The other mourners made way for her, partly because no victim had been of so high a rank as her husband, and partly because she had honored herself and the whole nation by this perfect expression of her grief. A dreadful picture of despair and madness, she staggered on past Torridon and he closed his eyes, feeling very sick indeed at the sight.
He did not need to ask questions. From the babble of the crowd and the exclamations of the mourners he learned the details sufficiently. Standing Bull and Rising Hawk actually had pushed so far into the land of the Dakotas that they had entered the deep and narrow ravine leading toward the village over which Spotted Antelope was the great chief. But while they were passing through, that formidable warrior had fallen upon them, taken them in the rear with a mighty attack, and crushed them.
Standing Bull indeed had played the hero. He had allowed the remnant to get away, assisted as they were by the savage fighting of Rising Hawk, who had actually found time to count four coups and take a scalp in the short encounter.
The sound of the mourning rolled farther away, though the very heart of Torridon still was stabbed from time to time by the sudden shriek of a woman. He opened his eyes and saw before him the silent form of High Wolf, robed to the eyes, and those eyes were fixed on the face of Torridon with a terrible malignity.
V
It was plain to Torridon that the anger of the war chief was less because of the loss that had fallen upon the young braves of his tribe than because of some passion that he held against the white man himself.
“Hau,” said Torridon in quiet greeting.
The chief, uninvited, strode past him to the interior of the lodge, and Torridon followed him, seeing that some tiding of grave importance was about to be communicated to him. When he faced High Wolf, the latter said harshly: “It is true that White Thunder does not love Standing Bull. Standing Bull brought him to the Cheyennes. On account of that, White Thunder has given over the whole war party to the Dakotas. Twelve men are dead. Twelve men are dead and scalped, or else they are in the hands of the enemy. Why have you done this thing, White Thunder? If you did not love Standing Bull . . . well, you have the thunder in your hand and you can throw the lightning. Why did you not kill him and let the rest go?”
The first impulse of Torridon was open and frank disavowal, but suddenly he saw that merely to protest was of no avail whatever. To these red children of the prairie, he was the possessor of the most wonderful and potent medicine, and, if he wished, he could extend the aegis of his might over all their war parties, even the most distant. To deny that he possessed that power would, in the eyes of High Wolf, make him appear the merest hypocrite. It might mean, at once, a knife in the throat, or slow burning over a fire. He thought of this as he looked the old chief in the eye and answered slowly: “Even good medicine may be used wrongly.”
High Wolf blinked and then frowned. “Then what did they do? Did you make medicine for them, after all? No man heard you so much as sing a song when they left the camp.”
“Why should I sing songs or shake rattles like the other medicine men?” asked Torridon scornfully. “When the corn was dying and the dust was deep and white on the plains, did I sing a song to make the rain come?”
“You called to it,” said High Wolf, “and the heavens were covered with clouds. Why did you not call again, and send strength to Standing Bull?”
“If they had gone slowly and laid in wait,” said Torridon on the spur of the moment, “they would have had no harm. But they ran in like wild buffalo, and like buffalo they were killed.”
High Wolf apparently checked an angry exclamation. Then he replied: “Before the night comes, we send out fifty braves to go north. Tell me, White Thunder. What will be their fortune?”
Torridon was taken well aback. He had had to make medicine for these strange people before, but he had not been called upon to make prophecies.
As Torridon paused, the chief continued: “Now Spotted Antelope rides far south from his village. He waits for us. How shall we pass him, or how shall we fight against him? He has two or threescore fighting men. Their hearts are big. They laugh at the Cheyennes. What medicine have you for that, White Thunder?”
Like one who has his back against the wall, Torridon replied: “What is the use in sending the Sky People to help the Cheyennes, when the Cheyennes will not know how to use them?”
The return of the chief fairly took his breath. “You have been one who speaks with a single tongue in the camp of the Cheyennes. Tell me now, White Thunder . . . will you give me your promise to ride with a war party against the Dakotas and never try to escape from them? Will you go with them, and make the Sky People fight on our side?”
There was no possibility of refusal. The passion of the chief swept Torridon before it, like a cork on a flood. He dared not resist.
“I can give you my word,” he said gloomily.
High Wolf paused, his eyes still glittering. “I go to the young men,” he said. “Rising Hawk burns like a fire. He shall ride out again in spite of his wound. You, then, will ride with them and give them fortune?”
Torridon, dumb with amazement and woe, merely nodded, and the old man was gone, leaving the boy regarding earnestly a most terrible fate. He had but the slenderest doubt as to what would come of this. Pawnee or Crow or Blackfoot, all were dangerous enough, but the Dakotas, each as able a warrior as ever bestrode a horse, were distinguished above all for their swarming numbers. They could redden the plains with their men, if they so chose. He who invaded their country was like a fly walking into a spider’s web.
Young Willow came back into the lodge and, in silence, set about cleaning the rifle, though it needed no cleaning, and then laying out a pack that consisted of dried meat and ammunition, together with a few other necessaries. Plainly she had been told to do these things by High Wolf. And when Torridon glanced at her, he thought that he spied a settled malice in her expression.
Ashur was brought, the saddle put on him. Still the sounds of mourning filled the camp, but other noises were blended with them. Wild yells and whoops cut the air, somewhere a battle song was being chanted, and, going to the entrance of the lodge, Torridon saw half a dozen braves in front of their teepees dancing about in the fantastic step of stiff-legged roosters. All were painted for war; several were wearing war bonnets of eagle feathers. Nearby their horses were being prepared by industrious squaws, just as Ashur was being fitted.
The preparation was speedy. Torridon had known war parties to make medicine and go through formalities for a fortnight. Now everything was rushed through; the Cheyennes were red hot for vengeance, and old customs had to give way before the pressure.
For his own part, he wondered that, on an expedition of such importance, every man worthy of carrying arms was not enlisted, leaving the defense of the camp to the very old and the very young. But Indian measures were rarely so whole-hearted as this. They loved war and they loved scalps, but they hated to commit all their forces to a single action. They believed in skirmishes rather than in pitched battles.
So at last Rising Hawk was seen, mounted on a spirited pony, a dressing on his left forearm, which had been cut across by a bullet in the late action. Before him went two medicine men, complete in masks and medicine bags, and all the weird implements of their profession. As they came closer, they halted and held back, and one who had a mask like a wolf’s head over his shoulders pointed at Torridon, and then turned away.
Of course they were jealous of him and of his reputation. Their income for healings and for soothsaying had fallen away sharply since the coming of the white man to their camp, with his marvels of rain-making, and all the rest. No doubt, in their heart of hearts they were wishing the worst of ill fortune upon the expedition that he was to accompany.