Nancy Brett cast one last, desperate look over her shoulder, and then set her teeth to endure the last stage of the journey as well as she could. If she was not strong, she was not brittle stuff that breaks. Only by degrees her power had failed her in this long forced march.
Making no effort to keep the horse herd running before them now, Standing Bull drove the last three ponies straight across the prairie and toward the Cheyenne village.
XVI
How earnestly Standing Bull prayed for the night, then. And night was coming down upon them fast. In a few moments, there would not be sufficient illumination to enable the white man to use the great magic of his rifle on the Cheyennes, and without that gun Standing Bull feared Lincoln not at all.
But the gray mare, Comanche, drew closer and closer. She seemed supported on wings, so rapidly did she overtake the straining Indian ponies. She had been matching her wonderful speed that day against half a dozen animals, and yet she had the strength to make such a final burst as this.
Standing Bull, throwing glances over his shoulder from moment to moment, suddenly exclaimed: “Rushing Wind, my brother! Look and tell me if what I think is true! That the gray gains on us no longer!”
Back came the joyous cry of the younger brave: “She has lost her wings! She is flying no longer!”
“Ride hard, ride hard!” urged Standing Bull. “Now that he cannot gain, he will no longer try to push the mare. He will take to the ground and fire on us.”
He had rightly interpreted the intention of the white scout. Now that the last strength had gone from beautiful Comanche, Roger Lincoln pulled her up short and dropped to his full length on the prairie. It was wonderfully long range, and the light was very bad indeed—far less than a half light. Yet at the explosion of the gun, Rushing Wind ducked his head and lurched forward with a stifled cry.
“Brother, brother!” called Standing Bull anxiously. “Did the bullet strike you?”
“No, no!” answered the boy. “But I heard it singing past me more loudly than a hornet. I am not hurt. Heammawihio, to you I vow a fine buffalo hide, well painted. I shall make your heart glad because you have saved me today.”
There was no second report. In another moment they were out of sight of Roger Lincoln in the thickening dusk. And now the stars began to come out, pale and winking. Other lights like stars, like red stars, appeared on the southern horizon.
“That is our city,” said Standing Bull. “We are free from pursuit.”
He drew up his horse. So weak was the girl that, as her horse stopped, she lurched forward and almost sprawled to the ground. But she recovered at once, and sat with stiffened lip.
“Look,” said Standing Bull to his fellow warrior. “I have never seen such a woman before. I saw her in the house in Fort Kendry, crying as a baby cries. I smiled and thought she was worthless. But you see, my friend. Out of such metal a man could make arrowheads and knives. White Thunder . . . you will see . . . he will be mad with joy.”
“I shall stand by and watch,” said Rushing Wind, laughing. “He pretends that nothing matters to him. He yawns when warriors make great gifts to him. But now we will see him cry out and shout and dance. But, for me, I prefer the girls of the Cheyennes. It needs a strong back to dig roots and a big hand to hold an axe.”
Standing Bull, however, made no answer. Once or twice he turned and stared earnestly into the darkness behind him, but there was no sound or trace of Roger Lincoln. It was as though he had permitted the night to swallow him after that single shot into which he had thrown all his skill.
Now the Indian leader rode close to the girl. With a strong hand beneath her arm, he supported her greatly. She let her head fall straight back, sometimes, so utterly weakened was she.
“She is tired. She is like a dead reed. It may break in the wind, Standing Bull,” cautioned the younger man.
Again Standing Bull made no reply, but looked earnestly on the face of the girl. There was no moon. There were no stars. Yet he could see her. It was as though he beheld her by the light of her own whiteness.
They came to the edge of the village before they were discovered. They entered, of course, in the midst of pandemonium. And straight they went to the lodge of White Thunder. It was as white as his name, made of the skins of nineteen buffalo cows, all of an age, all killed at the perfect season, or cured in exactly the same fashion.
Fires glimmered dimly through open lodge entrances. In the center of White Thunder’s lodge there was a fire, also. Standing Bull took the girl from her horse. She lay in his arms with closed eyes. Then he stalked into the lodge.
Paul Torridon lolled against a backrest, by the firelight, carefully sharpening a knife. Young Willow was at work cleaning the great iron cooking pot that simmered over the central fire all the day.
“Brother,” said Standing Bull, “I have come back from a far land and a far people to bring you a present.”
At the sound of his voice, all the noise outside the lodge was hushed. Only a child cried out, and the slap of a rebuking hand sounded like the popping of a whiplash. All that Standing Bull said clearly could be heard.
“When I brought you alone,” said Standing Bull simply, “I saw that you were unhappy. I decided that I would bring you a present that would fill your lodge with content.”
Here Torridon stood up and waved a hand in acknowledgment. Then, taking closer heed of the burden that the big Indian carried in his arms, Torridon stepped closer.
“She should be worth much to you,” said Standing Bull in conclusion, “because five good men and brave warriors have died that she might be brought to you.” Suddenly he stretched out his arms and the burden in them.
Torridon peered at it curiously, the white face, the closed eyes—and then with a great cry he caught Nancy Brett to his breast. Young Willow, her eyes glittering like polished steel, threw a robe beside the fire, and on it Torridon kneeled, and then laid down the girl, crying out her name in a voice half of joy and half of sorrow.
Standing Bull strode from the teepee, herding Rushing Wind before him into the outer darkness. He raised his great arm and stilled the clamor that began to break out from the crowd that surrounded him.
“Be still,” he said. “In that lodge there is a woman who is worth five men. Heammawihio demanded their lives before we could bring her here. And he knows the worth of human beings. It is her spirit that is great. Her body is not strong. Now all go away. Your shouting would kill her. Go away. The village should be silent.”
Out of respect for him, the throng was still. He walked through them to his teepee, and there was Owl Woman, the perfect wife, waiting to greet him. The firelight turned her to golden copper; her smile was beautiful. But to Standing Bull she suddenly seemed like a hideous cartoon of a woman, with a vast, stretching mouth, and a great nose, and high cheek bones. He made himself take her in his arms. She had been boiling fat meat in the pot. The odor of cookery clung to her garments. And Standing Bull remembered how he had ridden grandly from Fort Kendry, and the slender body that had lain in his arms, and the fragrance as of spring wildflowers that had blown from her hair against his face.