He turned his rifle toward them—then remembered that their keen eyes might detect the shining of the steel of the barrel. Hastily he muffled the gun under his robe.
Surely fifty other men among the rocks were making similar movements, but there was not so much as a whisper of sound. Very well that this was so, for there was no wind. The morning was deathly still, and the sky was turning milk-white with the coming of the day.
Straight on came the Dakotas. With a wildly beating heart Torridon counted them. Forty—sixty—seventy-two striding forms, black as jet through the land mist. Coming rapidly and yet without a whisper of sound.
They gained the throat of the ravine. Let not a Cheyenne move. Another ten strides, and the foe would be in the mouth of the trap.
But in the mouth of the ravine, as though suspicious of the greatness of their luck, the Sioux made a considerable halt, until, up the valley, came the sound of stamping and snorting horses. Then with one accord, no signal or order given, they moved forward, drawn by their lust for horseflesh and their burning hunger for Cheyenne blood. They went with their straight bodies now bent well forward, their rifles swinging, and presently they were well within the gap . . .
At that instant, a single rifle clanged from the opposite side of the ravine. In the middle of the Sioux band a warrior bounded into the air with a cry that seemed to Torridon the hugest sound that ever left human lips.
Before the dead body reached the ground, fifty rifles had spat fire and the Dakotas went down like toppling grass. They were all in a close body. If a bullet missed one it was almost sure to strike another. A great shout of woe and terror rose from them, and, as it fell, the shrill yell of dying men still hung high in the air. They wavered—then they broke back for the mouth of the ravine. Too late! Loading as they moved, the Cheyennes were slipping from among the rocks. That instant of wavering was costly. Against freshly charged weapons the Dakotas made their rush, and the blast of the second volley withered and curled them up and sent them scampering in plain panic down the valley.
After them went the Cheyennes, for they remembered, now, the horses and the boys with whom their trap had been baited. They rounded the turn of the ravine. The ground was littered with fallen guns, which the enemy had dropped in their flight, and in the growing light the Dakotas could be seen clambering hastily up the sheer walls of the rocks.
There were few loaded weapons to fire after them. But there was enough work to secure those who had not managed to gain the rocks. The fleetest of the Cheyennes had overtaken them, and, in the largeness of their hearts, a few prisoners were taken.
Madness took the Cheyennes by the throat. Up and down that ravine men danced and yelled in the fury of their joy. The scalps had been torn from the dead or the dying. The weapons had been gathered, the fallen stripped of clothing.
Before full day showed the real horror of the cañon, Torridon took Ashur and rode him down the valley, the stallion snorting with disgust. At the mouth, facing the brightening lowlands, he waited for the Cheyennes to come after him and begin the southward march. And then it was that temptation swelled big in the heart of Torridon. There was no one near him. Once away, no horse among their numbers could overtake Ashur.
But his promise held him—that and the knowledge that he was deep in hostile country where, in a day or two, scores of manhunters would be on the trail.
So he hesitated, and at last the torrent of warriors poured out around him. Their work was finished. Twenty-six dead men lay in the cañon. Five captives, their feet tied beneath the bellies of ponies, were carried along, and among them—strange chance—the boy who had escaped from them and given that warning by which the Sioux had been drawn into this dreadful man trap.
As every man went by Torridon he cast a present or a promise to the white man. Beaded moccasins, hunting knives, a deer-skin shirt, even one or two rifles were donated. A spare pony was loaded with these gifts, and well burdened by them.
But this was not all. Rising Hawk was hot to go at once against the Dakota village and strike it while its defenders were away and before those stragglers across the hills could regain the town.
He was dissuaded with difficulty. The way across the high hills was very short. It was certain that the stragglers from the battle already had carried themselves and their tale of woe to the town, and at that very moment the Dakotas were able to throw into the field a greater manpower than that of the invaders.
But though dissuaded from an attack, upon one point Rising Hawk had made up his mind. Among his prisoners was a tall youth, wounded through the left calf and bleeding freely in spite of what bandaging they could do. He never could live through a single day of riding. But he was the son of Spotted Antelope, and in the camp of the Sioux, still living and reserved for the return of Spotted Antelope, was Standing Bull. Why not exchange the son of the chief for the big Cheyenne?
They journeyed rapidly around the hills toward the town. Before they saw it, they heard a sound like the noise of a rising wind. It was the many-throated wail from the village. And as they came in view and drew nearer, they heard the noise increasing, a sound that took from the heart of Torridon all the hot pride of victory.
Such a victory never had been before—twenty-six Sioux fallen and five taken, and not a single Cheyenne had been lost!
Yet all the manhood of those stern Dakotas was not broken. Re-armed with every chance weapon they could pick up, the survivors of the late battle, reinforced by old men and young boys, sat their horses in a long line. They were drawn up close to the outer line of the lodges, to be sure, but nevertheless it was plain that they intended to fight their defensive fight, in case of need, in the open field and not from behind shelter. Up and down their ranks rode an old chief, no doubt exhorting them to be of good heart in spite of the disaster.
Rising Hawk sent in the boy who had been captured before. It was only a few minutes that they had to wait. Evidently the son of Spotted Antelope was highly prized in the Dakota camp, and presently the great form of Standing Bull was seen riding out from the village, with an escort of two warriors.
The son of the Sioux chief was sent forward to meet them, likewise accompanied by two Cheyenne warriors. So the parties met. The Cheyennes took their comrade and turned away. The Sioux returned to the village.
And so it was that Torridon clasped hands with Standing Bull again.
The giant Indian made no secret of his joy at finding himself among his friends again, but he declared that he never had had a doubt that his good friend, White Thunder, would devise some means for his delivery. He had been assured in a dream, he vowed, that White Thunder was coming to his aid, with the Sky People. Now it was accomplished.
The happiness of Standing Bull, indeed, was complete. For, having brought Torridon into the tribe and recaptured him after his escape, he felt that everything that was done by the medicine of the white man redounded largely to his credit. In this belief he was not crossed by the remainder of the Cheyennes.
Of the entire party of fifty, there was not a single man who had not at least counted a second or a third coup. And twenty-six scalps hung dripping at their saddlebows. They were enriched with honor, and they had avenged a recent defeat so thoroughly that the whole Cheyenne nation and all the most distant tribes of it would rejoice with them.
Rising Hawk was now a man of note. On the strength of this brilliant action, performed while he was yet wounded from the other battle, he stood fair to succeed High Wolf when that old man at last died or resigned his leadership of the tribe.