“His camp is down the vale,” Singing Waters said. “His braves will spit you over their fires if you do not go away.”
“A horrible fate,” he managed in his mutilated Sioux, “but one to which I might readily resign myself with the image of creation’s masterpiece fresh in my mind.”
Before Singing Waters could reply, he had gallantly turned his horse, his back toward the creek as he waited. The girls scrambled out of the creek. As she dressed in the shelter of a bush, Singing Waters decided the young white man was to be trusted. Not once did he steal a glance over his shoulder.
Sam Tucker was aware of the lissom Indian girl all the way to the village. Every time he happened to catch her eye, he felt a jolt. He wondered if she felt it too. He thought of her marrying some buck and having to do the work and carry the water until the young proud shoulders had grown slumped and old. The thought disturbed him strangely; but even more disturbing was the possibility of her being married already.
His face darkened. Misbegotten fool, he thought, you came here to find Buffalo Biddix, as loyal a sidekick as a man ever had. Is your purpose so weakling in nature that it dissipates at the mere sight of a perfectly sculptured face and a long, easy stride that means she has trim ankles and slender legs?
They came upon a group of near-naked children, who shrieked and ran. And before them a silence settled as they reached the edge of the camp.
The site was a niche of paradise, nestled alongside the flashing creek, sheltered by tall poplar and oaks, kissed by the softest breeze from the mountains in the north; but there was hell in the camp, too, for the white man who dared enter. Sam could feel the grimness in the silence, the pressure of eyes masked with stolidity. The Sioux were at peace, but this was not the welcome of peace. Rifles were already in the hands of a few of the Crow. Sioux trouble next? Sam felt his forehead ice with beady sweat as he thought of settlers in the remote coves. He had seen massacre once; that was enough to last a lifetime.
Why it should be so, he did not know. He tried to tell himself he was wrong, letting his imagination run away with him. But he had studied Indian faces far too long to fool himself. This Sioux would fight, like any proud people, only if they thought they were being wronged. And their eyes told Sam that wrong had been done them.
A tall buck detached himself from the crowd lined up before the tipis. He was tall, powerfully built, with flat muscles rippling across his shoulders, chest, and down his arms. He had the chiseled face of a fighting man and eyes capable of great anger.
The buck grasped Singing Waters by the wrist and jerked her toward him. He stood blocking Sam’s path. He said to Singing Waters: “Has this sputum of a sick fox spoken to you?”
Sam understood the words. But he remained loose and relaxed in the saddle, his hands crossed on saddlehorn, ready to reach for both guns at once.
“It was a chance meeting,” Singing Waters said. “He acted with only respect. Let him pass, Strong Boy.”
Strong Boy made no move. The girl jerked her wrist from his grip. Anger was in her face; but she seemed to realize that she would seal the white man’s doom if she shamed the warrior. She said beseechingly, “He is but a lone man who acted with humility, coming in peace. It would not he honorable to block his path longer, and certainly not worthy of Strong Boy.”
Strong Boy stood aside. Sam hoped his effort to swallow his heart back into place was not visible.
Usually gangs of screeching urchins would plague his stirrups, but they were held quiet now behind their mothers’ skirts as he moved across the compound.
He brought his horse to rest before Running Elk. He wondered if the old chief remembered him. Then he decided an Indian never forgets.
Running Elk, as a warrior, had killed the great bear. He still stood tall, proud, and fierce. Yet age had taken the flesh from his strong bones, leaving him gaunt, with the face of an eagle.
Sam dismounted with an assurance he did not feel. “Is this the welcome of Running Elk?”
The old chief remained silent, his eyes like live coals under his hanging brows.
“Perhaps you don’t remember the great medicine of Tucker.”
“I remember,” Running Elk conceded. “You came to my tribe with your bitter brew when the great aches came to our bellies, making the strongest man roll upon the earth with great moans.”
“I cured many of your warriors.”
“True.”
“I cured you.”
“And for that reason, your life is not forfeit now. You may dwell in peace until the sun comes from his resting place with the morning. Then you must go, Tucker.”
Sam faced the chief squarely with contempt edging his face. “Are these the words of Running Elk, the killer of the great bear? He would turn aside his friend who comes in peace?”
“Your own kind has turned you aside, Tucker, by giving guns to the Crow. Again the white man conspires against the Sioux. Your kind would set Crow against Sioux and use that as the excuse to bring in soldiers with the great thunder guns that roll on wheels. You would burn our camps and kill our people.”
“Has Running Elk been touched with the tongue of the serpent?” Sam asked. And the darkening of the chief’s face made his heart lurch with the certainty that he had pushed his words too far. Running Elk stepped once pace toward him, hands clenching as his sides. Tucker’s every muscle wanted to retreat, but instead he stepped one pace toward the Indian. They were close enough for their breathing to mingle.
Running Elk said, “We know you are as many as the sands of the sea. We know we cannot win. We can only die as men should die. Unbroken, unconquered. Now you try my patience, Tucker.”
“And you mine,” Sam said. He moved to his horse, removed the Crow scalp. “By this scalp I swear that the whites wish to live in peace with the great Sioux people.”
“Then why sell guns to the Crow?”
“There are evil persons in any race.”
“True.”
“And this scalp has spoken to me. It tells me you have in your power a man, a wearer of a buffalo jacket, and the scalp says this man is innocent of any wrongdoing and must be permitted to go with me.”
Running Elk regarded Sam and then the scalp with narrowed eyes. “You know a scalp cannot speak,” he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. He had seen many powerful things of his own medicine man. And this white man had once showed them the most powerful medicine of all, rabbits coming from high silk hats, scarves ripped in shreds only to reappear whole. And the bitter brew that chased the great ache from the belly.
Sam shook the scalp. Distinctly, it said, “Release the wearer of the buffalo jacket.”
There was a gasp from the assembled men of the council at Running Elk’s back. Women muttered and hid their children and covered their own heads.
Even the warrior, surly-faced, sullen-lipped Strong Boy took a step back from his position where he could threaten the white man who had brought Singing Waters into camp.
“I lifted this scalp from the head of a hated Crow,” Sam said, “and rode far to present it to my good friend Running Elk. But he must do as the scalp commands.”
Running Elk turned to his council members. There was the buzz of discourse among them.
Running Elk turned back to Sam. There was greed in his eyes as he regarded the scalp. Then he spread his hands. “The council says the scalp does not know the truth. The wearer of the buffalo jacket was caught breaking open a case of guns.” He reached out. Trying to appear nonchalant, he suggested, “I will accept the gift of my friend Tucker.”
Sam glanced at the scalp, raised his brows, and then leaned his ear close to the gory hank. “The scalp will not change owners until I have been permitted to talk with the buffalo jacket.”