“You think not?” Young Willow asked shortly.
“Of course not. You are only afraid of men like your chief, High Wolf.”
“Why only of him?” asked the squaw, more abrupt than ever.
“He has counted how many coups, and taken how many scalps?” asked Nancy.
“And should that make us afraid?”
“Yes. Doesn’t it?”
“Of course it does. High Wolf is a famous warrior. But he never has pulled the rain down out of the sky.”
“And White Thunder never has taken a scalp.”
The squaw stopped and peered beneath furrowed brows at the girl.
“You are like all the others,” she said. “A woman is never happy until her husband beats her. I never could be sure that High Wolf was a great chief until the day when he threw a knife at me. It missed my eye by the thickness of a hair. After that I knew that I had found a master. I stopped thinking about other men. You are the same way. White Thunder is not great enough for you.”
It eased the heart of Nancy to hear this talk. Nevertheless, she wanted much more confirmation, and she went on: “White Thunder is very gentle and kind . . . his voice never is harsh . . . of course I love him. But there are other things.”
“Like crushing the Dakotas? Like making the rain come down when he calls for it? Like using the birds of the sky to carry his messages and be his spies? Is that what you mean? What other men can do those things so well as White Thunder?”
“He never has taken a scalp,” Nancy repeated, recurring to the words of Standing Bull.
“Why should he take scalps?” said the old woman fiercely. “Does he need to take scalps? When a chief has killed a buffalo, does he cut off its tail? When a chief has killed a grizzly bear, does he cut off its claws and wear them as ornaments? No, he lets the other men, the younger men, the less famous warriors, cut off the claws. He gives the claws away. That is the way with White Thunder.”
“He never has joined the scalp dance. He never has joined in the war dance and boasted of what he has done.”
“The crow can caw and the blackbird can whistle,” said the squaw, “but a great man does not need to talk about himself. No more does White Thunder.”
“Never once has he counted coup.”
“Listen to me, while I say the thing that is true,” the other said. “He struck the Dakotas numb. He sent in the young warriors. All the sighting men rushed on the Dakotas, and the Sioux could not strike to defend themselves. With his power, White Thunder could do this. But why should he want to count coups on men who he knew were helpless? That is not his way. He knows that Heammawihio is watching everything that he does. Therefore, he does not dare to cover himself with feathers and scalps, and he does not even carry a coup stick. It is not necessary. His ways are not the ways of the other Cheyennes, and neither is his skin the same color. But you,” she added with heat, “talk like a young fool. You bawl like a buffalo calf whose mother has been killed. There is no sense in what you say. You should sit at home and work very hard and thank Heammawihio for the good husband he has given to you. I, Young Willow, have known many men and seen many young warriors. I have been a wife and still am one. But I never have seen a man so great and also so kind as White Thunder.”
This speech utterly amazed Nancy. From what she had heard, she rather thought that Young Willow hated the young master for whom she drudged at the bidding of High Wolf. Certainly they constantly were jangling and wrangling, uttering proverbs aimed at one another, to the huge delight of Torridon, and the apparently constant rage of Young Willow.
But now she saw that the sourness of the old squaw was rather a habit of face than a quality of heart. She smiled to herself, and went on with Young Willow to help carry in the next load of wood.
As they drew nearer to the brush, they saw some boys, stripped for running except for the breechclout thong around the hips, getting ready for a race. When they saw the two women, they rushed headlong upon them, yelling.
“What do they mean?” Young Willow cried, alarmed. “What do they want?”
She raised a billet of wood above her head and threatened them, shouting: “You little fools! I am the squaw of High Wolf, and this is the squaw of White Thunder with me! White Thunder will wither your flesh and steal your eyesight if you displease him!”
In spite of these threats, one of the youngsters darted in, took a heavy blow on the shoulder from the cudgel, and caught both Nancy’s hands.
She was cold with fear; his grip had the power of a young tiger’s jaws.
He shrilled at her: “You are White Thunder’s woman. Some of his medicine must be about you. Give me some little thing! I never have won a race! I am smaller than the others. Give me some little bit of medicine, and I shall carry it back to you afterward. Give something to me, and I shall win the race. They will be blinded by my dust!”
He shouted this. Other boys were pressing about her, clamoring likewise, catching at her eagerly. She almost thought that she would be torn to bits.
At her breast she had a small linen handkerchief. She took it and gave it to the first claimant, the small child who had so desperately wanted help. And off he went, whooping with delight.
The children lined up at a mark. Their race was around a tree some distance off and back to the mark again.
“What can that do for him?” said the girl to Young Willow.
Young Willow laughed. “You will see,” she said. “Everything about White Thunder is full of magic. Speaking Cloud had not killed game for a whole moon. I loaned him White Thunder’s bow. He killed four buffalo in one day.”
Nancy might have pointed out that this handkerchief was hers and had nothing to do with White Thunder, but she said nothing. So often it was impossible to speak sense to these people.
In the meantime, the race began. They were off in a whirl, rounded the tree, and came speeding back for the goal.
“Now look! Now! Do you doubt?” Young Willow asked in exultation.
Behold, the bearer of the white handkerchief was sweeping up from behind his other and larger companions. A starved-looking, wizened boy was he, half blighted in infancy by some illness. But now he came like the wind.
The boys in the lead jerked their heads over their shoulders. Their legs seemed to turn to lead. Their mouths opened. They staggered. And the youngster sped past them, half a stride the first to the line.
“White Thunder! You see what he can do?” cried Young Willow.
And even Nancy was a little staggered.
But, for that matter, she had long been convinced that her lover was the greatest of all men.
VIII
For twenty-four hours after the crisis was passed with Black Beaver, Torridon remained close to him, teaching the awe-stricken and joyous squaws how to cook broths for the patient and gradually to increase the food as the strength returned to the sick warrior. With care, there no longer was any danger. Black Beaver was an emaciated skeleton of a man, but his eyes were clear, and the joy of restored life burned in it wonderfully bright.
So Torridon, a tired man, went back to the village. On the way, he encountered a youngster bearing to him in his arms a little puppy, dead and cold. He laid the puppy at the feet of Torridon, made an offering of half a dozen beads from a grimy hand, and then stood expectantly.
It had even come to that—they looked to Torridon to raise the dead to life again.
He stared at the poor dead thing with pity and sorrow. “I shall tell you what I can do,” said Torridon. “His spirit has left him and will not come back. But I shall send that spirit into the other world. There it will grow big. When you die in your turn, it will be waiting for you. It will know you and come to your feet.”