Even before we were on them, I knew what would happen - exactly what I had proved to my own men - that cavalry cannot withstand a calmly delivered infantry fire. And these Pawnees were calm. Their faith in Bald Eagle was like the faith of the prophet in the Lord. Here he stood among them, thundering forth his commands. With the greatest coolness they loaded, took aim, and, as we dashed at them, they met us with a sheet of flame. Half the saddles were instantly emptied, and the rest of us were thrown into confusion. The charge lost impetus, but still I had to strike home if I could - I had to strike, even if I were almost despairing.
I stood up in the stirrups and shouted my own cry. It was fiercely answered by my men, and I knew that, few as they were, they had the heart to follow me. Then we struck the Pawnees. Bald Eagle was my goal. I drove straight at him, for I knew that, if he fell, the field was ours. White Smoke needed no reins. The grip of my knees and the sway of my body were enough to drive him forward or stop him at my pleasure. I had a revolver in each hand, and, as they spoke, the Pawnees fell. Between me and my target was a writhing mass of those devoted Indians. The bullets I intended for Bald Eagle struck their bodies. I emptied my guns, and still the thunder of that great voice held the Pawnees firm. I clubbed a rifle and made play with that in a frenzy, but I saw that all was lost. The Pawnees were at us like tigers now. The impetus of the charge had been crushed against that human mass. Now they surged in, screaming like veritable demons, and my poor Sioux went down on every side.
Two brawny villains made at me with hatchets. I dropped one with the butt of the rifle. But my blow missed the second and merely knocked the weapon from his hands. Then, with a leap, he grappled with me. I had him by the throat in a trice, but others of his friends were at his heels, grinning with a thirsty joy as they saw Black Bear already in their hands. Then it was that I heard the sweetest sound that ever met my ears - the battle yell of a band of Sioux, rushing to the fight. I looked aside and saw a wild and joyous picture, indeed. Yonder came the last hundred of my mounted men, sweeping in on the flank of the Pawnees. At their head, the organizer of this final stroke, rode none other than young Sitting Wolf, naked to the waist, painted hideously and swinging a club.
When they struck, the shock sent the entire battle reeling. My throttled Pawnee dropped senseless to the ground. Around me there was only a terrible confusion. They no longer thought of butchering me. They were intent on meeting the new danger. But they turned too late. That hidden reserve had dropped upon them like a bolt from the blue. In an instant the Pawnees were torn from the bleeding remnants of my footmen and dashed into hopeless confusion. Now each unit of my clansmen turned from defense to aggression. In that melee they retained an efficient order. They still fought shoulder to shoulder while the Pawnees struck at random, hardly knowing friend from foe. And still the horsemen were lunging among them, making every blow tell.
A shout that was deep with groans rose from that throng. It was the despairing cry of the Pawnees as they saw themselves lost. Numbers, order, everything was now against them, and they dropped like deer before a forest fire. They strove to draw clear and get to their horses, but the Dakota cavalry swept in before them, spattered with blood, and still hungry for more, insatiable for slaughter. Victory made them double in strength. Defeat weakened the Pawnees.
For my part, seeing that the end was here, I reined out of the press and looked about for Bald Eagle. There was no real or complete victory until he was down, and I wanted that death for myself. Then, to my bewilderment, I saw a horseman rushing far away across the prairie with two or three rushing behind him. It was Bald Eagle, who knew that the cause was lost on this day and had made a wise decision to save himself. It was as though nine tenths of the victory were slipping from my hands. I gave White Smoke the reins and shot after him.
FACING CERTAIN DEATH
Behind me I could hear the Sioux, finishing the feast and relishing every morsel they tasted. There would be a scalp for every survivor, that I knew. Many a trophy would dry hideously over the teepee fires of the Dakotas. This day would pass into song and story. I had other work before me, and that work consisted in running down the men before me. I loaded my rifle and my revolver while White Smoke was at a brisk gallop. Then I straightened him out on the trail and flew after them. They came back toward me as though they were standing still.
There were three Pawnees besides Bald Eagle. What they must have done, at the instigation of their great chief, was to take the horses of some of the fallen Sioux in the midst of the battle and so ride out to freedom. But I was hard at their heels. They turned back, one by one. Doubtless they could have escaped if they had spread out and scattered to either side, but that was not their intention. They only had the thought to cover the retreat of their leader. Each whirled, as I came up, and charged, sending a rifle bullet at me. But bullets fired from a running horse I laughed at. I brought White Smoke to a halt, faced each charge, and sent that Pawnee to his last accounting. Three men whirled at me; three men died. Now there remained before me only the strong roan horse that carried Bald Eagle away. I had felt some pity for him in his defeat, but what seemed his consummate selfishness in allowing his braves to sacrifice themselves for him made me as cold as steel for the work to come. I swept closer, with White Smoke running swiftly and easily as the wind. It was a stanch animal, that roan, but even on equal terms it could not have lived at the pace of my stallion - and weighed down with the bulk of the Pawnee chief, it seemed anchored in one place.
He unlimbered his rifle and fired back at me. I heard the whir of the shot close to my head, and I saw the rascal, who had slackened the speed of the roan, look back and start with surprise - so confident was he in his marksmanship. My own rifle I left in its case. A revolver was enough for me, and already he was in range, but still I pressed in to make assurance doubly sure. I even drew White Smoke back to the roan's own pace, to let Bald Eagle taste his death before it came to him. I could see him work like lightning to load his gun.
It was done before I dreamed it could have been finished. The roan was brought to a sharp halt, and the big man twisted in the saddle with the rifle at his shoulder. I snatched out my own revolver and fired what should have been the bullet that clove through the heart of the chief, but, at that moment, the roan, whirling, threw up its head and through its brain my bullet crashed. It dropped instantly, but, as it dropped, Bald Eagle fired. All I knew was that a stroke of darkness flicked across my brain.
When I wakened, I was bound hand and foot. Bald Eagle sat cross-legged beside me, smoking a pipe. I saw that the end had come for me and sat up to face it. There was no doubt in me now that this was an Indian and not a white. The deep copper of his skin seemed too true for dye to have made it, and his shaggy hair fell partly across his face.
"My young brother," said the chief, speaking excellent Siouan, and his heavy voice rolling the words like soft thunder, "my young brother has frightened Bald Eagle from his nest, but at last my talons are in his flesh."
I nodded, and, as I moved my head, a trickle of crimson from the glancing scalp wound that had felled me slipped over my face. "The scream of Bald Eagle," I said, "has frightened many a Dakota, but now they know him at last. The young men have forgotten their fear. Even now they are riding to take the Pawnee women and children as their slaves. They are riding with scalps at their belts and with many rifles, and, when they come home, fifty thousand Pawnee horses shall run before them."
He looked at me and frowned. "I have only to stretch out my hand," he said. "Black Bear was cunning. He made men of the Sioux. I shall turn them into children again."
If I was to die, there was no reason why I should not sting the heart of this villain if I could. I said, smiling: "The claws of Bald Eagle are blunt and dull. The Sioux have seen the Great Spirit is not fighting on his side. They have made him run away like a whipped boy."
He stared at me savagely for a moment. Then he said: "Black Bear is young. He does not know that great things grow from small
beginnings. One small cloud is the beginning of the storm. When Black Bear is dead, there are left to the Sioux only fools. They will forget his lessons. It is for that reason that he must die. Is he ready?"
I closed my eyes, and nodded, and then looked up at him, still smiling. "Luck and the head of your horse saved you," I said. "It is your turn, Bald Eagle."
"Luck is the wise man's friend. As for my horse... White Smoke will content me."
"You can never ride him," I said, looking sadly at the great stallion. "He will throw you and tear you to pieces, as the buffalo wolf tears the calf."
"If I do not ride him today, I may ride him tomorrow. And after tomorrow there are many tens of days. He shall come to know me, little by little. As the Pawnees came to know me... and as they will come to know me again. Great things grow from small." He added sharply, rising to his feet, "What word shall Bald Eagle take from the dead lips of Black Bear to the Sioux so that they may pierce their flesh and weep for him?"
I saw in that moment no face in all the world except the blue eyes of Mary Kearney. And what would a message from me mean to her? "I have no message, except to one who lives in a place that I do not know, but he will hear of my death in time. And when he hears, he will come for Bald Eagle."
The chief smiled. "It is well," he said. "I shall welcome Rising Sun, as I have welcomed you, Black Bear."
I smiled in turn. "It is not Rising Sun," I said. "Though even he may take the trail to find you. But the man of whom I speak is such a one that, if Bald Eagle were to see his face, he would be filled with fear. He would become a woman. He would hide in the grass like an antelope."
The chief lifted his lion-like head. "This is well," he said. "I have lived a man's life and seen men, but only one worthy of the name... and that is Black Bear. Therefore, I am glad there is another to meet. Is his skin red, my young brother?"
"My father is white as I am white. I have hunted for him, and I have not found him. But somewhere between the East and West he lives on the prairies. Of that I am sure. And in some way he shall learn of my death, and then Bald Eagle shall die. Let every day now be a happy day, Bald Eagle, for it may be your last! He is coming. He shall take you in his hand and break you as I break this stalk of dead grass."
At this he strode to me and leaned. I felt the blow was coming and made my glance steel to meet his eye. He put his great hard hand beneath my chin and raised my face. The words he spoke were the purest English.
"Have you a father, boy?" he asked.
"I have."
"Tell me his name," he commanded.
"I shall tell you," I said, "so that you may know when he is coming. For when he comes, ten thousand Pawnees and the speed of White Smoke cannot save you from him. His name is Dorset."
I felt the grip of his great hand grow sterner while he scowled down into my face. As I watched his face and as I remembered his last words, I was now finally convinced that my first suspicion had been right. This man was white.
He released me and stepped back. "Are you that man's son?"
"Yes. In the name of God, Bald Eagle, do you know him? Then, when he faces you, tell him before you die that his son...."
He raised his hand to silence me. "That man," he said, "is dead!" And he spoke with a certain solemnity that made me feel this was the truth, indeed. It seemed to me then it was time for me to die in turn since he was gone before me, and so the last Dorset should pass from the face of the world.
I simply said: "I am also ready to die."
"Young man," he said, "you are safe from my hand. I have killed the father. I cannot also kill the son."
"If I live, I shall find you. And, when I find you the second time, you will die. If you love life, man, put an end to me while you can."
"I do not love life," he said. "If I meet you again, I shall crush you again, as I have crushed you today. But, as for your father, boy, he was unworthy to live."
"That is a lie and a black one!" I cried.
He asked me with a sort of wonder: "Did you love him? A murderer?"
"I know you now," I said. "You are one of the Connells, and you have followed him from Virginia like a ferret. You followed him, found him, and shot him in the back, because no one Connell ever dared to meet him face to face. Murderer? You know, as I know, that he fought with six men fairly and killed three in open fight. Is that murder? No, by the heavens, and I love him three times more for the three men he killed."
It seemed to me that his breast rose high and fell as he heard me say it. He turned sharply away and walked up and down for a moment. Then he came back to me and stood, scowling down upon me.
"You know his life, then?" he said.
"I know that he broke from prison and came West."
"Do you know the things that he has done since he left prison? Boy, boy, I tell you that his hands were redder with blood than mine."
"They drove him like a hunted wolf. If he turned on them, it was his nature and his right."
He shook his head.
"You damnable hypocrite!" I shouted at him. "You with your Pawnee throat-cutters to talk of murder... you with your white skin under that cursed painted face!"
He merely smiled down at me in ineffable contempt.
I cried at him: "I tell you, he was worthy of coming back among men and living as honestly and as freely as any man who ever drew breath!"
He shook his head again, talking down to me from a sort of calm height. "His own crimes drove him out," he said.
Then he turned his back upon me and set about kindling a small fire. I tried to draw him out. I begged him to tell me when and where my father had died. I begged him to tell me how the death fight came to be. I entreated him for his name. But, though I raved at him, cursed him, and swore to have his blood if I lived, he answered not a word until the brush was gathered and the fire rose high. Then he came and stood behind me where I sat, bound and helpless on the ground.
I felt the shadow of his raised hand behind me, and I hardened myself to meet the final blow. But instead of the death stroke, I felt his voice, deep, and strong - and now that his painted face was turned away from me, it seemed to me that there was a familiar sound in it, something I had heard before, as if in a dream.
"Child," he said, "go back among your own people. Be one among them. Your father is dead. If there was good in him, I tell you this from my heart... I should have known it, because I knew him as no other could have known him. But he was black, black! He deserved to die. And I have killed him. You will never know how he died, except that it was for his sins. You will never know where he fell, except that his bones are on the prairie. As for me, you will never see my face again."
I heard him through a daze for, as the deep, powerful voice swelled around me, there was such a note of agony in it that it went to my heart and opened the shut doors of my brain to the truth. Yet, what I saw was so blinding and great a light that I was choked by it. I was mute while I saw him turn away westward over the prairie into the dusk of the day, for the sun had set some time before. I saw him go, his huge shoulders swinging with his stride, until he became a dwindling form.
Then my voice came back to me. I shouted: "Come back! For the sake of God and my sake, Father, come back!" He turned as though a bullet had struck him, and I cried: "We will go together, if we must. But not you alone."
At that I saw him throw out his arms toward me, but it seemed as though the gathering darkness behind him had a power that drew him irresistibly away. He turned, rushed down a dip in the prairie, and was lost to me.
In a frenzy I worked my way to the fire. The flames burned the wrists I held into them as they burned the ropes that bound them until at last, after a long agony, the strands parted with a snap.
White Smoke had drawn near me and was touching my shoulder with an inquisitive muzzle. With the smoke of my own burned flesh thick in my nostrils I turned to him and snatched a revolver from the saddle holster and with it blew in two the rope that fastened my feet. Then I was in
the saddle and plunging through the night after him.
BACK AMONG THE SIOUX
I rode like a madman, bending low from the saddle, searching the plains with my eyes. In five minutes I reached a river whose smooth surface was speckled with the silver of the stars. Up the bank I raced, then turned, and fled down it. On the farther side were low, jumbled rocks in which he could hide from me, if he wished, or where his trail would disappear. I swam White Smoke across the stream, and all that night I kept the horse wandering, to and fro. In the dawn I saw a saddled and bridled horse, feeding on the prairie not far from the stretch of rocks, a refugee from the battlefield. My heart sank, for perhaps my father had found another and ridden west upon its back.
I cut for his trail. There were tracks of other horses - yes, and some of them led westward. Which should I follow? I took them one by one that day, and the next, and the next, following each until it ended by swerving east again, a direction in which I was sure he would not go. At last I found one that went west, indeed, and that I followed with a heart hot with hope - except that priceless days had now passed.
It ended, at last, in a herd of wild horses. Still I would not surrender. Those bitter long weeks that followed were an endless torment, a ceaseless agony, until finally I knew that I was beaten. Perhaps he had chosen death in the river, for all I knew. I felt that his ways could never be fathomed by me. So I turned back wearily to find the Sioux.
I hardly cared if I found them or not. A dulled sense of duty drove me on. There was Zintcallasappa. I must see her. After that, I hoped to turn my back on the prairies and never see them again. That was the first bitterness. As I rode back along the endless gray sea of the plains, I grew calmer, wiser. He who had gone to his death in the river, or to another life in the Western lands beyond it, knew better than I what was fitting in a man. No matter how my heart might ache for him, perhaps he was right. If he returned to live among his fellows, the law might find him out and damn the end of his days. He had made himself a war chief in one wild tribe; perhaps, if he lived, he would be a war chief again. And if we love the beauty of a hawk on the wing, should we, therefore, try to capture it and imprison it in a close cage?
Brand, Max - 1925 Page 19
