The White Indian

by Max Brand

  Only in one direction he dared not look, and that was toward the sound of the waterfall that called from the head of the valley. That was the visible semblance of the god, the eternal voice of Sweet Medicine. Strange to say, the realization of that fact was not overwhelming, now. He drew nearer, moved by the side of the running water, letting it lead him toward its source. Sometimes his image wavered for an instant in a stillness of the shoal water at the side of the river, but usually there was nothing save froth and whirling. Or else broken runways, where the surface was streaked and wind-blown. Staring at the bright pebbles of the bottom, he could see the gleaming forms of fish that wavered and were gone and appeared again.

  Then a cool showering of spray wafted toward him. He looked up. Far above, the stream leaped out from the brow of the rock, pouring in the center like shuddering blue glass that whitened at the edges, more and more, until the stream became a downpour of snowy spray. Some of that smoke was always blowing to the side. The morning color bloomed in it now.

  Regathering, the water went swirling and twisting, clinging close to the rock all the way to the bottom of the cliff. Far above where the voice of the waterfall sang, there was comparative silence. Once more a miracle of Sweet Medicine. For here was his living presence—his voice.

  Something sliding in the air above him made Red Hawk turn his head and then fall on his knees, staring helplessly. For there was the great night owl, sliding overhead on easy wings.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  One instant, surely, he saw the sacred bird, there against the flaming sky—the great round head, the glint of the beak, the cruel talons tucked up in the soft down of the body feathers, with a red-stained something clutched in one talon. The next moment the thing was gone.

  What is seen by the eye, the next instant will be felt by the flesh. Sweet Medicine had appeared, and now the stroke would fall. Red Hawk, very sick and small of heart, waited. He searched the sky against which the owl had showed, but the bird did not again appear. He searched the upper face of the cliff, and there, not far from the verge of the cataract, he saw the mouth of a small cave. Fear made him dizzy when he looked on it, for he understood instantly what it must be. It was at that very place that Sweet Medicine had opened the heart of the mountain, and within that cave he had confronted the magicians and taken from them the holy arrows of the Cheyennes. Therefore he, Red Hawk, must mount to that perilous place.

  This was the way death would come to him; this was the terrible agony of mind that he must endure before the final stroke. He must climb, with laboring feet, between earth and heaven, until at last he entered the black mouth of the cave. Then death—in the form of a monstrous owl, perhaps—would leap upon him and tear out his life with beak and talons.

  He turned, and saw that White Horse was shrinking back from him. For the first time since the stallion had come to his hand, it moved away from its master. Then, in a sudden panic, White Horse had fled away, sweeping along faster and faster.

  Red Hawk looked after the fugitive with a melancholy eye. Even all the speed of that swiftest of horses would be of no avail, now that the wrath of Sweet Medicine hung overhead. In a moment the blow might fall—or would it be delayed?

  Yes, White Horse had disappeared beyond a grove of trees so lofty that they must have buried their roots in a thousand generations of men. White Horse was gone. He would perish as a sacrifice unseen by his master, and for that Red Hawk was glad.

  He began to climb. The way up the rock was not very hard. Sometimes, as he followed the windings of the easiest route, it seemed to him that his feet were falling on the time-obscured traces of steps that had been cut into the stone ages ago. But this, he felt, must be an illusion.

  The mist from the waterfall drenched a portion of the way, but his feet did not slip. Now that he was approaching the last moment of his life, they bore him steadfastly and strongly onward.

  At last, from a giddy height, he looked down and back. The whole valley lay spread before him. The trees were not so high as the walls of the ravine. No, they were much shorter, in fact. And the river was not so huge as it had seemed. It ran now with a face of golden light, and in another stride the bright sun would rise upon the day, and to some men would bring happiness.

  He turned and faced the cave. The lower lip of that rocky mouth protruded to take him in. He stood on the narrow ledge for an instant, fighting the terror that made his knees weaken. In fact, the orifice of the cave was high enough to permit him to enter erect, without so much as brushing the tips of the feathers in his hair. He told himself that he must stride into the presence of Sweet Medicine like a man glad of his fate. So, with an upward head, with a slow and dragging step, he forced himself into the teeth of darkness.

  Only for a stride or two did the outer daylight follow him, then all was swimming blackness. He could not tell whether he had taken three steps or thirty when he heard a rustling, as of feathers. A sound of many whispers rushed toward him. Eyes of burning gold shone at him, sped through his very brain, and he fell forward with a great cry.

  Afterward, he thought a hand of ice was on his forehead. He wakened to find that it was the cold of the rock. As he had lain before the house of Wind Walker, so he lay now, cold and shuddering. But death for the second time had refused to destroy him with its hand. This day it had not so much as broken his skin. Fumbling to his feet, his hand touched a wooden stick, which he picked up as he rose. And now, turning, he saw the dull gleam of daylight to lead him from the gloom.

  When he came to the lip of the cave, he was still too dizzy to stand upright, fearlessly. But sitting on his heels, he remembered what the truth must be. Between two things Sweet Medicine must make his choice: either to take at once the wretched life of his believer, or else give to that man happiness. But was there any happiness? Was there happiness anywhere?

  Aye, it was there at Red Hawk’s feet, in the green of the valley and in the sun-bright running of the river. The light that poured on the flat-topped mountains beyond the valley was happiness, too. And happiness was in the trumpet-tongued voice that now rang from the floor of the ravine, where the stallion ran back and forth, already darkened by a sweat of anxious fear, and neighing above the uproar of the waterfall.

  Happiness? The surety of it streamed through Red Hawk’s soul like the brilliance of the day. If for him happiness meant the white girl in the far-off village, Sweet Medicine would give her to him. If she were bound to marry another man—well, death is a solvent that burns away all bonds at a touch.

  He began to laugh with such exaltation that he flourished his arms above his head. It was a gesture that made him consider for the first time the stick that was grasped in his hand. It was half an arrow, with the head still adhering to the broken stick.

  The breath went out of Red Hawk as though he had been plunged into cold water. Only by degrees his eyes, dim with staring, made out the features of the time-rotted wood, and the flint point.

  Certainty came flooding over the staggered brain of Red Hawk, and he took the precious thing in both hands. He cherished it against the warmth of his breast. For what could it be but one of those sacred arrows that long ago the magicians of the mountains had given to Sweet Medicine?

  Happiness? The sky was cloven before him. Let the most hard-minded among the Cheyennes dare to doubt that he had walked into the presence of the god, when he returned, carrying in his hand this proof.

  He was hungry, suddenly, for the smoke that might be breathed forth in ceremonial praise of Sweet Medicine.

  The sun, lifting over the shoulder of the rock, fell on him with a warmth that went all through him, as though his body were glass.

  He stood up. The steep face of the rock seemed to him of no more danger than if he had worn wings at his shoulders to keep him from a fall. Laughing, he went down the slippery descent, leaped over the rill of water that ran across the foot of it. Loss of wind choked him, but he could not stop laughing.

  He would not ride, at once. Riding woul
d carry him too quickly out of the Sacred Valley, which was now his valley, for was he not free of it? He began to see small things that had not entered into the deep and single trench of his first impression.

  Into every corner of the valley he wandered, and found everywhere that same enchanting combination of great trees and open meadows. One who cared to dwell here would never need to ask a thing from the hand of the outer world. In the brush he saw numbers of mountain grouse. A moment later, he discovered a herd of splendid elk. Black-tailed deer were grazing in another ravine.

  He told himself that this was the place where he would pitch his lodge or build his house, on the side of the lake overlooking the big sweep of the outer valley.

  A little creek above the lake was a bright and singing beauty that could not go straight for a moment, but danced from side to side in the brilliance of the sun. It seemed to him that the very pebbles of the creek shone with a light of their own—a rich and metallic yellow. He leaned and scooped up a handful of the little stones and of the bright sand. He was amazed to find that it weighted his hand far more than ever rocks could do.

  White Horse came and nibbled curiously at him, then tossed his head and turned away in disdain. But Red Hawk began suddenly to shout, for he knew that he held in his hands the god of the white men—gold!

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Red Hawk got his buffalo robe and tied into a corner of it the product of half a day of scraping in the riffles and washing in the brightest sand of the creek. When he had finished, he had twenty pounds of gold, some fine as dust, some in heavy nuggets.

  After that, as he followed down the course of the stream to the point where it joined the main river, his eyes searched the sand and gravel everywhere. And everywhere he saw the winking yellow eyes of the treasure. Still he laughed. For was it not fitting that the Indian god should live on the heights, while the god of the white man lay in the mud of the valley below him?

  He was hungry, when he had time to think of such a trifle. So with a stone he knocked over a mountain grouse, and then remembered that he had no means of making a fire. However, his hunger could wait.

  He went on down the valley in the middle of the afternoon. Two of the buffalo bulls were fighting. Beating the ground, they slashed the turf with their hoofs, throwing the thunder of their bellowing along the face of the earth. They were still bumping their heads together as he passed on into the lower ravine, among the trees, and so through the quiet filled by the hushing sound of the stream until he was near the gates of the valley.

  Here he paused for a moment, because his blood turned cold as he recognized out of the distance the monotonous death chant of the Cheyennes. Was it a song sent by Sweet Medicine to warn him from the entrance? Was he to be imprisoned here all the rest of his days?

  He stepped out beside the leaning pillar and saw, beyond him, at the edge of the swift water, a full fifty of the warriors of the tribe. They were singing together, and before them all old Spotted Antelope kneeled on the ground in nothing but a breechclout. He was wailing to the god, the song shaking his fat paunch as he raised his time-dwindled arms to the sky. Close behind him was the second group of mourners, composed of Standing Bull and Lazy Wolf. It was not strange that these three should have come—but behind them in a wide semicircle were other braves, and among them no less a magnificence than Running Elk, the great medicine man.

  They saw Red Hawk at the same time, as he came out with White Horse behind him, and they broke into a shout that was the sweetest music he ever had listened to in his life. Then they came pouring about him.

  But they seemed small to him, and their voices had no meaning. Everything in this outer world was dim and insignificant compared with the marvels inside the valley, where even antelope walked without fear.

  A spirit came on Red Hawk. He held up the broken arrow before their eyes and was silent. All the way back to the camp he would not speak, neither to the smiling face of Standing Bull nor to the exulting eyes of old Spotted Antelope, or to Lazy Wolf, who kept bumping his heels against the side of his mule.

  On the way, in spite of his own silence, he learned why the warriors had come. Blue Bird had repeated the story of how Red Hawk had left the camp to find the face of Sweet Medicine, whereupon it was suddenly revealed to Running Elk that perhaps the heart of the Great Spirit would be turned from the tribe because of the sad prayers of Red Hawk. Therefore, in the middle of the night he had called on chosen warriors. Only Dull Hatchet had refused to come; the rest had been singing the lament at the mouth of the valley, to pacify Sweet Medicine.

  It was deep night before they reached the camp. The scouts who met them turned back with whoopings that raised the whole village, and Red Hawk, still silent, led the way not to the lodge of his father, but to that central opening among the teepees where the ceremonial fuel was piled high to await a happening sufficient for celebration.

  The silence in which he had ridden home had spread by degrees over all who attended him, as though they felt the chilly dread of the marvel even before it was spoken.

  Dull murmurs and the movement of feet told him that the circle was now ringed about by many people. In the distance, children cried out in sharp voices, which were hushed suddenly as they drew nearer.

  In the meantime, Red Hawk took from Standing Bull flint and steel. Onto a quantity of dry timber he shed the shower of sparks until the flame caught. Now the fire put up a slender waving finger. He pushed the flaming little pile against the great heap, and watched the fire run up the side of the mound until the whole mass was a roaring blaze. Now, as he turned, he saw the firelight over the faces of the throng, the glistening of many eyes.

  He stretched his hand into the sky. He began to walk up and down, holding the broken arrow in his hand. Now and then he leaped into the air, and again strode on. Someone began to rumble a drum, softly. A flute screamed out. In the pauses of that music he began his chant.

  At the entrance flap of the great lodge that faced south onto the circle, he saw Dull Hatchet standing, gathered into the darkness of a buffalo robe.

  “Who stood in the medicine lodge at the time of the initiation?” cried Red Hawk. “Who stood in the medicine lodge and heard a voice saying . . . ‘Turn from the blood. Turn from the blood. Go out from this place.’ Who stood in the medicine lodge?”

  A solitary wavering voice cried through the night in answer: “Red Hawk! He stood there!”

  White Horse, following his master nervously, now paused and stamped, as though to give assent to the words.

  The whole throng gathered up the name and sent it booming, strong with the long suspense of speech: “Red Hawk!”

  “It was the voice of Sweet Medicine that spoke,” said Red Hawk. “Whose spirit did he melt? Whose heart did he soften? Whose feet did he lead from the lodge?”

  “Red Hawk!” cried that deep voice of men, that tingling voice of the women and children.

  “Far away,” chanted Red Hawk, “I see a Cheyenne in the great camp of the whites. He is among their medicine lodges of wood, and for a year he will not utter speech, and he is enslaved to a white and labors more than a squaw. Who is that man I see, whose face grows pale as a bone that has lain all winter in the rains?”

  Red Hawk!” cried the throng.

  “I see a man walking on the plains,” he chanted. “He follows the trail of White Horse, from winter to summer . . . from the prairies to the mountains. For Sweet Medicine leads him on, through snow and over burning ground . . . starving, thirsting. Now I see him walking away from the mountains, and White Horse follows him. White Horse comes to his hand. What man is he?”

  Red Hawk!” shouted the crowd.

  The small boys had worked through to the front of the circle, by this time, and as the pauses came and the drums thundered and the people cried out, the little naked boys leaped up and down in the firelight and shouted the response with a voice as shrill as the crowing of roosters.

  “He has come to his people again,” he chanted.
“I see him among the famous Cheyennes, but the hearts of the leaders are blackened . . . they turn from him. What man is he?”

  “Red Hawk!” came that yelling answer.

  The dark form of Dull Hatchet moved a little from in front of his lodge. Old Running Elk, hideous in a buffalo mask, came prancing out from the line and began a dance, moving his head and body up and down like a turkey gobbler that curtsies to his own pride, the while shaking long rattles made of bones. The heart of Red Hawk swelled at this sight, for he saw that the chief medicine man of the tribe was giving his presence and his credit to the chant. Running Elk was paying homage.

  “At the door of the Sacred Valley . . . at the leaning pillar . . . at the entrance to the house of the god . . . in the path of danger . . . by the swift, whispering water . . . what man do I see?” he cried. “Red Hawk!” they thundered back at him.

  “The air is white as milk. It is like the breathing of buffalo in winter. The trees are as monsters under water . . . they are as spirits. Or are they spirits indeed that reach out their hands? For this is the floor of the lodge of Sweet Medicine. This is the Sacred Valley that I see, and a man goes riding through it on a white horse. The mist clears. About the man move the sacred buffalo, fearless. The antelope come close to him. The little fawns stretch out their bright, wet muzzles to his hand. The bucks threaten him with their horns. They belong to Sweet Medicine, and they are not afraid. What man is he?”

  “Red Hawk!” shouted a greater chorus than ever.

  In the distance, on the verge of the circle, Red Hawk saw the face of Blue Bird. For one instant it was like a jewel held in the dark hand of the night. Beyond her, he saw the great buffalo robe slip away from the naked shoulders of Dull Hatchet.

  “The magic waters fall from the cliff. They speak from the sky. Their throat is the throat of Sweet Medicine. I see the face of a man wet with their spray. I see him look up, and over his head flies the night owl, huger than ever an owl was seen before. The bird has vanished. It is no longer in the sky. Aye, for there is a hole in the rock. And I see the man walk up the face of the cliff. His feet cling like the feet of a mountain goat to the ledges, and he stands at the black mouth of the cave. What man is he?”