by Max Brand
What was to be done? Already the medicine men of the tribe were hard at work, purifying the lodges, treating the sufferers, but so far they had not driven away a single devil from one sick man’s body.
Riding hastily back toward the town, they passed the sweat house in time to see a naked man issue from it and run with staggering steps down to the river, accompanied by a medicine man who, with the head of a wolf above his own and a wolf’s tail flaunting at his back, bounded and pranced at the side of the sick man.
“Stop them!” cried White Thunder. “That will kill the poor man!”
“Who can stop a doctor when he is in the middle of a rite?” asked Rising Hawk in sharp reproof. “If your own medicine is stronger, go heal the rest of the sick, White Thunder!”
A harsh voice had Rising Hawk as he uttered this dictum, and Torridon made no reply. He merely glanced at Nancy, and she back to him.
He went back to his lodge, took off his clothes, and donned the suit that he had worn on the evening before when he entered the lodge of Singing Arrow, and began a round of the teepees that had the sick in them. Every case was exactly the same, except for one girl who seemed to be in great pain. The others suffered no agony—only a numbing fever that made them unwilling to move, even to eat.
In every case he made the same suggestion—that the whole lodge be moved away from the camp, and a city of the sick segregated, having no communion with the rest of the camp.
His advice was received with open anger.
“You,” said one strong warrior whose son was stricken, “have power in such matters as these. Heammawihio gave you that power and sent you down here to take care of the Cheyennes. Now, why don’t you do something to help us? You are only giving us words. You are not doing anything or making any medicine to drive away the evil spirits!”
Torridon went back to his lodge sick at heart. He had the feeling that even a skillful doctor would have had his hands more than full in such a case as this, and he was sure that calamity was soon to fall upon him.
IX
When he had changed from the polluted clothing and washed his body clean, he dressed, and went to the entrance of his lodge. Young Willow came to hold back the flap that he might enter.
“Don’t come near me,” he told her. “If you so much as touch me, you may die of it. I have been near evil spirits.”
“You have washed yourself clean,” said the squaw.
“It may be even in my breath,” Torridon said bitterly.
“Come,” said Young Willow stoutly. “I am not afraid. I have never been a man to take scalps, but I never have been afraid to do my duty. Come in. I have some fresh venison stewing in the pot. You may smell it now. Rushing Wind gave us that for a present.”
Nancy came in haste, calling softly to him, but he warned her back sharply.
He sat outside the lodge, and ate some meat from a bowl that was placed at his direction near the entrance. A robe was also passed to him. Wrapped in that, he sat back against the wall of the teepee. Nancy crouched anxiously inside.
It was the quiet of evening. The hunters all had returned. Man and boy and dog had eaten and now rested. Later on, the yearning young lovers would wander out with their musical instruments and make strange noises and singing to their loved ones. But now they were quiet, and the dogs that would begin snarling and howling were now hushed, also.
Dun-colored or gleaming white, like pyramids of snow, the teepees stood shadowy or bright around him. From the open entrances, soft voices spoke. Firelight wavered out upon the night through the mouths of the lodges, or in red needles darting through small punctures in the cowhides. The morrow night would not be like this, Torridon could well guess. There would be wailings and weepings for the dead.
He looked above him. The stars were out, unblemished and clear. He felt a strange connection with them, so much had the wild tales of the Cheyennes about him entered his mind, and a sense of doom came over Torridon.
“Nancy,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Are you going to stay there the whole night?”
“I don’t dare to breathe the same air that you may breathe after me.”
“Paul, Paul,” cried the girl softly, “if anything happens to you, do you think that I want to live on after you? And in such a place?”
“I’ve thought it out,” he said. “As long as I’m here, they don’t care for your comings and goings. You can do what you please. And this is what you must do. Will you listen?”
“Yes.”
“Will you do what I tell you to do?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“Go out and take the pinto horse. He’s tethered behind the lodge. Young Willow has gone to High Wolf. You’re free to load the pinto with food and robes and never be suspected. Then lead him out of the village and down toward the river. Mount him and ride across. Keep on steadily to the north. Ride due north and never stop. Keep your horse jogging or walking. You’ll cover more miles that way without killing your pony. When the morning comes you’ll find Roger Lincoln. He’s waiting there to the north for us.”
“He’s waiting for you, Paul. Not for us.”
“You’ve given your promise to do what I tell you.”
“Do you think I could go?” she asked.
“You must. There’s no escape for the two of us. I see that now. But there is an escape for you. Find Roger Lincoln, and tell him to go back to the fort. Once you’re away . . . I’ll find some means of escaping . . . after the sickness is ended and gone.”
“But you’ll never escape,” Nancy sobbed. “You’ll be visiting the lodges of the sick and you’ll be sure to catch it. Then who will take care of you?”
“Such things are chance,” said Torridon calmly. “A man has to face some dangers. This isn’t a great one. I don’t touch these poor invalids. I don’t come near their breath.”
“Ah, but I know their lodges will be reeking. Six sick people, perhaps, in one teepee.”
“Nancy, we’re talking about you. Will you go?”
She answered him with an equal calm: “Do you think that I love you as other women love? I mean, women who can live apart from their husbands? I’m not that way. I’d never leave you unless I were dragged away.”
After that, he was silent for a time, trying to find some argument to persuade her.
“You can do nothing for me here,” he said. “And you have a father and a mother to return to.”
She answered bitterly: “I have no father and no mother. They drove me away from you. Following me, you came to the Cheyennes. Except for my father and mother, we would not be here now, Paul. We would be happy in a home of our own.”
“If they did wrong,” said Torridon, looking as he spoke into the very heart of things, “they did it for your sake. You must not blame them too much. Besides, our lives have some meaning. Is it right to throw them away?”
Nancy strove to answer; the words were lost and stilled in faint sobs, and Torridon knew that it was useless to talk to her any longer on this subject. She would not leave him. And for the first time in his young life true humility flowed into the heart of the boy, and he wondered at her goodness, and the pure, strong soul of Nancy. He wondered if it had not been planned that all this should happen so that he should find the truth about life and about himself.
A haze drew gradually over the eyes of Torridon. The stars floated in a dim mist of thin, golden sparks. He slept.
When he wakened, the cold dew was in his hair and on his face. And from the distance, at the verge of the Cheyenne camp, he heard strange, high-pitched cries. For a moment they were a blended part and portion of his dream, then, wakening fully, he knew them for what they were—the dirges of lament.
And he could see with the mind’s eye the poor squaws disfiguring themselves for warrior husbands, or helpless child, now dead and still.
He prepared himself for the grimmest and saddest day of his life, but all his mental preparations were less than the reality.
Like a dreadful fire the pestilence was sweeping through the Cheyenne camp. In the morning, a warrior and two children lay dead, and thirty more were sick. But by noon the sick numbered more than fifty, and they were scattered through all parts of the camp.
The medicine men, frantically rushing here and there, were working in a frenzy to cast out the wicked spirits. But they themselves soon paid for their rashness. Four of them were stretched helplessly by noon in the heat of the day, two of them howling with appeals to the spirits and with pain.
And Torridon went everywhere, grimly, from lodge to lodge. Men and women looked at him with stony eyes, heard his advice with glares, and in silence let him retire. And it began to appear to Torridon that this calamity was blamed upon him as a thing done to the whole nation out of personal malice.
He could have smiled at such childishness, but behind the sullen silence of those red men there was all the danger of drawn knives and leveled rifles. Before noon came, he knew that death was not far from him, if he had to remain in the camp.
He waited until the sun was sloping into the far west, its heat half gone. Then he mounted Ashur, and Nancy Brett joined him on the pinto.
For that was the day of days, so far as they were concerned. Rushing Wind was in command of the guard upon Torridon. And with him were two young braves.
In silence they rode out of the camp toward the river, but as they did so, young Rushing Wind was saying to the white man bitterly: “Why is it, White Thunder? What have the Cheyennes done to you? Why don’t you drive away the bad spirits?”
“Rushing Wind,” said Torridon, “I haven’t the power to do this thing.”
“Ah, my friend,” said the young brave, “I saw my father lying dead. You brought him back to life.”
“He was not dead. He was only very sick.”
“His eyes were half opened. His breath did not come,” said Rushing Wind. “To you that may not be death, but, to us, it seems death. But in a short time, you made my father strong. Already he sits up against a buffalo robe and asks for meat. But you, White Thunder, are angry with my people. You wish to punish them. Well, I am your friend and I tell you this as a friend. The Cheyennes are growing desperate. Some warrior who sees his son dying, some squaw who sees her strong husband falling sick, may run at you with a knife.”
Torridon made no reply.
For just then, out of the village, rode Rising Hawk, and with him were two tried and proved warriors, and they came straight toward Torridon and Rushing Wind.
Had some whisper of the plot to escape come to the ears of this stern young chieftain?
However, when he joined them he gave Torridon a quiet greeting, and simply fell in with the rest of the escort.
“What does it mean?” Torridon murmured to Rushing Wind.
The latter leaned far over and pretended to fumble at his girths. At the same time he whispered: “Give up any thought of escaping today. Rising Hawk suspects something, and he has come here to watch.”
Torridon straightened in the saddle and drew a great breath. He had no doubt that Rushing Wind spoke the truth, but he also felt a vast assurance that unless he managed to escape on this day, he never would live to leave the Cheyennes on the morrow. Even as they rode down toward the river, the wailing from the camp followed them from afar, like the screaming of birds of prey in the distance.
X
Rising Hawk was not the only addition to the guard. Presently Standing Bull was seen coming out from the village, armed to the teeth and riding on a dun-colored pony, celebrated as the fastest of his string.
Unquestionably it looked as though the Cheyennes had heard some whisper of the proposed plan to escape. Nancy Brett swung her pony a little closer to Torridon.
“You look like death,” she said. “You must smile . . . talk . . . do something to keep them busy and get their eyes off you. Start a game.”
“What game could I start?” Torridon asked heavily, for hope had left him.
“Horse racing, then?”
“Against Ashur? They know that they wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Give them a flying start. Paul, Paul, this is our last chance. Do something.”
Her energy and courage shamed him into making some sort of attempt.
He said cheerfully to Rising Hawk, as that dignitary came up: “Here are the fastest ponies among all the Cheyennes. Which is the finest of them all, Rising Hawk?”
The latter swept his glance over the number. “Who can tell which horse will win or which one will fail?” said the chief.
“Ah, well,” Torridon answered, “Standing Bull would have made a longer answer than that. He knows that his dun horse is the best one in the tribe.”
Rising Hawk turned, and the long eagle feathers stirred behind his head. “It is wrong,” he declared sententiously, “to count a coup before the enemy has been touched. And no scalp is taken until it hangs at the saddle bow. There is the horse of White Thunder himself. Does he compare his pony with yours?”
“My horse,” Torridon said, as though carelessly, “came from the sky as everyone knows. Standing Bull was comparing his horse with the others that were raised on the prairie. For my part, I think that your own pony, Rising Hawk, would throw dust in the eyes of the others. I have a good hatchet, here, that I would be willing to bet, if you were to run as far as to those trees and back.”
It was, in fact, an excellent hatchet of the best steel, and the handle had been roughened and ornamented by the sinking of many glass beads into the wood. When Torridon picked out the hatchet from the sling that held it, Rising Hawk watched with glittering eyes.
“Hai! Standing Bull!” he called. All the warriors drew near. “White Thunder thinks that my pony is the fastest of all these. He offers to bet his hatchet.”
Standing Bull expelled a breath with a sort of groan. “You have a good horse,” he said, “and the horse has a good rider. But I would ride for the sake of that same hatchet.”
There was not a warrior in the band but had the same thought.
A course was suggested to a tree half a mile away and back. Suddenly there was dismounting and looking to girths. But Rising Hawk said sullenly: “The rest of you ride. I shall stay here with my friend, White Thunder.”
The first hope of Torridon disappeared like a thin mist. Rising Hawk did not intend that the prisoner should escape so easily. He would make surety doubly sure.
However, Torridon added in haste: “I’ll ride in the same race with you. Why not? I shall start fifty steps to the rear of the others. Perhaps I can catch you.”
“Perhaps,” Rising Hawk said with a satisfied smile.
And, in an instant, they had lined up their horses.
Nancy Brett was to have her part, which consisted in holding her own pony to the side of the others and dropping her raised arm as a signal. Torridon reined back black Ashur to the rear. He gave Nancy one fixed look as he did so, and she nodded ever so slightly in return.
They understood one another. The heart of Torridon turned to ice, and all his nerves quivered like wires under a breaking strain. In the meantime, the Cheyennes had gathered at the mark. Every moment, Torridon expected Rising Hawk to call him closer. But though that chief twice turned in his saddle and marked the distance to which Torridon had withdrawn with the black horse, still he made no objection.
The attention of every Indian was now occupied with his pony. Those keen little animals, as though they knew what was wanted of them, began to rear and pitch and kick, and when they lined up, first one and then another strove to dart away.
Several heart-breaking minutes passed in this fashion. But at last the hand of Nancy fell, and the Cheyennes were off the mark with a loud grunting of the ponies as they struggled to get at once into full stride.
Nancy followed then one instant with her eyes. Then Ashur bore down on her.
As keen as any of the Indian horses for the race, the great black stallion had started with a lurch that almost tore Torridon from t
he saddle, but in an instant he had mastered the big horse with a touch on the reins and a word. He swerved to the left, and, turning her agile little pony around, Nancy fell in at the side of Ashur.
They made straight for the river, above the rocks, where the bed fanned out very broad, and a horse could be ridden easily and quickly through the shallows.
At the top of the bank, they looked back and saw that the furious riders were still rushing ahead for the tree that was the turning point of their race. Rising Hawk, true to his promise, was beginning to forge into the lead.
When they turned that tree, they would see that Torridon was not with them—was not in sight. And they would come like demons to catch him again.
This was the heart-breaking moment of the escape for the two. They gave each other one pale-faced glance, and then their horses dipped down the bank. They struck the water with a splashing of spray. Still, the blinding mist dashed up against their faces as the animals struggled through the shallow current.
At last, firm ground was under the hoofs of their horses. They could see again, and above them, dancing on the top of the bank, they saw an Indian boy of thirteen years or more, with a bow in his hand—dancing from side to side, his arms outspread to stop them, and his voice raised to an anxious scream as he called for help.
Help was coming up to him rapidly, moreover. The boys from the swimming pool, flashing ashore and catching up bows, stones, little javelins, went leaping up the bank and then racing for the danger point.
Torridon knew those youngsters well enough and dreaded them. They had no war bows, to be sure, but they were accurate to a wonderful degree with their play weapons. And a well-placed shaft might kill. Those stones and javelins, too, would make a formidable shower.
But now Ashur and the pinto were struggling up the bank.
They gained the ridge. Torridon pointed his double-barreled pistol at the young Cheyenne, and he turned and bolted with a yell of terror, dodging from side to side to avoid the expected bullet.
