After him spoke Rushing Wind, the same who had made the wager with Torridon about the crossing of the river. He was equally hot on the other side. What treasures, he asked, could be offered by any man to offset the magic powers of White Thunder? He, Rushing Wind, had seen the great enchanter at work. He had seen spirits called down from the air in the form of hawks. He had seen the work those spirits could accomplish. White Thunder knew the language of bird and beast. He could draw the buffalo out of the plains and bring them close to the village. Everything was possible to him. He was a treasure in himself beyond price. As for Roger Lincoln, he was one man. What could one man perform against the entire Cheyenne nation?
If only, then, they could get what they came for and win the squaw who would keep the enchanter happy, they could wish for nothing else. The medicine of White Thunder would be turned against Roger Lincoln himself and soon that famous scalp would dry in the lodge of a Cheyenne. He, Rushing Wind, hoped that he would be the lucky man. At least, he was not afraid.
This speech of a headlong youth was received in silence. Only the eyes of the older warriors turned gravely to one another, exchanging a thought.
Finally Standing Bull said, though gently: “No white man ever is alone. Roger Lincoln is a name that can gather a tribe of white warriors. Because I am leading this party, now I must think deeply and pray to Heammawihio for guidance. For myself I wish nothing. I am doing all this for the sake of our people. I shall pray with a pure heart. May I receive guidance.”
He filled his pipe. The others withdrew softly from about him.
XII
When night came down upon the camp of the Cheyennes, where they had improvised some comfort in the woods, they found that the clement weather had changed much for the worse. The moon for which they hoped did not appear. Instead, the sky was covered with deep gray clouds in the evening, and, as the darkness began, the rain commenced, also, falling small and soft, but gradually penetrating their clothes with wet and cold. The trees gradually were drenched with moisture. A heavy pattering began in the woods that sounded like the fearless striding to and fro of wild beasts. The fire burned small, with much smoke and little heat, as all the fuel was soaked that they threw into the heap. There was small comfort for them. They were in a far land. They were close to the power of the white men. And their hearts were heavy with the knowledge that they had done wrong, and were contemplating a greater evil.
For, as the darkness came thick, and the rain began to descend, Standing Bull had advanced from among the woods and announced that, after consulting the Great Spirit with all his heart, he could not understand any message, and therefore he took it for granted that they should continue with the work on which they had come.
That evening he would look over the situation. As for the rest of the warriors, he recommended to them that they earnestly pray that a dream might be sent to one of them suggesting the proper course for the war party.
With that, Standing Bull left them and slipped away among the woods and among the scattering houses until he came close to the square-built log cabin of Samuel Brett.
Here he began to prowl with the greatest caution. The cold of the rain, driven to the bone by occasional flurries of wind, he quite disregarded. He moved in the darkness as though he had been moving in the open light of day, and trying to make his approach unnoticeable under the battery of a hundred suspicious eyes. From rock to rock, from bush to bush, he worked softly, until he came close to the house.
After that, he worked back and forth under the wall. By the kitchen door he paused and smelled cookery. He was hungry, and the odors tempted him. There were such fragrances as he never before had connected with food. However, he banished this passing weakness at once. Completing his tour of investigation, he found two windows, but both were closed and darkened against the night and the rising storm.
He came back to the kitchen door, and pressed close to it. It was a work of some danger. There were considerable cracks in this home-made door, and through the cracks ran long fingers of light that traveled far into the night and showed the rain sifting down steadily. In addition, those fingers of light must be touching his person, and, if anyone were abroad to watch him, he surely would be revealed.
However, it was necessary for him to learn something of what was inside the house. So he put his eye to crack after crack until through one of the apertures he was able to see the corner that included the stove and the sink.
Two women were there washing tins and dishes. One washed. One dried. He could see the face of her who dried. She was young, slender, dark of eye and skin. She was pretty enough to have caused the heart of a young brave to leap. Doubtless it was she who White Thunder wanted.
As for she who washed, her back was turned. She was doubtless the squaw of the house. Yet her back was not flat and broad. The nape of her neck was delicately rounded. However, the squaws among the whites were not like the squaws among the Indians.
He waited, listening. Their voices were like the sounds of two brooks running through a still woodland, bubbling, and often running together with laughter. Those sounds were pleasant to the ear of Standing Bull. But he thought of the strong-handed squaws in his teepee. He thought of Owl Woman, who nearly had slain herself in the intensity of mourning for her lost lord.
Then his mind grew more contented. To each people, their own women. But his own women were the best in the world, he was sure. Besides, one of them had given him a male child so that the memory of Standing Bull should be kept strong and his spirit alive among men.
At last, she who washed turned from the sink. The heart of Standing Bull sank. She was as young as the other. She was younger. Her hair was not dark, but light. The radiance from the lamp shone through it, making it glisten at the outer edges. Her cheek and throat were as sleek as the cheek and throat of a baby. She had large, dim eyes. They did not dance and sparkle like the eyes of the darker girl. There was not much life in this paler creature. And, therefore, doubtless White Thunder could not have chosen her.
However, he who is wise reserves his judgment. Standing Bull reserved his. Who, after all, can step inside the mind of the white man and be sure of his thoughts? He lives by contraries. The creature will fight, but he cares nothing for the glory of the counted coup, or the symbol of the scalp. He fights to destroy bodies. The red man understands that there is no true death except to the spirit. And so in all things, the white man, in spite of his medicine and his wisdom, lives by contraries, doing foolish things. Therefore, it might be that White Thunder would prefer this paler girl, this dim-eyed, sad-faced creature.
But why, after all, should she be sad?
Something stirred at the edge of the woods. Instantly Standing Bull was close down at the foot of the wall of the house, where the darkness covered him. Footsteps came up to the door, a big man was seen there, striped by the light that shone through the cracks. He thrust the door open.
As the door closed upon him, gay voices broke out. There was laughter. Standing Bull understood not a word, but very well he recognized the sound of rejoicing. Then he crept back to his place of espial and stared through again. The big man had placed on the floor the body of a young deer that he had carried upon his shoulders. Now he sat at a table near the stove—a powerful fellow with huge shoulders and a stern face. His clothes were beginning to steam. A white squaw, older than the two girls, came hurrying in to him. They exchanged words. Her hands were full of cloth, and with it she returned to the other room. The dark-eyed beauty went with her and left the paler girl behind.