The Sacred Valley

by Max Brand

  Down the street, at the head of the navigable portion of Witherell Creek, appeared the lofty twin smokestacks of the river steamer that was the link between the prairies and the inland regions, the huge water roads of the Mississippi Valley. Finally, a beautiful ghost in the pasture beside the Lester house, Sabin saw White Horse, gilded by the moonlight.

  Charlie Galway stood in the foreground, calling out: “Attention, everybody! Here’s Standing Bull, the great Cheyenne war chief. You can see that he looks young, but he looks mighty mean. What’s the pleasure of you gentlemen about Standing Bull? Richard Lester has just been murdered in his own house. He was sitting in the kitchen where the Indian was sleeping on the floor. There’s a noise heard. The other people in the house run into the kitchen. They find Lester lying on the floor dead, and Standing Bull is there, looking at him, and Standing Bull’s tomahawk is sunk into the head of Lester. What does that look like to you, boys?”

  One man stepped forward and flung into the air the noosed end of his lariat of rawhide. It dropped over the limb of a tree that stood beside the wagon and hung there, dangling, twisting a little like a dying snake.

  “I’ll give that much to justice!” he shouted. “The rest of you can string him up.”

  Instantly the nearer ranks of the crowd pressed about the wagon looking curiously and savagely up into the face of the chief.

  “These people are not friends, and they are not fit to give judgment,” said Standing Bull aside to Rusty. “Their minds are already fixed. Their thoughts are not like trees that grow, but like posts cut off and dead in the ground.”

  “You must be wrong, brother,” said Rusty. “I have heard a great deal about the white man’s law. The lariat on the tree is not to hang you. It is only a symbol of what happens to evil men. Tell me, now, exactly what happened in the house.”

  He listened for a moment, and, when the words were clear in his mind, he held up a hand for silence. The crowd gave it to him grudgingly.

  “Listen to the white Indian!” called somebody.

  Rusty Sabin said: “Standing Bull is my brother. We have mingled our blood together. He is an honest man . . . his tongue cannot say the thing that is not so.”

  “What are you trying to give us?” roared a man. “An Indian that won’t lie?”

  Rusty said: “Here is my right hand. The words of Standing Bull I would trust more than I would trust my right hand.” Then he went on: “Standing Bull was asleep in the kitchen. He heard the old man cry out. He looked, and saw Richard Lester struck down with the tomahawk, which was lying on the table. He was struck down by a man who jumped out the window. Standing Bull drew out a knife and jumped through the window after the other. He ran here and there through the night. But there were many bushes and he could not see the murderer. Then he came back into the house. That is all his story, and it is true.”

  “That story ain’t worth a damn,” said a voice. And there was a loud murmur of agreement.

  Rusty stepped forward to the edge of the wagon. “Who tells me that I lie?” he asked, staring over the faces.

  And the sudden answer roared from fifty throats: “I tell you that the Indian lies!”

  Galway leaped up into the wagon. Rusty caught him by the collar of his deerskin shirt and quickly drew his knife.

  “Steady,” cautioned Galway. “You see how the thing’s running, Rusty? Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try to change the mind of this here crowd, if you say the word. I’ll talk them out of their idea, which is to hang Standing Bull right pronto. Listen to me . . . tell me where you dug up the gold and I’ll change the minds of these people.”

  Rusty said: “The gold is in a place where no man can go.”

  “Where no man can go? Why, I’d go to hell and back for it,” said Galway.

  “Is this the white man’s law and justice?” asked Rusty. “Is this all that they will do? Do they know who Standing Bull is? Do they know that he is a great chief and that he was a guest in the house of the dead man?”

  “There’s no use in you talking for him,” said Galway. “You’ve said that you’re his partner. They won’t believe anything that you say. Speak up . . . will you tell me where the gold was dug?”

  “Justice that is bought is not justice,” said Rusty. “If I wrong a man, and then give him two horses, that does not make the wrong right.”

  “Get out of there, Charlie,” said a man in the crowd. “And let’s get done with the damned Indian. It’s too cold to stay up all night.”

  “Will you tell me where the gold is, or will you let them hang Standing Bull?” demanded Galway angrily.

  “What can I do?” asked Rusty sadly. “If Standing Bull dies, I must die with him. But if I tell you where the gold was found, my spirit and his spirit never will reach the Happy Hunting Grounds. There would be a curse on us.”

  “You damned ignorant, bigoted fool!” shouted Galway.

  He leaped down from the wagon, and Rusty, looking beyond the crowd, saw White Horse, brighter than silver. He whistled. The stallion leaped over the pasture fence like a bird.

  “Up and at them, boys!” shouted Galway. “A pair of damned murdering Cheyennes. Clean ’em up!”

  “String ’em up in a pair!” yelled another man. “A white Indian is a pile worse than a red one.”

  Half a dozen men laid hands on the wheels of the wagon, preparatory to leaping into it. Others swarmed up on the tongue to climb in over the driver’s seat.

  And Rusty said to big Standing Bull: “Now, brother, I have been a fool to trust the white men. For the last time in my life I have trusted them. The Indians are far better. There is no white law so good as the Cheyenne laws of the tribe. If you die, I die with you. Strike together with me. Strike for White Horse!”

  There was a general outcry, a sudden turning of heads away from the men in the wagon, for White Horse had come like an arrow toward the call of the master.

  Since there was a throng of living creatures between it and the master, the stallion began to fight his way through with teeth and hoofs. And a sudden yelling and scattering in terror announced the progress of the big horse.

  It plunged through an opening lane straight to the wagon.

  “You first, Standing Bull!” shouted Rusty Sabin, and saw the Cheyenne leap far out and land safely on the back of the horse.

  Rusty himself was instantly in place behind the chief. And White Horse, whirling, striking out with armed forehoofs, scattered the crowd before him as he fled.

  There was a wild whirling of confusion, but the men of Witherell were not all handless and mindless in the crisis. More than one leveled revolver or rifle. Some failed to shoot for fear of striking down a bystander. And both the Cheyenne and Rusty had flattened themselves along the back of the stallion so that they showed little above the heads of the throng. In fact, they were clear of the fringe of the crowd, and with shouted commands Rusty was turning the horse toward the shadows of a grove of big trees, when the disaster came.

  A dozen rifles had spoken, but only one bullet struck. Rusty heard the sound like that of a fist banged home against a soft body. He felt the shudder that ran through the body of Standing Bull.

  Then the shadows of the trees received them.

  He heard, behind him, the shouting of the crowd mingled with the furious or the agonized yelling of the men who had been injured by the teeth or the hoofs of the stallion.

  Afterward he heard the drumming of hoofs begin, far behind him. He regarded them vaguely and dimly. For his arms were filled with the burden of Standing Bull as the big man lolled helplessly back, senseless, his head bouncing and jogging on the shoulder of Rusty.

  And over the arm of Rusty flowed the blood of the Cheyenne.

  Chapter Five

  Fifty men came storming out of Witherell on the trail of the fugitives. In the midst of the hills they reached the spot where the Cheyenne warriors were packing their horses in haste. Those horses were formed in a compact circle, and the men of Witherell kne
w how many excellent new rifles were inside the living breastwork. The prize was rich, and they wanted their revenge.

  But they remembered that Cheyennes fight to the death, and they remembered that Rusty Sabin was not a general to be despised. That was why they rode in great circles around the Cheyennes, yelling to one another, starting charges that never were driven home, and keeping the moonlit night echoing with their uproar.

  Rusty Sabin, on his knees beside his friend, was working hard and fast to save a life. The bullet from the rifle had driven straight through the body of Standing Bull, and now the chief lay muttering, murmuring, making no sense with his words. He had lost much blood. Now the wound was carefully bandaged and the bleeding had ceased—outwardly at least—but his body was shuddering with a fever.

  When Rusty pressed his ear to the breast of his friend, he was sickened by the weak, rapid fluttering of the heartbeat. The life of Standing Bull was on the wane. Would he live till the morning?

  A horse litter was arranged quickly. Two tender saplings were cut down and fastened at either end to the saddles of a pair of horses. The central point between was wrapped thick and soft with buffalo robes, and on this bed the warriors laid their chief. He still was muttering and murmuring, and every sound of his voice wrenched at the heart of Rusty Sabin.

  The little caravan was ready to start now. He arranged the pack horses in short columns, tethering them to the war ponies that were strung out in a central line. And there in the core of the moving body the Cheyenne warriors rode with rifles balanced across the bows of their saddles. Slowly the little group started forward. And Rusty Sabin on White Horse rode behind as a rear guard.

  The men of Witherell had not gone home. When the Indians started to move away, they raised a great shouting and commenced to follow. More men had come out from the town. There might be a hundred of them, all told, but they were not ready to risk a headlong charge against those Cheyennes.

  A living bulwark of horseflesh lay between the braves and the attack, and every man in Witherell knew that Rusty Sabin had taught the tribesmen how to shoot straight.

  They might sweep the Cheyennes away in one tumultuous charge, but, if they did so, they would be sure to pay two or three heads for one. So the riders from Witherell flooded here and there to the rear. They set up a fresh shouting when they saw Rusty Sabin drop back behind the caravan.

  He began to ride up and down, and, as he rode behind the main body, he shouted a challenge that ran clearly back to the ears of the white men.

  “Ah hai! Ah hai! Do you hear me? White men, do you hear? I was Sabin. I was one of you. My skin was white, also. But you took the blood of my friend and with it you dyed my skin all red. I am no longer white. I am a red man. I am Cheyenne from the heart to the eyes. I never shall come among you again except as an enemy. I give up my part of white blood. I am all pure Indian. I am Red Hawk, the Cheyenne. Do you hear me?”

  A loud yelling answered him. Half a dozen of the riders plunged suddenly forward. He lifted the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and waited. The charge split away and recoiled while it was still at a distance.

  “Ah hai!” shouted Rusty. “Are you afraid? Little house dogs, why do you bark so much? Have you smelled wolf?”

  A shouting of fierce anger stormed up from the riders of Witherell. Again there was a sweeping movement forward, and again the charge dissolved, recoiled.

  “Look!” shouted Rusty. “I am a Cheyenne. I call to you, dogs! Will you answer? Let three of the strongest house dogs come and try their teeth on a wolf of the prairie. Are you all cowards? Are you afraid to come?”

  Here and there the men of Witherell had gathered in little knots. But White Horse shone in their eyes like silver and the fighting name of Sabin dinted their hearts with equal force.

  No pair or trio rode out against Rusty Sabin.

  He shouted: “Now I know what you are . . . dogs, and the sons of dogs! If you come near the Cheyenne lodges, we will send out the dogs with whips to beat you home again. Murderers! Traitors! Without clean tongues, without truth, without honor. Dogs, dogs, dogs! Listen to me again. I was to marry a squaw from among the white people. Tell her that my heart is sickened. In the house of her father Standing Bull was a guest. And the house dogs gathered and sank their teeth in his flesh. Now I forget her. I shall have no wife but a Cheyenne. I shall raise my sons to scorn the white men. And when we want white justice, we will come and buy it by the pound like traders. You that have no god, no honor, no faith, no manhood, but you deny me . . . come down body against body and fight me, and Sweet Medicine strike on my side against you. You will not come? Farewell! I turn my back. I leave my scorn behind me. I go back to the good life!”

  * * * * *

  They passed out of the Witherell Hills, and on the verge of them the angry men from Witherell turned and rode back toward their town. Those riders from the trading town reached the place again in the early dawn, and it was long-haired Charlie Galway who went with Lorrance to the house of Maisry Lester.

  Some women from neighboring houses had come in to prepare for the funeral. Charlie Galway and Lorrance found Maisry herself, white-faced but steady. In the pale morning light the brightness of her hair seemed to shine with a glow that came from inside it.

  Her voice was quiet and even, but she went straight up to Lorrance and said: “Is it true? Have they driven Rusty out of Witherell? Did they shoot down Standing Bull and drive Rusty away?”

  Galway said: “This is mighty unpleasant to talk about. But the fact is that Rusty went sort of crazy. He went native, Maisry. There ain’t any other way of saying it. Went red Indian and told all the whites to go to the devil.”

  “All the whites?” she asked.

  Lorrance said: “Sorry, Maisry. He went clean crazy. He howled out that he never would come near whites again except with a gun. And he’d marry a Cheyenne, he said, and raise his sons to take white men’s scalps.”

  “You take it from me.” Galway nodded. “You’re mighty well out of it. You and him might’ve started happy, but in the finish something would have turned him into a crazy Indian again. He’s got it in him. He’s got it in his blood.”

  She got to a chair and slipped down into it. Her head fell back and her eyes stared up at the ceiling.

  “Take a bit of this whiskey. It’ll brace you up,” said Galway.

  She shook her head.

  “It’s a mean business,” agreed Lorrance. “You tell us what we can do for you.”

  She shook her head again.

  Galway started to speak, but Lorrance took him by the arm and pulled him out of the house.

  Galway said nothing. He was looking away with distant eyes of thought, building already a new scheme, far greater and more sweeping in its scope than the last of his inventions of the mind.

  Chapter Six

  When the dawn came, Rusty stopped the caravan. As the procession moved on, it was impossible for him to tell whether Standing Bull lived or died. Now, leaning over the litter, he stared into the half-opened eyes of the chief. There was a film across those eyes. A cry of agony started up into the throat of Rusty, reached his teeth, and stopped there.

  He leaned and pressed his ear against the breast of the warrior. Nothing? No, after a moment he could make it out—not a heartbeat but a mere fluttering like that of distant wings. Was the spirit leaving at this moment?

  He made a fire with wood chips. Over it he cooked a broth of dried venison. He took the head of the chief against his shoulder and fed him the soup in small swallows. Some of it ran down from the loose mouth and spilled on the scarred breast of Standing Bull. But some passed down his throat, also. His fever had diminished. His body was cold. Rusty wrapped it in two robes. He listened first to the heartbeat and found it stronger, more steady. And hope rushed into his heart like a bird into the sky.

  Later in the day, he arranged a shade to keep the force of the sun from the face of Standing Bull.

  At every halt he made a small fire and after
cleansing body and spirit with the sacred smoke of the sweet grass, he prayed to Sweet Medicine. But all day long the god gave no answer.

  When they halted at night, he lay at the side of the motionless body of Standing Bull to give him warmth. All night long he was awake, praying in a faint whisper, throwing his thoughts up toward the moonlit sky, begging from Sweet Medicine some sign of success.

  The morning came, and at dawn he felt the body beside him turn cold.

  He heated more broth. Standing Bull could swallow. At last he opened his eyes and the fever was gone from them for a moment. “Are we dead souls or living, brother?” he asked.

  “We live, Standing Bull,” said Rusty.

  The Indian smiled and fell instantly into a deep sleep.

  They went on again, the caravan making many halts. And at last, far away, they saw the hills turning the edge of the sky to blue, like so many low-rolling clouds. Later, the hills turned brown. They discovered a glint of shining white—the teepees of the Cheyennes. And now three chosen braves rushed their ponies off to announce that the treasure train was approaching—and that the wounded war chief of the tribe was coming.

  That announcement struck through the encampment like thunder ringing around and around the great throat of a bell. A joy and a fear seized on every Cheyenne of the camp, a joy for the plunder and a fear for the life of Standing Bull. For he had proved himself as great a leader as he was young. He carried victory in his hand.

  He had brought in a rich harvest of Pawnee scalps.

  There was only one man in the camp who would rather have had Standing Bull dead than alive, and that was Running Elk. The old medicine man hated the war chief not so much for his youth as for the affection that bound Standing Bull to Red Hawk. The white Indian was the consuming hate of Running Elk. More than once the mysteries of Running Elk had fallen to nothing before the strange cunning of Red Hawk. In a time of famine, for instance, it was obviously proper to make medicine first and go hunt the buffalo next. And yet while Running Elk was making medicine, Red Hawk had slipped away with a small band of followers, found buffalo, and returned with horses laden with rich stores of fresh meat, to the confusion of all the magic of Running Elk. Worst of all had been the matter of the treatment of disease.