The White Indian

by Max Brand

  “Red Hawk!” bellowed the throng.

  Standing out above the rest, towering even above those tall warriors who encircled the fire, he saw Dull Hatchet wading through the throng. Slowly he came, stretching out an arm before him to make his way.

  “I see a man enter the cave of blackness. It is the heart of the mountain where Sweet Medicine found the magicians. It is the dreadful chamber where he found the magic arrows, and which gave fortune to the Cheyennes. It is filled with darkness, but the man walks on. His feet take him forward step after step. What man is he?”

  “Red Hawk! Red Hawk!” they roared.

  He began to be frenzied, shouting out as the thundering of the drums died away again: “Out of the blackness of the cave I see a monster coming. Swifter than the feet of men he is coming. His eyes are two golden moons that fly toward the man. Something is thrust into his hand. He hears a voice that whispers . . . ‘Peace.’ He hears a noise of wings. He falls into a darkness of the mind.

  “He rises again at last. He comes out to the day. He looks down at his body and sees that it is alive. On his breast the red owl is painted. In his hand there is a token, for him and for all the Cheyennes. It is a magic arrow. It is an arrow out of the old time. It is a medicine arrow to bring happiness to the Cheyennes. And he lifts the arrow. He brings it to his people. He tells them the truth with a single tongue. He holds the arrow before their eyes. What man is he?”

  But the whole circle of the listeners began to crumble as they heard the climax of the adventure. Now there arose a veritable shrieking that sent his own name into his ears in roaring waves.

  He saw Spotted Antelope staggering toward him, drunk with joy. He saw Standing Bull leaping like a frantic colt. But most of all the amazed face and the staring eyes of Dull Hatchet, as the war chief strode toward him, still brushing aside the lesser people with his scarred and massive arms. So Red Hawk knew that he had at last come home, indeed, to the heart of his tribe.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The progressive spirit and the business aggressiveness of Jeremy Bailey and his brother Joe were building Witherell into a trading post that promised to be a great success. Joe Bailey had gone out onto the plains and induced the chiefs of the Pawnees to bring in a camp of several hundred lodges, and they now whitened the pass leading down to the town.

  Jeremy Bailey, on the other hand, had brought down the creek to the town several big scows loaded down with articles for the Indian trade. Every brave among those Pawnees had his share of skins and furs and buffalo robes that he was prepared to trade for knives, guns, ammunition, colored calico, the blankets that were lighter than buffalo robes could ever be, bright beads, sugar, coffee, tea, iron pots, and the sail canvas that more and more was coming to be used in place of the heavy lodges made of skins.

  All of these essentials in the trade were piled along the counters behind the various booths of the Bailey store. There had been three days of entertaining the chiefs and distributing presents to those greedy fellows. Now for two days the market had been opened, and the price had been agreed on at half a pint of sugar for a buffalo robe in good condition, with other things going in about the same proportion. If a white man could not make a profit of several thousand percent, it was hardly considered worthwhile to be in the Indian trade.

  So far, there was no firewater on tap. On the last day of the trading, a barrel or two of that would be carted out to the Indian camp, and then the braves could get as tipsy as they pleased, but no drunken Indians were wanted reeling around the streets of Witherell. That was why the trading had gone off so smoothly.

  On this day, as Jeremy Bailey looked over the proceedings and saw the ponderous heaps of robes unpacked from the backs of the Indian ponies, it seemed to him that the malodorous skins in fact gave off a delicious perfume, and that the opportunities of this kind world were opening before his eyes. A big Pawnee warrior had just made a trade of a magnificent painted robe, a veritable museum piece, in exchange for a small bag of lump sugar, which was a novelty in the market. Now the robe was being folded away with care, while the brave sat down on his heels on the spot and proceeded to eat his sugar, piece by piece, with a great and solemn satisfaction.

  Such happiness came over Jeremy Bailey’s mind that he looked across the room, through the air that was dust-clouded from the handling of the robes, and even smiled when his glance rested on the face of his brother. They did not love one another; they never had. But today Jeremy could forgive the world that had harnessed him to a twin. They were necessary to one another; Joe because he was the tactful one who brought in new business, and Jeremy because he had the calculating eye and mind that drives good bargains.

  The trading was going on at a fine rate when a little murmur ran among the Pawnees, and in one instant every booth under the big, sprawling awning was deserted. What the whisper had been Jeremy could not tell, but instantly he was ready for a fight. If another trader had showed up to tempt away the Pawnees, there was blood in the eye of Jeremy.

  He shrugged his shoulders and strode out of the trading store in time to see a rider come around the next corner and into the central square of the town. He was mounted on a white horse, and behind him streamed out a fan-shaped tail of small boys, all yelling and whooping. The rider himself sat in the usual Indian saddle, his feet very high, his back humped forward a good deal, his head bobbing up and down a little with every step of the horse. However, Jeremy Bailey was accustomed to the sight of Indian braves on ponies.

  It was the horse itself that caught the eye of Jeremy, and his face flushed until the scar on it stood out like white paint. Then, as he saw the glint of the sun on the dark red hair of the man, he realized that he knew all about him. That was the famous stallion, and the rider was the white Cheyenne called Red Hawk.

  Jeremy Bailey sighed with relief. The grimness went out of his eye, but the greed remained in it as he stared at the horse. That horse would be the extra touch, the little garnishing, that would smooth his way with Maisry Lester. Perhaps it would quicken her affection. It was not that he objected to buying a wife either by cash or influence, for he felt that one must always pay for things worthwhile, and that affection was only an ornament. Yet if he were to appear astride White Horse, he was sure that the sight would move something in the heart of the girl. It would even stir her father, whose cold, suspicious eyes seemed always to be hunting for the truth, and coming near to the fact that his daughter was marrying in order to provide for her parents.

  Jeremy thought of these things, and then permitted himself to admire the way this white Cheyenne rode heedlessly through a crowd of the roach-headed Pawnees, the ancient enemies of his tribe. To be sure, for the moment they were too overcome with astonishment and pleasure at the sight of the horse to be capable of action. Moreover, they were bound to leave their weapons behind them when they entered the town. Nevertheless, it seemed to the trader that Red Hawk was most perilously placed.

  Yet the White Indian rode straight on, never turning eye to right or left, until he dismounted suddenly before Jeremy. White Horse began to rub his head against the shoulder of his master, keeping a wary eye on the Indians, who stole closer and closer around them.

  “You are Jeremy Bailey,” said the newcomer. “My name is Red Hawk, and I have come to make a trade with you.”

  Jeremy Bailey considered that sun-darkened face and the deep blue stain of the eyes in it. He had the look of one who had suffered, of one who has escaped from a long illness and achieved out of it some sort of spiritual happiness. For a man who had built up such a name, he was small; he was not above middle height, and rather slenderly made. Bulk of thews and sinews always seemed a necessity to big Jeremy Bailey.

  “You’ve got no robes with you that I can see,” said Jeremy. “But if you want to trade in the horse, we might talk business.”

  “Trade in the horse?” asked the white Cheyenne. He turned his head and smiled at the great stallion. He put out his hand and twisted his fingers into the
forelock of the big horse while he answered absently: “I have something else to trade with you.”

  He took a pouch that was slung from his shoulder, opened the mouth of it, and took out something that Bailey could not see until the cold, small weight of it was laid in his hand. Then he saw the sheen of gold, and his fingers furled instantly over the nugget. “In the name of God,” said Jeremy.

  “True,” said the white Cheyenne calmly. “I have brought you your god. There is a great deal more of him. This bag is full, and that is why I want to trade.”

  “More of this? You know a place where you can get more of this?” asked Bailey.

  “I know a place where the sands of a creek are yellow with it,” said Red Hawk. “But you could not go there. No white man . . . no red man can go there. None except Red Hawk.”

  “Why not?” asked Bailey.

  “Because there is bad medicine there for other men.”

  “Medicine be damned! Where . . . ?” He checked himself and swallowed. He looked down at the ground and hoped that the lust had not burned too brightly in his eyes. “Come with me!” said Jeremy Bailey. “We’ll go inside.”

  “Outside,” answered Red Hawk. “The horse must stay with me. If we went inside, he would beat down the wall to come after me.”

  So Bailey took him around to the rear of the store, where no wind stirred, and where the heat brought out the sweat instantly, covering the face with ten thousand small, shining beads.

  “Is that bag full of the stuff?” Jeremy Bailey demanded sharply.

  “Yes.”

  “How long did it take you to wash it out?”

  “Most of it I picked out of the riffles on the face of the rock,” said Red Hawk. “The rest I washed out of the gravel with my hands. It took me half a day.”

  Jeremy Bailey lifted the bag. This man, with his ignorant hands, had taken out of the ground five or six thousand dollars in half a day. At last Jeremy Bailey looked up. His voice came out with a surprising roundness and evenness, so that he rejoiced in the strength of his mind. “And what do you want me to give you for this? How much calico and how many knives do you want?” asked Jeremy.

  “Calico and knives?” repeated Red Hawk contemptuously. “I bring you the body of your god. I give it into your hands. And you want to trade me knives and dyed cloth!”

  Bailey flushed. “Well, then?” he asked.

  “I want your woman,” said Red Hawk simply.

  Bailey stared at him, shaking his head without comprehension.

  “The woman who is to be your squaw in a little time,” Red Hawk continued. “I will give you the body of your god for your woman.”

  “You damned . . . ,” began Jeremy Bailey. Then it occurred to him that this was no time to be righteously indignant, when he was standing with his hand on the very Wishing Gate itself. Besides, they were alone. No eyes could see them. Above all, Indians think it no shame to buy and sell their women. Jeremy’s own shame thereupon leaked swiftly out of his soul. At once he was freed from the heat and the weight of it. “Well,” he said, “the girl I’m to marry is what you mean? Maisry Lester?”

  “I give you all the god that is in this sack,” answered Red Hawk.

  Bailey shook his head. “Not for this. But if you’ll take me to the place where the gold is . . . that’s another matter, Red Hawk. We might arrange something then. We could do business together there, my friend.”

  “Very well,” answered Red Hawk, smiling. “I knew that you would be willing. Let us go to the woman, at once . . . then you can tell her that I am buying her away from you.”

  “Hold on,” said the trader. “I can’t give her away, perhaps. I can’t deliver her to you, I don’t suppose. I don’t know. I’ll have to have a chance to think over what can be arranged. Don’t hurry me, Red Hawk. Let me think. I’ll satisfy you, one way or another. But I can’t simply walk up to her and tell her that she’s been traded to another man.”

  “Can you not tell her that you take your hands from her and make her free?”

  “Yes,” said Bailey. “Of course I could do that. But what . . . ?”

  “That is all I ask,” said Red Hawk. “Come . . . and we’ll go quickly to her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In every respect, Jeremy Bailey was a practical man, but now he hesitated for a moment with his head bowed, his face reddening, his glance going up under his brows at Red Hawk. This was the moment when his twin brother, Joe Bailey, stepped around the corner of the building and said, smiling: “Why not, Jerry? A woman can’t say anything as heavy as gold.”

  Jeremy, staring at his brother, understood suddenly that his conversation with Red Hawk had been overheard. He began to walk toward Joe, taking short steps.

  “What’s the good of trying to murder me, Jerry?” asked Joe calmly. “You’d be hanged before you had a chance to collect the loot and enjoy it. Don’t be a fool. I’m in on this deal, but I’ll be worth my salt before the finish. You’ll find that out. I’ve always been worth my salt to you.”

  “So you’re declaring yourself in on this, are you?” demanded Jeremy. “I pay blood for a chance at the gold mine . . . and you pay nothing but ten minutes of your damned time spying on me. And you declare yourself in on it.”

  “Take it easy,” advised Joe. “Suppose I tell the other men in town that Red Hawk has brought in a sack of gold that he washed out, with his own hands in a half day. Well, after that, what chance will you have to get away and find the mine? You’d be watched night and day. There’d never be a minute when the people here in Witherell wouldn’t have their horses saddled and ready for the start. Think it over, Jeremy. You’ll need a partner, anyway. This isn’t the matter of a small haul. There’s millions in this, maybe.”

  “Shut up, you fool!” exclaimed Jeremy, looking askance at Red Hawk.

  But the latter merely said quietly: “All the sands of the creek are shining with your god. You can pick him by the mule load.”

  A frantic signal for silence ended this promising speech.

  “Take him over and have a chat with Maisry,” Joe went on. “She’ll understand. She’s not a fool. She knows that business is business.” And he began to laugh, nodding his head at his brother.

  Jeremy Bailey cursed softly, profoundly. At last he snapped his fingers and remarked: “It has to be done, I suppose. Look here, Red Hawk, what the devil fixes your eyes on that girl? Even if I back out of the picture, you probably can’t have her. She’s more likely to take up with a fellow of her own kind . . . someone raised in her own way, I mean. You can pick up a hundred good squaws. I’ll load down ten horses for you with stuff out of the store, and, with any one load of that, you’ll be able to buy for yourself the prettiest girl among the Cheyennes. Doesn’t that sound good to you?”

  Red Hawk listened gravely until the speech was finished. Then he placed his hand on the neck of the stallion. “For two years,” he said, “I hunted White Horse to please her. Why do you talk to me about blankets and knives and ammunition and sugar, when I am thinking of the girl herself?”

  “You see?” said Joe to his brother. “And what’s the difference? You can blush five minutes, and be rich the rest of your life.”

  “May you rot in hell,” said Jeremy softly, and, waving to Red Hawk to follow him, he walked off at a brisk pace while Joe remained behind, rubbing his knuckles across his chin.

  After an instant, however, Joe decided to join the others, and set off after them with long strides.

  They went across the back fences, the brothers slipping between the bars and Red Hawk vaulting the barriers with White Horse. So they came to the rear of Lester’s house, and saw his daughter irrigating a vegetable patch. From the windmill water ran in a small ditch along the side of the plot, and with a wide-bladed hoe she dammed or opened the way for the stream.

  The girl looked toward them silently—at Red Hawk, first, and finally at Jeremy Bailey.

  Jeremy said: “Maisry, every man has his price. Red Hawk has f
ound mine. If I back down and keep away from you, he’ll give me a fortune. Just how he’ll give it I can’t tell you. But the price is too high for me. You can call me a hound if you like. In a way, I suppose I am. But I’m putting the cards on the table. You never gave a rap about me, and so now I’m pulling out.” He stopped.

  Red Hawk could hear his loud breathing.

  The girl had on old leather gloves that had once belonged to her father, and which were now torn and blackened by the garden work. She took off one of those gloves so that with her bare fingers she could arrange her hair, pushing a loose, bright strand into the shimmering mass. “Why, Jeremy,” she said placidly, “the people who make bargains ought always to be free to break them, I suppose. It’s quite all right.”

  “About your father,” said Jeremy huskily. “I want to say that I still intend to help you to . . .”

  She had not even lifted her hand, but her quiet eyes stopped him, and Red Hawk was filled with wonder.

  “Go and saddle your horses,” Red Hawk said to Jeremy. “When you come past the front of the house, I shall be ready.”

  “I wanted to say,” said Jeremy to the girl, his face bright with sweat, “that if . . .”

  “Come along, Jeremy,” commanded his brother. “Don’t be making a fool of yourself. It’s over, now. Come along with me.” He took Jeremy’s arm in his hand and pulled him away, and Jeremy’s face was red and polished as if it had been mahogany.

  Red Hawk’s heart drank of joy in much the same way that the thirsty soil drank up the water that the girl gave to it. He was smiling as he looked up at the girl, and then his smile went out. She was not stern, rather infinitely quiet. Time went on like a sailing bird; time, which cannot pause except at the end of life, seemed to have halted utterly for her.