The Sacred Valley

by Max Brand

  She threw up her right hand in the Indian gesture of greeting. “Hau!” she called out, and rejoiced that her voice was strong and steady.

  They gave her no answer. They came right on. A young brave, the youngest of that terrible group, said to the others quietly: “I first saw. The scalp is mine.”

  “That is the law,” said the oldest of the group.

  The youngster stopped his pony close beside Maisry. The pony was smaller than the red mare, but the bulk of the warrior made him tower above her. The oily paint glistened like blood of many colors on his skin. Moccasins and a loin strap were his only clothes. She breathed, faintly, the peculiar odor of a sweating Indian.

  He pulled from her head the wide-brimmed straw hat.

  “Look,” he said to the others. “This would be a scalp worth showing. It is bright. It is bright enough to shine by its own light.”

  He thrust his hand into the hair. Unknotted, it flowed down her back, a shining ripple. Still she could speak steadily. It was as though another voice were coming from another throat.

  “I am not an enemy,” she said. “I belong to one of your people.”

  The young brave, knife in hand, freshened his grip on her hair.

  “You belong to one of my people. You belong to Walk By Night. His hands are on you. Ay, you belong to a Cheyenne.”

  “I am not your woman, Walk By Night,” she said. “I am the woman of Red Hawk.”

  “Hai!” exclaimed Walk By Night. “Red Hawk never took a squaw. Why do you tell the thing that is not so?”

  “He has sent for me, and that is why I am here,” she answered.

  “He is a ghost! He is dead and a ghost!” exclaimed Walk By Night. He began to laugh. He turned his head toward the others, still with that braying laughter. “She says that a dead man has sent for her? Do you hear?”

  “It is true. He is not dead. He lives in the Sacred Valley,” said the girl.

  Walk By Night lifted his hand and moved the knife so that it flashed in her eyes. The hand lacked the little finger, a sacrifice to the Sky People to bring luck and scalps on the warpath, perhaps. It was a big hand. The wrist tendons stood out in great cords under the pull of the forearm muscles.

  “Call to Red Hawk now, and he will save you if you belong to him,” said Walk By Night. “A ghost can come quickly. Call to him. When I see him, then I will believe.”

  “Wait,” said the oldest of the warriors.

  Walk By Night turned his head.

  And the senior continued: “Who can tell? She has eyes into which a man can look a long way. Such women are not liars. Think of this, Walk By Night . . . if she truly belongs to Red Hawk, what will happen to you if you kill her?”

  “Why should I fear a ghost?” asked Walk By Night.

  “We know what that ghost did only a night ago,” said the brave. “You saw the Pawnee lying dead with two long gashes in his body. If you kill this woman, perhaps we will find you one morning with the owl feather in your hair and death in your body.”

  Walk By Night let his grasp fall from the hair of Maisry. He sighed. “If I had that scalp tied to the end of a lance, it would be a fine thing to see the hair blow in the wind and shine in the sun. It would be better than the counting of ten coups to have a scalp like that, Spotted Dog.” His eyes shone covetously.

  Spotted Dog reached out his brawny arm and stroked the sleek long hair. Because of his words, the girl looked at him with the slightest of smiles. He suddenly ceased to be terrible to her.

  “Yes,” said Spotted Dog, “it is a very fine scalp to take. Black Antelope had one years ago. It was sacrificed in the time of the great sickness. But if I were you, I would wait until I had made a little more sure about Red Hawk. Lazy Wolf told me once that Red Hawk was to take a squaw among the white people. Perhaps this is the woman. Running Elk will know what to do about her. He will make medicine and find out what to do.”

  “Ai, ai,” said Walk By Night. “Shall I wait for that?” He drew out the hair to its full length, holding it up in the sun. “Look!” he said. “It is like fire. A handful of cool fire. I never saw anything so beautiful.”

  “Well, it will stay on her head and not disappear,” said Spotted Dog. “No one will steal her away from you.”

  “That is true. We’ll go back now to the others.”

  As they rode, it seemed that a sort of homesickness, a pathetic yearning was in Walk By Night. He could not look on the hair of the girl without mournfulness coming into his eyes.

  And so hope kept growing up higher and higher in the breast of the girl. It was not a real expectation that she might keep her life, but she was able to breathe without having that strangling hand of cold shut down upon her throat.

  The mare, thoroughly recovered, was ready for running now, but there was no chance for Maisry to slip away and flee from the party. Walk By Night prevented that. As a sign of possession he had tossed the noose of a rawhide lariat around her and rode with the other end of it tied to the pommel of his saddle.

  So, as the evening came on, they sighted first the water of a small stream where the horses were allowed to drink, and afterward the little scattered encampment of the war party appeared.

  The numbers of the men amazed her. Twenty Indians or so were all that went out on most expeditions, but here there were hundreds who raised a murmur and then a cheerful shouting, as they saw the prisoner brought in.

  The encampment itself was merely a circle of saddles and a few meager blankets or light buffalo robes. In the center of the circle the ground had been dug away to serve as a small fireplace, but no fire would be lighted until after dark, of course. In the meantime, the warriors smoked their pipes, chewed parched corn, and ate more than half raw the game that was brought in by scouting parties of hunters from time to time.

  It was an uneasy body of warriors, since the sight of the ghost had stopped them abruptly on the warpath. A ghost that passes and leaves behind it the body of a dead Pawnee with the sign of Sweet Medicine attached—such a ghost should be heeded, surely.

  But old Running Elk would not definitely turn back from his great adventure; he would not give up the hope of commencing a war with the whites. Ruin might come to the Cheyennes in the long run from such a conflict, but in the meantime Running Elk might remain the head of all the warriors. And the old man hungered for power and glory with a terrible appetite.

  When Maisry was brought before him, she found herself looking at a face that seemed, at first, decades too young for the withered body beneath it, but, when she was close, she could see that time merely had dried the face in smooth surfaces instead of in wrinkles. There was the hard, brittle look of a mummy about the medicine man. It was almost strange that he could part his lips without cracking them.

  “Here, Running Elk,” said Spotted Dog, “is the woman that Walk By Night saw first, and therefore she belongs to him. But she says she is Red Hawk’s squaw.”

  A gleam of brilliant malice brightened the old eyes of Running Elk. That brightness stabbed the hope of Maisry and left it dead.

  “What am I to do?” asked Running Elk. “I ask you if ghosts have squaws?”

  “Ay, but Red Hawk never was like other people. This woman says that he is no longer dead. She says that he is living again, in the Sacred Valley . . . and she says that he has sent for her.”

  “How did the message come?” asked the medicine man.

  “Blue Bird brought it,” said the girl.

  Running Elk narrowed those prying, brilliant eyes again.

  “You say that Blue Bird rode all alone, all the way to the town of the white men and gave you that message?”

  “Yes. She brought it to me.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “She wanted to call Red Hawk out of the Sacred Valley to stop the Cheyennes before they began to fight with the white people.”

  “Did she know that Red Hawk was inside the Sacred Valley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah hai!” cried Running E
lk. “Then why did she not call him out herself?”

  “Because he would not come to her . . . but she thought that he would come to me.”

  Running Elk picked up a light robe and pulled it over his shoulders and up like a hood over his head. Through the shadow of it he kept peering at the girl. The sun was almost down. The western light gilded his dry, hard skin. He seemed to be smiling, but his good nature was sheerest illusion. She could feel his hands reaching for her life.

  He said: “Walk By Night, give me some present, and then I shall try to find out the truth.”

  “Here,” said Walk By Night. “Here is the horse on which she was riding. It is only a mare but it looks like a fast runner. The color is good.”

  “The color is very bad,” said the medicine man. “See how it flashes. It can be seen for miles away when the sun strikes it. However . . . I shall accept it.”

  He waved his hand and called one of the youths who attended the warriors on the battle trail.

  “Take this red mare,” he said. “It is mine. Drive it down the creek to the place where my horses are grazing. Keep them away from the rest of the herd.”

  The lad took the red mare and led it away obediently. And the mare, as it walked off, pulled back and whinnied after its mistress.

  Tears came into the eyes of Maisry. She winked them out again and saw the mare disappear over the edge of the creek bank. Hope was gone now. She turned back with a stony sense of despair to watch Running Elk make medicine before the eyes of the warriors.

  He was doing the simplest of all rites. He was merely making a circle on the ground, and then, standing inside it, he picked up a handful of dust and blew it away, leaving a few glittering little specks of rock in the palm of his hand.

  He lifted his head and said quietly: “Sky People, if I am wrong, speak to me. If the truth lies in the message of the little stones in my hand, be silent.” After a moment he lowered his head again, tossed away the tiny pebbles, and deliberately dusted his hands. “The medicine is true and strong and good,” he said. “It tells me that she has said the thing that is not true. She is yours, Walk By Night. Sharpen your knife and take off the scalp cleanly and neatly.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The lad who took the red mare down the creek to the rest of the horses that were reserved for Running Elk—a band of half a dozen chosen ponies—hobbled the bay and turned her loose to graze with the rest. When she tried to get away and turn back toward the encampment, the lad tethered her to the lariat of another horse.

  He had just finished this work and was about to return to the warriors on the run when he saw a miracle before his eyes, toward the west. He could swear—afterward he did indeed vow—that at one moment there was nothing, and the next moment out of the dazzle of the sunset appeared the form of Red Hawk on the great White Horse.

  It might have been explained that the bank of the creek wound around a sharp elbow turn at this point, but to the young Cheyenne nothing would ever dim the terrible splendor of that miraculous happening. He fell flat on his face, groaning: “Mercy, Sweet Medicine. Be merciful! Red Hawk, do not turn my blood to water. Do not draw the living breath out of my lungs. Do not stop my heart. Let me live! Do not take my spirit away to ride with yours in the Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  Above him he heard a quiet voice saying: “You shall not be harmed. I bring you nothing but good fortune. But tell me what one of the braves owns the red mare you brought down the creek? I only have seen one other like her. Who is her owner?”

  “Running Elk is her owner, Red Hawk!” gasped the boy.

  It seemed to him that a darkness was coming over his eyes, that he was dying. His breath was failing, too. But it was merely the dying of the sunset and the choking hand of fear that made the difference.

  “From whom did Running Elk get her? From some white trader?” asked Red Hawk.

  “Walk By Night captured a white woman who rode this mare . . . he has just brought her into the camp. He has not even taken her scalp yet . . .,” said the lad.

  And then—he swore afterward—thunder rushed past him. He breathed dust. He saw fire struck out of the rocks. And when his wits returned, the great White Horse and the rider both were gone. There was only a thin mist hanging in the air. A mist of dust? The Cheyenne boy never would believe that. He would swear that Red Hawk had disappeared in a flash, to reappear again, as suddenly, in the midst of the Cheyenne camp.

  For no man had an eye behind him, in that encampment. In a dense circle the warriors had gathered to watch the killing and the scalping of the prisoner. It was a thing they had seen often enough before, but the relish of it was never off the roots of their tongues.

  Walk By Night was in no hurry. He enjoyed the center of the stage, being a young brave who had counted only two coups in his limited experience. He ran his hand over the face of the girl and said to those around him: “Look, brothers. The white girl is not made like an Indian. The skin is thinner. It is so thin that it would hardly keep out the rainy weather. Her throat is so soft that I could crush the windpipe like that of a young goose, between my thumb and finger. Shall I kill her that way and let her kick and choke on the ground? Give me good advice. There is no reason why she should die too quickly. She ought to take many steps, going to the world of the spirits and not jump off the earth at one step.”

  Running Elk said: “She is about to faint. After that, she would feel nothing. Cut her across the face and see if that will bring back her senses.”

  “Good,” said Walk By Night, and, taking her by the nape of the neck in one powerful hand, he lifted the hunting knife.

  That was when the voice shouted suddenly, and, as the warriors turned, amazed, they saw Red Hawk on White Horse pressing straight in among them. A wild outcry broke from their throats, terror in every voice except that of Running Elk who shouted: “Strike the knife home! She is yours, Walk By Night!”

  But Walk By Night had dropped on his face, crying: “Red Hawk, be merciful! I thought she lied . . . I did not know she belonged to you!”

  Sabin slipped from his horse. He had seen Maisry throw up her arms, but the wild cry of hope stopped in her throat as though a blow had ended it. He was in time to catch her as she fell and he stretched her on the ground. He pressed a hand over her heart and felt it throbbing, so he was able to draw breath. And his hand still felt that reassuring pulsation while he looked up at the faces around him.

  The braves were stretching out their hands toward him, gingerly touching his clothes, his long hair. And as their trembling hands touched the real substance, they began to exclaim: “It is he! He went into the Valley of Death, but he is not dead! He is not a ghost.”

  He remained on one knee by the girl, saying briefly: “Stay back. Let the wind reach her. Walk By Night, stand up. I am not angry with you. Running Elk, you withered dog, I see the hate in your face. You have done this! Did she not use my name? Did she not speak of me?”

  “She did,” said many voices.

  Walk By Night exclaimed again: “She said she was your woman! I brought her here and Running Elk made medicine that proved that what she said was not true. I would not have touched your woman, Red Hawk. Be merciful. Do not speak to Sweet Medicine against me!”

  “If he spoke, he would not be heard!” shouted Running Elk. “What are you doing, staring like foolish men? Did not Sweet Medicine tell us once to make a sacrifice? Why has he come back to us again in the flesh? To be sacrificed again! To give his blood again! It is the will of Sweet Medicine! I hear the voices of the Sky People! He is ours for the sacrifice! Put hands on him. I give the command. I use the words of the Sky People as they sing in my ears! Walk By Night, Spotted Dog . . . all of you seize on him or I shall wither your right hands . . . I shall make such a medicine that . . .”

  Sabin stood up, with one downward glance at the pale face of the girl. And she, regaining her senses, began to push herself up into a sitting posture, so that she seemed to be groveling against his knees. Half between
sleep and waking she heard him thunder: “Are you men? Are you my people, or are you yelping dogs?”

  “We are not your people. Your skin is white. Your soul is white. Sweet Medicine gives you to us.”

  A dozen tentative hands were reaching toward Sabin. He shouted angrily: “Shall I give you a sign? Shall I bring the god out of the air? Sweet Medicine, appear!” He threw up his right hand high over his head. His whistle sounded piercingly.

  And the startled Cheyennes, looking up in turn, saw a huge night owl, greater than ever they had seen before, sweeping down from the sunset sky, sweeping straight down upon them with reaching talons outstretched.

  A howl of terror burst from the crowd. From the noise the owl rebounded and left on the ground that mass of warriors in prostrate heaps, and Sabin standing among them with both his arms uplifted.

  He said: “Why should I speak to the god for the sake of a worthless people? Why should I intercede for the Cheyennes when the braves are willing to follow an evil old man whose brain is dead except for the planning of wickedness. It was he who persuaded you to drive me out. Running Elk then put his spells on the body of my friend, Standing Bull. So he made himself a great man among you, and like foolish children you followed him.

  “But the mercy of Sweet Medicine was very great. First he punished you with drought to open your eyes to wisdom. But when you came yammering for mercy, begging for water, I prayed to the god, and he taught me what to do . . . and water was sent to you. Rain came afterward. But why should a god be merciful to such a stupid people? Now he sends me among you again. Sweet Medicine, hear me. It is I, Red Hawk, standing among these foolish people, whose faces are on the ground. See them, pity them, forgive them for my sake.” He drew a great breath. “That is ended,” he said. “The wrath of the god is removed from my heart. He is more pitying than wrathful. You may lift your faces again. You may rise. Walk By Night, I bear no evil feeling against you. Rise, every man. Let the horses be caught and saddled. I shall tell you in what direction you may march. And let no man listen again to the snarling of Running Elk. Running Wolf he should be called . . . Running Dog Wolf, old, and only with a tooth to bite fools. Obey my orders. Prepare for the march. I go off to let my anger cool and my heart grow smaller. I go to pray to Sweet Medicine to give more wisdom to his people. . . .”