of the death wail and the horror of the death lament.
Rushing Wind was a bold young brave, but he trembled with weakness and with disgust. Death seemed to him a foul, unclean thing. Such a death as this was most horrible. But a death in the open field, in battle—it was that for which a man was made.
He passed quickly through the weaving mass of the doctors and their women and crouched beside the bed of his father. So dense were the fumes of the sweet grass and the other purifying smokes that he hardly could make out the features of the warrior. He had to wave that smoke aside.
When his son spoke, Black Beaver merely rolled his eyes. His skin was dry and shining. It was hot as fire to the touch. Plainly he was out of his mind and very close indeed to death.
Rushing Wind himself felt dizzy and weak. He thought that it was the evil spirit of sickness coming out of his father’s body and attacking him in turn. So he shrank back beside his mother. It was frightfully hot in the teepee. Naturally everything was closed to keep in the purifying smoke, and the fire blazed strongly. Outside, the strong sun was pouring down its full might upon the lodge.
“How long?” he asked his mother in the sign language.
“For three weeks,” she said in the same method of communication.
“What has been done for him?”
“Everything that the wise men could do. Look now. You would not think that an evil spirit could stay in the body of a warrior when so much purifying smoke is in the air.”
“No. It is wonderful.” The boy sighed. “It must be a spirit of terrible strength. What was done at the first?”
“All that should be done. Your father began to tremble with cold one night. Then he burned with fever. He was nauseated. The next day he began to take long sweat baths, and after each bath he would plunge into the river. This he did every day.”
“That was good,” said the boy.
“Of course it was good. But he seemed to get worse. We called in a doctor. Still he got worse. Two doctors came. Now we have given away almost everything. There are only two horses left of the entire herd.”
In spite of himself, Rushing Wind groaned. However, he was no miser. He said at once: “Why have you not called for White Thunder?”
“I would have called him. But your father and his other wife, here, would not have him. Your father does not like his white skin and his strange ways.”
“Mother,” said the boy, “I will go for him now. Black Beaver is wandering in his mind. He would not know what was happening to him.”
“It is no use,” said the squaw. “We have nothing to pay to White Thunder.”
“But he often works for nothing.”
“Your father is not a beggar, Rushing Wind,” she answered.
“He will come for my sake. You will see that he will come gladly. He is my friend.”
“There is no use,” repeated the squaw sadly. “I have seen men die before. Your father is rushing toward the spirits. He will leave us soon. Nothing can keep him back, now.”
Rushing Wind, however, started up and left the tent. When he stood outside the flap of the entrance and had carefully closed it behind him, he was so dizzy that he had to pause a moment before the clearer air made his head easier. It was marvelous, he thought, that such clouds of purification should not have cured his father.
He went at a run across the camp and came quickly to the lodge of White Thunder, noticeable from afar for its loftiness and for the snowy sheen of the skins of which it was composed. But when he stood close to the entrance, he heard voices and paused. He had seen a great deal of White Thunder, and the great medicine man always had been simple and kind to him. However, one never could tell. These men of mystery were apt to be changeable. Suppose that when he asked the help of the great doctor the latter demanded a price and then learned that only two horses remained to the sick man.
With shame and pride, Rushing Wind flushed crimson. He knew not what to do, so he hesitated.
“Here,” the complaining voice of Young Willow was saying, “the red beads should go in a line that turns here.”
“I shall do it over again,” said the voice of Nancy Brett.
The brave listened with some wonder. The white girl had learned to speak good Cheyenne with marvelous speed. But, for that matter, of course the medicine of White Thunder would account for much greater marvels than this.
“Let the moccasins be,” said White Thunder, yawning.
There was a cry of anger from Young Willow. “Do you want to teach your squaw to be lazy?” she asked.
“She is not my squaw,” said White Thunder.
“Ha!” said Young Willow. “The stubborn man will not see the truth. It pleases him to be wrong because he prefers to be different. Is she not living in your lodge? Does she not eat your food? Does she not wear the clothes that you give her?”
“She is not my squaw,” White Thunder persisted carelessly. “She is a stolen woman. Who asked her father for her? Who paid horses to her father?”
“What horses is she worth?” asked the squaw roughly.
“Hush,” White Thunder said. “You are rude, Young Willow.”
“I am not rude,” said the old woman. “I love her, too. But she is a baby. I speak with only one tongue. I cannot lie. How many horses is she worth? She cannot do beadwork except slowly and stupidly. She cannot flesh a hide . . . her wrists begin to ache. She cannot tan deerskins. She does not know how to make a lodge or even how to put it up. She cannot make arrows.”
“She is a wonderful cook,” said White Thunder.
There was a peal of cheerful laughter. It fell on the ear of Rushing Wind like the music of small bells. He knew that it was the white girl laughing, and he wondered at her good nature.
“Bah!” said Young Willow. “What is a bow good for when it has only one string? Besides, marriage is more than a giving of horses. It is love, and you both love one another.”
“Are you sure?” White Thunder asked.
“Of course I am sure,” said the squaw. “You look at each other like two calves that have only one cow for a mother. I understand about such things. I am old, but I am a woman, too.” She cackled as she said it.
“You are old,” said a heavy voice—and Rushing Wind recognized the accents of Standing Bull, that battle leader—“you are old, and you are a fool. Old age is often a troublesome guest.”
“If I am troublesome,” grumbled Young Willow, “I shall go back to the lodge of my husband. I never have any thanks for the work that I do here.”
“Do what you are bidden,” rumbled Standing Bull. “Keep peace. Speak when you are bidden to speak. A woman’s tongue grows too loose when she is old.”
There was a cry of anger from Young Willow. “Why are you here to teach me?” she demanded of Standing Bull. “Go back to your own lodge. You have wives and you have children. Why do you always sit here? Why do you come here and look at this white girl like a horse looking at the edge of the sky?”