“I would say that he is a great man among the Cheyennes,” she agreed cautiously.
“But you do not know,” Standing Bull went on, “that in their hearts, when they speak among themselves, all the Cheyennes despise this man.”
She was struck dumb.
“All,” he continued, “except some of the young braves, like Rushing Wind. They, also, do not think clearly. Their minds are full of clouds. But the warriors who have counted many coups and taken many scalps see the truth about this white man.”
She listened, seeing that a crisis was rapidly approaching in the conversation.
“After a while,” he continued, “even the younger warriors will understand White Thunder. They, also, will smite to themselves when they see him pass. And then how will you feel?”
“If I love him, I shall not care,” she answered.
“Why do women love men?” asked the chief. He did not wait for an answer, but he continued swiftly: “Because a man is brave, because he does not fear the enemy, because he breaks the ranks of the Dakotas in the charge and counts coups upon them and takes their scalps.”
She could not speak. He was growing more and more excited.
“You think,” he went on, “that someday White Thunder will grow older and bolder and that then he will begin to do these things, but you are wrong, for he never will do them. I, Standing Bull, will tell you that, because it is true, and I want you to know the truth.” His breast was beginning to heave and his eyes to shine. Then he said: “But there are others among the Cheyennes who have done these things. I, Standing Bull, have done these things. It was I who went out and dreamed by the bank of the river, with the underwater people reaching out their hands for me. It was I who went up among the Sky People and found White Thunder and brought him down to my people. All this is known to the Cheyennes. All the chiefs and even the children know of these things that I have done.”
“I have heard them say so,” the girl said, still careful to a degree.
“And also in their councils the old men send for me. They put me in a good place in the lodge. The medicine of Standing Bull is good, they say. It is very strong. When I speak, they listen. I have a strong brain. It thinks straight as a horse runs. When I speak, the Cheyennes all listen. Before long, when High Wolf dies, I shall be the greatest of the chiefs. I tell you this, because it is a thing that you ought to know.”
“I have heard all the people speak well of you,” she replied. “White Thunder praises you, too. He is a great friend of yours.”
She hoped that this remark might soften the humor of the chief, but it had a contrary effect.
“He cannot help but be a friend of mine,” said Standing Bull. “The Sky People sent him to me. Therefore, he is forced to be my friend, but all the time he hates me in his heart. He knows that I first brought him here. When he ran away, I went after him. I found him among the white men. They had many guns. They were great warriors. They were his friends and they were ready to strike a blow for him. But Standing Bull was not afraid. He went in among them. He took White Thunder as a mother takes a child. He carried White Thunder across the wide prairie and back to the Cheyennes, and all the people shouted and were glad to have the great medicine man among them once more. So White Thunder still pretends to be my friend, but it is only because he knows that I am strong. I am stronger than he is. In spite of all his medicine, I can do what I want with him. He was given to me by the Sky People.”
In his emotion and his pride, he swayed a little from side to side, and his voice reverberated through the lodge like thunder.
The girl watched, cowering a little. She felt that there was a touch of madness in this frantic warrior.
“Also,” said the chief, continuing rapidly, “I tell you that Standing Bull has counted many coups. When the coup stick is passed and they ask who has counted twelve coups, the other braves sit silent, until I am called upon. I have taken six scalps. With them I am going to make a rich scalp shirt. Those scalps now are drying and curing in my lodge and they make the heart of Standing Bull great.
“Now I tell you why I am saying these things. If you stay with White Thunder, soon you will be ashamed. You will wish that you had married even the poorest of the warriors. You will wish that your man was brave and strong in battle. But I, Standing Bull, offer to take you. I will put you on a fine horse. I will carry you away. We will forget White Thunder. I have spoken.”
VII
No speech was possible to poor Nancy Brett. If an indignant denial and upbraiding burst almost to her lips, she forced it back.
This was treason of one man to his friend. But, moreover, it was something else. It was what Standing Bull considered a statement of plain fact. He wanted to spare her a dreadful humiliation and the complete ruin of her life.
He would leave his place in the nation, and for her sake strive to work out a new destiny in another tribe of the Cheyennes. Leaving his lodge, his horses, his wives, his son and daughters, he would begin a new life.
She felt the force of all these things. She felt, too, that if he were repulsed he would become an active and open enemy, not only of her but of Paul Torridon. And what an enemy he could be she was well able to guess.
So, half stunned as all these thoughts swept into her mind, she was unable to speak, but stared first at the chief, and then at the ground.
He took the burden of an immediate decision from her. He rose and said gently: “Men are like midday, clear, strong, and sudden. Women are like the evening. They are full of a soft half light. Therefore, let my words come slowly home to your mind. Then as time goes on, you will see that they are true. I, Standing Bull, shall wait for you.”
With this, he wrapped himself in his robe and passed out from the lodge, clothed in his pride, his self-assurance, his vast dignity. She watched him going like the passing of a dreadful storm, with yet a fiercer hurricane blowing up from the horizon’s verge.
She wanted to talk to Torridon at once and give him warning of what had happened. But there was no one with whom she could talk except Young Willow.
That bent crone returned to the teepee, carrying wood. When she saw Nancy Brett alone, she cried out in anger, and, casting down her own burden, bade her run to help in carrying in the next load.
Nancy went willingly enough. Any exertion that would take her mind away from her own dark troubles was welcome to her. The squaw, at the verge of the village, where the brush grew, had cut up a quantity of wood, and she stacked the arms of Nancy with a load under which she barely managed to stagger to the entrance of the lodge. Then she pitched it onto the floor and clung to a side pole, gasping for breath. Young Willow, in spite of her years, threw down a weight twice that which Nancy had been able to manage, and, scarcely breathing hard, turned to the girl with more curiosity than unkindness.
“They have let you grow up lying in bed,” said Young Willow. She took the arm of the girl in her iron-hard thumb and forefinger.
“Tush,” said the squaw. “There is nothing here. There is nothing here.” She tossed the arm from her, but then she told Nancy to sit down and rest. On the contrary, the white girl followed her, though Young Willow scolded her all the while they went back to the brush, saying: “What! White Thunder will take your hand and find splinters in it. ‘Who has made this child work?’ he will say, and he will look on me with a terrible brow.”
It seemed to Nancy an ample opportunity to draw from the squaw confirmation of the viewpoint of the Indians concerning Torridon.
She said simply: “I don’t think you would be very afraid of White Thunder, no matter what he said.”