# Gentlemen of the North/Chapter 11
### CHAPTER XI
#### THE PILLAGER SHAKES THE CALF'S TAIL

THE village was quiet and I remained in my hut until near sundown, then ventured forth, anxious for the return of Flat Mouth. If he had had no mishaps with hostile Indians he should make the trip to the lower Mandan village quickly. The men of the village, as was their custom, were lounging on top of their huts, smoking and bragging. Their arrogance was almost past belief. They believed themselves infinitely superior to the white race. They had seen but few whites, and these they looked upon as partly demented because of their willingness to give guns and ammunition for such worthless things as hides and robes.
But this sleepy calm was destroyed as I strolled towards Choke-cherry's hut in hopes of getting a word of encouragement to the girl. One moment all was peace with even the cur dogs silent, the next shrill screams were splitting the air and warriors were dropping from their huts, snatching up weapons and rushing ahead to investigate. The savage's first thought was a surprise attack. I ran with the group that was making for Le Borgne's hut. We came to an abrupt halt and beheld a strange spectacle. An Indian woman with blood streaming from her arms and breast, with her hair matted over her face, stood under the porch of the chief's hut and was pouring out what I took to be a bitter tirade.
The warriors with me instantly began falling back, betraying every symptom of fear. I held my ground, curious to learn more. The woman clenched her fists and swung her arms and shrieked out her words in a steady stream until the door flew open and Le Borgne stepped out, his axe in his hand.
He was smiling, but his long mane of black hair was much dishevelled. He stood before the woman, and I fully expected to witness another murder. She ran to him and hissed and spat like a cat, even attempting to claw his face. He jumped away from her and walked towards the corral; but swift as a wild thing she was at his side, then ahead of him, screaming, clawing his face and even bringing blood to his brawny chest.
He wheeled to one side to avoid her, and her talons ripped down his arm, leaving red streaks. Undoubtedly it was the first time Le Borgne was ever blooded without striking back. His face was a study in rage and fear. Whichever way he turned she was at his side or before him, her tongue never silent, her claws ripping at his arms and chest. Knowing his people were watching him, he would not depart from his dignity and run for it.
Never once did he threaten violence, even to the extent of pushing her away. He held his head high to escape her hooked fingers, but beyond that he did not try to defend himself. Superstition was his master, and he knew the woman was demented and believed that most woful would be his fate did he, in anger, lay the weight of a finger on one touched by the Great Spirit.
He began working his way back to his hut, jumping from side to side, but never increasing his pace beyond a brisk walk. Then she slipped in some filth and fell, and he seized the opportunity to gain his hut. She was at his heels when he entered, but the door slammed before she could follow him. She beat on the door with her fists and head and yelled in fury.
None of the warriors ventured to remove her. They had returned to their roofs and were eager spectators of the scene. I pitied the poor thing and finally took it upon myself to go to her. As I touched her on the shoulder she wheeled on me like a mad wolf, but the sight of a white instead of a red man seemed to calm her. She made no resistance when I took her arm and gently led her away. She went willingly enough, but the gaze she fastened on my face was not that of a sane person.
I walked with her through the village at random, taking pains to widen the distance between us and the chief's hut. At last some women furtively stole from cover and relieved me of her. It was horrible to hear her heart-broken moaning, and I lost no time in getting it out of my ears. In my haste to escape I found I had returned to Le Borgne's hut, and I waited for him to come out. He preferred, however, to be alone. Perhaps he was busy rubbing buffalo tallow on his wounds.
Feeling faint and remembering I had not eaten anything for hours, I sought out the hut where Choke-cherry was temporarily housed, gave him an inch of tobacco and motioned for food. He gave some order to his women and they began overhauling ancient meats. I insisted on fresh meat, for one end of the hut was covered with buffalo meat, the hunting party had brought in. This had not had time to spoil, and, after the Minnetaree and Mandan custom, was thrown down to grow tainted. I picked out a piece and put it in a copper kettle and the women proceeded to cook it. Then, selecting a fillet, I broiled it and directed a woman to take it to Miss Dearness. On a small stick I scratched:
Fresh meat. Cooked it myself. Keep up your courage. Franklin.
This message I sent along with the fillet. I knew Choke-cherry and all his wives were despising me for my tastes in insisting on fresh meat, but I remained there and watched the kettle until some of it was done and I could begin eating. When I finished I had had the only satisfying meal since reaching the Missouri.
Quitting the hut I walked towards the Knife and was rejoiced to behold Flat Mouth coming on the gallop. He dismounted, removed the pack of robes and led his pony to the corral. It was now growing dark, and all the warriors had followed their chief's example and were inside their huts for the night. As we carried the pack to our hut, I briefly narrated the actions of the demented woman.
"She is the mother of the woman Le Borgne killed," he informed. "They talk about the girl's death in the lower village as her mother was a Mandan. No matter what she says or does, neither Le Borgne nor any of his men would dare touch her so long as she is under the protection of the great manito. But others had better keep out of his way, for only blood will satisfy him after her talk. Now I have a big talk for you."
We entered the hut, put our guns aside and I urged him to proceed. First he lighted his pipe and extending it to me, held it while I took several whiffs, this little attention being the height of courtesy. Then, after puffs to sky and earth and the four wind-gods, he said—
"The strange men the Sioux talk about are white men."
"White men? Then they must be Hudson Bay men," I exclaimed, for I did not believe the N. W. or the X. Y. could be sending men to the Missouri, although the H. B. already had done so.
"Not traders. They carry a big flag. They have guns. The lower village was told about them by White Snake. Le Borgne now knows white men are coming up the river."
"What do you think about them?"
"The white woman's medicine brought them," he promptly declared. "It will be a long time before they get here——"
"Then how can they help us," I broke in, a rude breach of etiquette with an Indian.
He smoked in silence for a good five minutes, then coldly resumed:
"A long time in getting here, but Le Borgne has his village here and can not change it. He will be here when they come. He fears they are friends of the Sioux. Big medicine for Medicine Hair."
This time I waited to make sure he had finished, then asked—
"How?"
With the utmost gravity he replied:
"The white woman will say the big white chief, her father, comes with many white men. Her medicine will tell her in a dream, she shall say. She will tell it to the Minnetarees. Le Borgne thinks only he and White Snake and the Mandans in the lower village know about the white man. He will think it big medicine if she dreams it and tells him."
"Good!" I cried, deeply pleased at the deception Flat Mouth had so adroitly suggested. "It may give us a fighting chance. Le Borgne is in a bad mind."
"That is good! He will not have time to think of a new wife. He will be afraid bad luck is trailing him. He will be ripe for our trade."
"Is that all Eshkebugecoshe has to tell?"
"On riding to the village I met a scout of the Cheyennes. They have crossed the river in hope of falling on some hunting party before going home. We talked in the sign-language. I sent a sign-talk to the Cheyenne chief, saying we would leave here with the medicine woman after this one sleep. I said I would bring the Assiniboin scalps and he and his warriors must be ready to go with us to the Mouse. That was the trade we made when they were putting presents under the stem."
This would make it the following night. Well, we either would go or we wouldn't. I wrote on a strip of bark:
There are white men far down the river. Le Borgne is much concerned. He does not know whether they are allies of the Sioux or not. You must have a dream to-night that the white men are led by your father, the big white chief, that they are coming here with many guns, that worse than death will be the fate of anyone who interferes with your liberty, let alone seeking you as a wife. Flat Mouth will interpret it to Le Borgne.
I read it to Flat Mouth and he smiled appreciatively and declared my "mystery talk" was very big medicine. I asked him if he had met any Minnetarees on his return by the river road. He shook his head, and I decided that for twenty-four hours at least Le Borgne would not know he had been to the lower village. Thus the girl's announcement concerning the strangers down the river would come in the nature of a dream-revelation and make a profound impression on the savage chief. Whatever the supernatural powers had to report to their red children was revealed through the medium of dreams. You could never make Le Borgne believe that the visions seen in sleep were not veritable views of the unseen world wherein all earthly affairs were ordered and the future of every man foreseen.
Taking our guns we made our way through the darkness to Choke-cherry's hut and after much bother got him to open the door. We would have proceeded direct to the girl's hut if not for the guards on duty there. For two inches of tobacco I bribed him to make one of his women take a bowl of fresh water and bowl of corn to the girl. I explained to him that the piece of bark I placed on the corn was a medicine to make her hungry.
The Pillager and I followed the woman until we heard her explain her errand to one of the guards and the door open and close upon her. This was about all we could do and, as the morrow promised to tax our strength, we went back to our hut and turned in for a few hours' sleep.
With the first grey light the Pillager aroused me. He had procured fresh meat from some of the hunters and hurriedly broiled it over the fire. As fast as a portion was cooked enough to be edible he cut it off for me and took the next slice, practically raw, for himself. In this fashion we made a hearty meal and set out to see if Miss Dearness had complied with my directions. As we came in sight of her prison I knew she had acted promptly, for the guards, four of them, were grouped before something hanging on the outside wall and were staring at it curiously.
The savages gave way sullenly as we advanced to read her message. They were in half a mind to order us back, but Flat Mouth was too forbidding to be hustled about. His statement that I was the only one who could tell what was in the mystery talk afforded them an excuse for permitting us the freedom of the porch.
Miss Dearness had written on the reverse side of my piece of bark:
    People of the Minnetaree, and the Blind One, their chief:
In the night dream medicine came to me. I saw many white men with many guns far down the Missouri coming to these villages of the Mandans and the Minnetarees. I saw the big white chief, the greatest of all traders, leading the white men. I saw the Sioux begging him to stop with them. He is too strong for them to rob or kill. I heard him tell the Sioux he was coming here to build a post because the white woman, Medicine Hair, is here. I heard him tell the Sioux he would return and build a post in their country if he was not treated well by the Minnetarees, or if the white woman had not been treated well. The Sioux begged him to give them some of his many guns, and he told them they should have them if the white woman was troubled in any way by Le Borgne or his people. Le Borgne, the Blind One, the dream means you will bring the Sioux against you, every warrior carrying a gun, if you do not let the white woman come and go as she wishes, and if you do not tell your people there will be no feast, no new hut.
I translated it hastily to the Pillager, and his eyes glistened as he pronounced it good. I noticed in the writing what, perhaps, he did not. She did not refer to herself as being the daughter of the mythical big white chief. I had made much of the relationship, taking my cue from Flat Mouth. She had acquiesced in it. Now, apparently, she could not do it, though Red Dearness would be the last to object to his daughter using any subterfuge to cheat an Indian.
Flat Mouth was for bringing out the robes and placing them on sale at once. I advised waiting until we could learn the chief's mood. Flat Mouth then asked if we should take the writing to the chief now. Again I was for delay. To my way of thinking the girl's "dream" should be announced to Le Borgne at a psychological moment, at some time during the sale of the robes. I knew the fellow well enough to realize that he could not be forced into any decision. The pressure must be applied gradually; the effect must be accumulative; then, if we could bring him to a pitch where he wavered, the girl's revelation should be used as the last straw. The Pillager was good enough to proclaim my reasoning sound, only he destroyed all compliment in his speech by adding that it was the white woman's medicine working through my tongue.
We stepped clear of the porch and were about to return to the hut and our pack of robes, when again I heard that fearful screaming. The guards scurried to less exposed positions; even the Pillager betrayed concern. The screaming grew louder and the Pillager, too proud to run and hide, flattened himself against the wall of the hut and stared uneasily at the pitiable figure now appearing from between two huts.
Le Borgne's demented mother-in-law was a sorry sight as she passed us, tossing her hands and tearing at her hair. Since her last appearance she had slashed herself with a knife, for she was bleeding from several fresh wounds. She walked with her head thrown far back, yet she neither stumbled nor fell nor wandered from the middle of the narrow way. This to the Pillager was simply another proof that she was under the direct control of the great manito. She was making straight to Le Borgne's hut. As soon as she passed a hut the inmates would emerge and climb to the roof, none daring to follow her. I followed her, however, and for this reason the Pillager followed too.
We halted on coming in sight of Le Borgne's porch and were just in time to see the war-chief duck inside. The woman, with her head still flung back and her gaze directed to the heavens, gave an ear-splitting shriek and ran forward. How she saw him, or knew he had retreated into the hut was a mystery to me. Nevertheless she did know and, with a maniacal cry, ran on to the porch and attempted to open the door.
After several minutes of furious efforts she backed away and began cursing him:
"Oh, one-eyed killer of women! May your medicine turn to water! May the Sioux tear out your heart and give it to the dogs!" she screamed.
The Pillager was so deeply impressed by her terrible prayer that he interpreted only patches of it. For some minutes she carried on in this violent fashion, then, with a despairing shriek, she turned and fled swiftly between the huts.
"It is bad to have such words spoken against you," gravely said the Pillager. "Le Borgne may say he doesn't care, but inside he is very much afraid."
The more frightened the Minnetaree became, the better the day looked for us, and, feeling almost optimistic, I led the way to Choke-cherry's hut and cooked some meat and sent it to Miss Dearness. Despite his hearty meal at our hut the Pillager broiled for himself several slices of meat and devoured them voraciously. When he had finished I said I was ready to offer the robes. To my surprise he objected.
"The white woman's medicine is working through the mad woman," he insisted. "Let the medicine work. We will wait. We have until the sun goes down. My blood tells me something is in the air that will make this day remembered among the Minnetaree."
"Do you think the woman's people—she being a Mandan—will make trouble for Le Borgne?"
He smiled grimly.
"They are dogs. They do not dare lift their heads when he looks at them. They will say she took a Minnetaree man and now belongs to that tribe; that the daughter, the dead woman, is a Minnetaree. We will climb on a hut and watch what comes next."
This we did, selecting the hut we were in. Some thirty warriors were already there. They respectfully made way for the Pillager, and we took a position facing Le Borgne's hut.
We sat there but a few minutes, smoking our pipes and watching the curious groups dotting the surrounding roofs, when we observed, off to our left, a commotion among the spectators. They were swarming to the south side of the roofs, craning their necks and keeping very quiet.
"She is coming again," whispered Flat Mouth, putting up his pipe. "She is like a ghost that can not find sleep."
As the guttural chatter on the roofs subsided, I heard her voice wailing in a low-pitched key as she once more was impelled to make the rounds of the village. We could trace her progress by watching the people on the roofs. Then the moaning undertone leaped high like heat-lightning as she flayed Le Borgne, using terms that would bring death to any other in the five villages.
She denounced him as a stealer of women, as a killer of women. These accusations, especially the first, might be easily overlooked, even accepted as something complimentary. But when she added he was a coward, that the sight of a man's blood made him sick, that he dared not leave his hut unless surrounded by many braves, the effect was quickly registered inside the hut. He began bellowing in terrible rage, and the warriors on the roofs began shifting their positions so they might not be so prominent when he showed himself. Those remaining on the ground scurried to climb up on the huts, or ran for the outskirts of the village.
Flat Mouth breathed with a hissing sound, as he read these signs of fear, and whispered—
"They are afraid to meet their chief when he comes out!"
For fully ten minutes the woman kept up her vilification, her tongue never ceasing, her bitterness never losing its acid edge; then, as she had done before, she turned and ran swiftly away. Some women darted from a hut, seized her and induced her to go with them. Chief of the Wolves dropped from a roof and ran to his uncle's hut announcing her departure. The door flew open with a smash, and the chief jumped out. Chief of the Wolves disappeared between two huts after one glance at the man's face.
Le Borgne was frightful to behold. To me he seemed to be as insane as the woman. He had thrown aside his cloak and wore only his breech-clout, his long coarse hair enveloping him like a shaggy cloak. His gigantic body trembled and shook. Standing before his porch, he crouched low and began jerking his axe up and down by the wrist-thong, all the time twisting his head back and forth to rake the village with his baleful glance. Then straightening and lifting his arms above his head, he emitted a bull-like roar and smashed his axe against the long platform filled with driftwood. He was praying for an enemy to appear—someone he could vent his blood-lust upon.
"He goes mad like the woman," murmured the Pillager, his hands twitching as he crouched on the edge of the hut and glared down at the chief. He reminded me of a Red River lynx on a bough about to leap on its prey.
"He asks his manito to send him something he can fight and kill. It would be a good coup to take his scalp!"
"It would mean death for the white woman and for us," I sternly rebuked, fearing lest he seek to test his strength against Le Borgne's.
"Not if it is her medicine working through him as it is working through the woman," he muttered, licking his lips wolfishly and craning his neck to watch the movements of the chief.
Le Borgne roared even more loudly and without cessation. It was just a bestial cry with no words in it. As he howled his horrible yearning for battle his arms kept up a violent gesticulation, and the men on the huts crept to the opposite sides so as to remain unseen. The Pillager and I remained where we were.
"Ho!" grunted the Pillager, smiling savagely. "Very soon I must fight that man because he will have it so. They say he can fight good. I will wear a painted hand on my arm after we get back to the Red River to show I dodged under his axe and struck him with my empty hand on the arm before killing him."
"Are you going mad? Are you a foolish man?" I cried. "You say it is the woman's medicine working; then let it work. It has not asked you to do anything."
"Watch!" hissed the Pillager, balancing on the edge of the roof. What I saw gave me hope that the grim pantomime was ended, for Le Borgne suddenly darted back into his hut.
"He will stay hidden until the woman comes and makes him a madman again," I said.
But the Pillager seemed abnormally contented as he kept his eyes fastened on the closed door; his hands no longer twitched. Before I had time to wonder at this marked change in his demeanour, the door of the hut flew open again and now Le Borgne was wearing his robe. The Pillager gathered his heels under him and slipped his hand through the noosed thong of his war-axe. He said—
"Watch!"
Stalking a few rods from his hut, Le Borgne raised his mighty voice in a war-cry and, catching the robe with his left arm, he swung it round his head and hurled it aside. It opened and caught the wind and fluttered like some monster moth to the ground.
"He has cast his robe! The white woman's medicine has made him cast his robe," softly rejoiced the Pillager. "Now he is under vow to his manito to kill the first person he meets, man, woman, or child, that doesn't belong to his tribe. All the village knows it, and the Minnetarees will stay in hiding, although his vow does not mean he will kill any of them. You and the chief of the Pillager Chippewas are not of his tribe."
Now the muscles of his arms and legs were knotting in bunches, then relaxing and rippling smoothly as he prepared to leap to the ground and have at the brute.
I grasped his arm and warned:
"You must not do it. The white woman's medicine does not call you to fight him."
Le Borgne raised his war-cry and began stalking the empty spaces between the huts in search of a victim to satisfy his vow. Doors slammed throughout the village and the men on the roofs lay flat and hidden from view, although a Minnetaree should have had no cause for fear. Le Borgne doubled over and shook out his hair and danced from side to side, the silence of the people permitting the thud-thud of his stamping moccasins to be plainly audible.
"He has said it! He cries for blood! He dances for death! The Medicine Hair's manito makes him do it. Her manito pushes me to him. I will go and kill him!" snarled the Pillager, striving to cast off my grip.
"You will kill us all," I cried, feeling my hold breaking.
"I'll kill Le Borgne who has cast his robe," panted the Pillager. Then he raised the war-cry of his tribe and, wrenching loose, dropped to the ground.
I stood up intending to follow him and make sure with my gun that Le Borgne died did he fight with my friend, when I observed the Minnetaree chief had shifted his course so as to place our hut between him and the Pillager. I looked down on the Pillager, and he, thinking Le Borgne was all but upon him, was shaking out his Sioux scalps and engaging in a little ceremonial dance of his own, brandishing his axe most adeptly. I looked back after Le Borgne and saw the mad woman running towards him.
It was a tense situation. Le Borgne, bowed low and intent on his grotesque steps, did not see the fury approaching him. The Pillager, with a segment of the hut between him and his man, was conducting his advance with close attention to ritual, never dreaming of the woman's presence. The first that Le Borgne knew of the woman was when she grabbed him by the hair. With a roar he straightened, swinging her feet off the ground and raising his axe. She screamed vituperations and fell back to the ground with both hands filled with hair. Le Borgne recognized her in time to save himself from a hideous crime—the killing of one under the Great Spirit's protection.
With a shout of rage and fear he leaped back. She was at his face again, and, for a second, I believed he would brain her. Then his arms dropped to his side and he turned his back on her. She caught his long hair and began tearing it out, making terrible animal cries as she did so. He paid no attention to her and did not seem to sense her presence, but swung his axe and hurled it high over the nearest hut, and then strode rapidly to his own hut with the woman worrying his neck and hair. She released him as he reached his porch. He went inside and closed the door.
I looked about for the Pillager and beheld him standing with folded arms, disgustedly watching the anti-climax. I dropped down beside him and exclaimed—
"He didn't kill her!"
"He could not kill her," he growled. "She has been touched by the big manito. No one can hurt her, no matter what she does. Her coming was bad medicine for my coup. Had I seen her, I would have reached him first; then his heart would have been glad and his axe would have sang a song as it hissed against mine. Yet it could not kill her, although she is not of his people"—and he made the spiral sign with his finger—"so his vow is broken. He cast his robe for nothing, and that is very bad medicine for him, but not so bad as if he stuck his axe in the woman's head. A strong medicine has shown him he can not always do as he promises. But it is very bad not to keep a vow. It will hurt him with his people unless he can get some good-luck medicine. The medicine of the white woman works against him all the time."
"He must have seen you, yet he did not offer to fight you," I said.
"Why should he fight me?" asked the Pillager in surprise. "He had no fight with me except as my coming let him make good his promise. When the woman reached him first his vow was spoiled; he had no promise left, so he threw away his axe to tell everyone the vow was dead. But it is very bad for him." There was almost a touch of sympathy in the Pillager's voice as he said the last.
"How long must we wait before we show the robes and offer to trade?" I asked.
"Now is a good time. Le Borgne knows bad luck is biting his heels. He is afraid that everything is against him. He needs a strong medicine. He is not thinking of feasts and a new wife."
It was pleasant to get into action again. As we passed the girl's hut I called out to her, and she opened the door a crack and spoke—
"Can we do it to-night?"
Owing to the fear and confusion over Le Borgne's behaviour we could have done it then if we had had her at the corral. The guards about her hut were still in hiding.
"It must be to-night if I fail in what I'm about to try. I am going to offer to buy you first."
"Buy me?" she faintly repeated. "But you have no goods."
"If I fail we will get away to-night," I comforted. "When I call your name step to the door and touch the writing on the bark, then get back out of sight."
At this point Chief of the Wolves ran up and reminded that we were not to talk with the white woman. However, he was very civil about it and displayed no arrogance. His gaze rested on the Pillager with a sort of worshipful admiration, and he added:
"I saw the Chippewa chief drop to the ground. I thought he was about to drop into Le Borgne's arms. What a battle that would have been!"
"Not a long battle—just a cracked skull and the Minnetarees would have to look for a new war-chief," calmly retorted the Pillager.
Now old Choke-cherry came trotting up, his broad face picturing deep trouble.
"I have been to see my brother," he whispered. "Bad spirits are around him. Never before has a Minnetaree chief cast his robe and not done as he said."
"He needs new medicine," I advised.
"He will give many ponies for a new medicine," eagerly cried Choke-cherry. "Has the white man some magic he will trade for ponies?"
"I have some medicine I will trade," I replied. "I don't know whether I will trade for ponies, or robes, or something else. It is a very strong medicine and will kill all bad luck, but I will not trade it for poor ponies. I want ponies such as the Cheyennes have."
Choke-cherry's face showed great fear. If he told this to his brother, the chief would bitterly upbraid him for not turning over the two Assiniboins to the Cheyennes for the ten ponies offered.
"We have many good robes," he cried. "Let the white man bring out his medicine. I will tell the village to be ready to trade. If the medicine is new and strong and will help the heart of Le Borgne to grow stout again, and his head to grow clear again, we will give every robe in the five villages."
"We will see," I carelessly answered, walking away.
"Now is the time," muttered Flat Mouth as I hurried to get the pack.
"The best of times," I rejoiced. "Le Borgne is afraid his buffalo manito has lost its strength. He cast his robe and made himself a foolish man. The villages will think his war medicine is spoiled. He must get good-luck medicine, or else there will be a new war-chief.
The Pillager well understood the method of offering a white robe for sale and undertook charge of the arrangements. Two upright stakes were placed before the door of the hut facing Miss Dearness's prison. Across these supports he placed a third stake. The open space before the hut was packed. The roofs of the surrounding huts were covered with the curious. The Pillager took advantage of the opportunity to indulge in oratory. By his touching his axe and the Sioux scalps I knew he was declaiming his greatness, and, as all must have known of his willingness to fight Le Borgne, he was heard with the deepest respect and attention. But when he reached behind him and fumbled with the cords of the pack and continued his talk his audience smiled skeptically.
He paused and said to me in Chippewa:
"I have told them we never bother to trade in anything but white robes. I have said we carry a pack of them with us wherever we go but never offer to trade unless we see something we want very much. These dogs think my tongue is crooked." Then, picking up the robe, he flung it over the cross-piece.
A shout of amazement greeted the appearance of the robe.
Choke-cherry exclaimed—
"The Sioux-killer spoke with a straight tongue!"
Flat Mouth angrily cried out—
"Did you think a chief of the Pillager Chippewas, wearer of many eagle feathers, would come to the Missouri to tell lies to hut Indians?"
"It is a fine robe. We will buy it," declared Chief of the Wolves.
Ignoring him, Flat Mouth reached into the pack and drew out another robe and threw it over the first. Choke-cherry was inarticulate for several minutes. Admiration, awe, and covetousness were reflected in the disjointed outcries of the Minnetarees. When Choke-cherry recovered speech it was to proclaim hoarsely:
"Better medicine was never brought to a Minnetaree village in my day. Chippewa, Sioux-killer, set your price. We will buy the robes."
"They are not mine to sell," informed Flat Mouth, dragging forth the third robe and draping it over the others so the three tails hung in a row.
"They are common robes coloured with white earth," accused Chief of the Wolves, crowding forward and clutching roughly at the top robe. But as his fingers encountered the fleece and his suspicious gaze failed to find any trace of a deception, his jaw grew slack and he stared stupidly at the treasure. "My uncle speaks true," he faltered. "We will buy them if it takes all the robes in all the villages."
Through the Chippewa I repeated what I already had said to Choke-cherry; namely, that while I did not care to take the white robes with me on leaving the village, I had seen nothing yet for which I would trade. Whatever it was it must be of the best. I was not even prepared to say I would take robes, ponies, dressed leather, or a combination of such goods in payment. I would display the robes and see what the Minnetarees had to offer. If I found something to my liking I would trade.
"So be it!" howled old Choke-cherry. "Take what you will. We can get more. But never was such a chance to get medicine robes. I will give my medicine-pipe. It is a great mystery—very strong medicine."
"Yet it could not make the Cheyennes lead their ponies under the stem," sneered Flat Mouth.
"The village shall buy them and give them to our chief, so his bad luck may grow red again," said Chief of the Wolves.
"The Blind needs much medicine to make him open his one eye," ironically remarked Flat Mouth.
No one heeded this derisive speech, for a mighty trade had come to the Missouri and must be completed. Grunts and yelps arose when the Pillager produced the fourth and last of the robes and hung it in place.
"It is magic!" faltered Choke-cherry, edging backward. "The white man can make the Sioux-killer find white robes all day."
"If it is magic then the robes will turn brown after they have gone away," said Chief of the Wolves.
The Pillager smiled scornfully, saying—
"You talk like foolish men."
Raising a hand in silence and attention, he dipped into the pack for the last time and reverently lifted up the small calf skin, all white but for the black border round the right eye. This he exhibited to the astounded mob and then gently laid it on the robes. The calfskin was much more valuable than the robes.
The deep silence which followed this climax was broken by the Pillager announcing—
"This is all we bring this time."
"You said you had nothing to trade," gasped Choke-cherry.
"I always have something to trade when I think there is something worth trading for," I corrected. "My medicine has told me in my sleep that I could make a good trade here. I am waiting to see what my medicine meant."
Men darted away to inform Le Borgne of the powerful medicine. Others scoured the village to round up property. A scene of amazing activity followed. In a short time seven horses were brought up, each loaded with robes, dressed leather, moccasins and embroidered leggings. Without bothering to glance at this, the first bid, the Pillager shook the calf's tail as a sign of refusal.
Choke-cherry dashed frantically among the men and hooted long-winded speeches to which no one seemed to pay any attention. He was exhorting them to greater efforts in syndicating their goods. As proof of his own desire to help win the miracle for the good of the village, he brought out his medicine-pipe, newly decorated with feathers and hairs. The horses and truck were left at one side, and the warriors separated to round up more collateral.
A warrior returned from Le Borgne's hut saying the chief wished the robes to be bought in with no delay and delivered to him. After receiving them he would come out and see his people. I fancied that in each mind was the fear that unless the robes were delivered, per request, he would come out anyway, to see his people, and would come with his wrist thrust through the loop of his war-axe. Seven more horses were brought forward, this time the pick of the herd, and in addition to the robes were many of their copper kettles. As their superstition forbade them cooking meat in their earthen pots, the offer of the kettles was conclusive proof of their determination to procure the robes.
Again Flat Mouth shook the tail. Again the Minnetarees scattered for more goods. Chief of the Wolves, I noted, darted away toward his uncle's hut, and with my gun in my lap I thereafter kept an eye out. It was while the savages were collecting their third batch of goods that Le Borgne came hurrying toward us, his nephew walking behind him. The chief carried his axe. He had been told the robes were not to be bought in a hurry and he was very angry, a sullen rage that burned on top of his former wrath when he was compelled to violate his vow. He wore his robe.
The Pillager gave me a quick look, and I patted my gun and smiled grimly. If Le Borgne attempted to get the robes by casting his robe again and slaying the first alien he met, he would never more than get started in lifting his axe. The Pillager, who was naked to his clout, picked up his robe and threw it over his shoulder. I followed his example, borrowing one hanging inside the porch were I sat.
Le Borgne grasped the significance of our action and surveyed us in silence for several moments through, his smoldering eye, his ghastly grin making him look like a death's head.
"The day is warm," he boomed, slipping off his robe and giving it to Chief of the Wolves to hold.
"It is very warm in the sun," agreed the Pillager, dropping his robe to the ground. I was glad to throw mine off.
With this unspoken agreement that there should be no casting of robes, the chief took time to sweep his eye over the horses and goods and the white robes and, more precious than all, the calfskin. His voice was unsteady as he asked—
"Where did the white man get these medicine robes and the hide?"
"Far from here," I briefly replied.
Le Borgne turned on his people and warned:
"This is no time to bring a few ponies. This is a big medicine sale. It must end quickly. Mighty medicine does not like to be hung out in the sun waiting for a buyer—" Then to me, the Pillager interpreting—"Go to all the Minnetaree huts and take all you find, save only that one hut." And he pointed to where the girl was imprisoned.
He was practically offering all movable property in the village. I have no doubt but that he would have thrown in the huts if we had had a way to take them with us. I shook my head. The Pillager reached down and wagged the tail.
My refusal threw the chief into a paroxysm of rage, yet he restrained himself and said:
"Go to all the Minnetaree huts! Go to all the Mandan huts on the Missouri! Take what you will—all the ponies you will. If any Mandan tries to stop you, tell him I sent you!"
"My medicine tells me it is not robes and kettles and ponies I want," I replied. "I can get kettles among the white people. I can get better ponies and robes among the Cheyennes."
"What do you want?" he fiercely demanded.
"Miss Dearness!" I called. The words meant nothing to him, but at the sound of her name, the girl began singing, and the door of her hut opened. She stood there, wrapped in her capote, long enough to touch the piece of bark hanging on the wall. Then she retired and closed the door.
"My medicine tells me that is what I will buy with my robes," I said to Le Borgne.
Le Borgne swung his axe and roared a refusal.
The Pillager spoke to Choke-cherry, who timidly procured the piece of bark containing the girl's writing and brought it to me. I motioned for Le Borgne to give heed, and proceeded to read the message very slowly, the Pillager interpreting and, of course, embellishing it somewhat. Le Borgne listened attentively, after the first few words, and his strong face grew uneasy as he heard the girl's "dream."
She had seen the white men, many of them, with many guns, coming up the Missouri to the Mandans and the Minnetarees. The whites were too strong for the Sioux to trouble. It jolted him when he was told the leader of the whites was the big white chief we had talked so much about since reaching the river. His face lighted when he was told the white chief would build a post in the village because Medicine Hair, the white woman, was there. And it grew dark as night when he was warned what would happen if he troubled the white woman, or limited her coming and going.
"I have never wanted a woman I did not take," he roared.
"If her father, the big chief, is coming with many guns and men I do not need to buy her," I carelessly said, shifting the position of the calfskin so Le Borgne would observe the black markings round the right eye.
He had not noticed this peculiarity before, and for the moment it drove all thoughts of the woman out of his head. It was his right eye that was dead. The right eye of the medicine calf was circled with black, denoting death. If ever a manito sent a particular medicine to a great warrior, surely thus was the skin sent to Le Borgne.
"You want this woman for your woman?" he demanded. Of course the girl heard the Pillager repeat it in Chippewa, as he talked loudly.
"I do. That is why I offer to make a trade for her."
"You can go back and get other white women. There are some more?" he asked.
"Many of them—more than there are Indian women."
He laughed aloud at such an exaggeration.
"Why do you want this one when you can get so many? I want her. She is the only white woman I have seen. If there were many of them here I would sell her for a pony."
"If there were many of them here you could not get the medicine robes," I retorted, forced to play the game according to his savage viewpoint and hold it strictly to the level of barter and trade.
"I will not sell her," he growled. His brother made to implore him to change his mind, but did not dare go beyond a few faltering words. The warriors looked glum, and more than one angry glance was cast at Miss Dearness's hut. They wanted to see their chief in possession of the robes. To murder us and appropriate the robes would be a violation of their etiquette besides being sure to bring down retribution upon them in some way, such as the loss of a trading-post. Afraid as they were of their leader, I could see some of them thought he was paying too high a price for his whim. If his medicine suffered, then the whole tribe suffered.
I spoke to the Pillager. He gathered up the robes and the skin and repacked them, with the calfskin on top, the black eye showing. While Le Borgne had refused the trade, I had not lost hopes of buying the girl. His refusal was to prove his independence, and, perhaps, had been incited by a glimpse of the girl's white face.
Le Borgne stood and glared at us, his hands fingering his big axe, his eye observing the double-barrelled gun across my left arm.
Deep in the village rose a dismal chanting. The mother of the murdered girl was abroad again. The effect on Le Borgne was immediate. His eye flickered with fear. The woman was getting on his nerves. He wished himself back in his hut with the door barred, as shown by his instinctive glance in that direction. Yet he could not spend the rest of his life in a hut. It was intolerable to anticipate months and perhaps years of the woman's nagging—her accusations of cowardice. Let even a mad woman repeat a thing long enough, and he would lose something of his standing in the tribe. While he must not touch her, he should be protected by his medicine. If his medicine was spoiled he must renew it. The chanting grew louder and clearer. Miss Dearness also heard it, for she now sang out to me:
"Choke-cherry's wife, when bringing me meat, said the crazy Mandan woman is going back to her people in the lower village."
I picked up the calfskin and said to Le Borgne:
"I think you are a foolish man, but I am not to blame for that. I am angry because Chief of the Wolves spoke evil of my medicine robes and skin. I will prove to you that the medicine is strong in this skin. You shall hold it in your hands until the crazy woman comes and goes. Then you shall give it back to me, and I will take my pack elsewhere and trade."
He seized it greedily and I stood aside and waited. I smoked and tried to show the unconcern I did not feel. I had acted on an impulse set in motion by Miss Dearness's words. I also believed I could detect a new tone in the poor woman's lament, the quality of sadness and resignation. The people stood very quietly, all eyes turned to where the Mandan woman would emerge from among the huts. If the sight of the chief should inflame her mad rage, the trade value of the white calfskin would greatly depreciate. In that event we would make a good fight of it that night.
Now the woman appeared, her head bowed low, her chanting weirdly depressing. The stage was well set for her coming. The Minnetarees fell back to give her clear passage and no one spoke nor moved. The chief and I stood a little in advance of the people, he standing like an image, holding the white calfskin in his two hands, his axe dangling from his wrist, his one eye fixed on the woman.
She drew close and I believed she was to pass by without lifting her head, but the steady impact of Le Borgne's gaze caused her to look up. For a moment I believed she was going to fly at him, for she halted and stared in his face. Still, there was a sane light in her eyes now. She recognized the powerful medicine he was holding. The silence of the people was impressive. The whole affair smacked of the ritualistic. Perhaps she realized she had a leading part in it, and must not destroy the symmetry of the whole. Or the poor thing may have been just heartbroken and only anxious to get back to her people in the lower village. Whatever the influence that kept her subdued, she gazed for a moment into the brute's face, then dropped her head, resumed her chanting and walked on toward the river road.
I plucked the skin from Le Borgne's hand rather briskly and tossed it to the Pillager to replace in the pack.
"White man, wait!" hoarsely cried Le Borgne. "Give it back to me!"
"You will trade?"
"Take the white woman! Give me the robes and the skin!"
"Miss Dearness!" I called out. "Don't come to the door till I give the word. Then be ready to ride. I've bought you!"
I nodded to the expressionless-faced Pillager and he handed the pack over to Le Borgne, who started hurriedly for his hut, hugging his new medicine close. Old Choke-cherry yowled in joy, and assured me such a medicine feast would be given that night as never was before enjoyed by the Willow Indians, as the Minnetarees call themselves. I did not seek to discourage him, but so soon as the Pillager brought the horses I purposed to start for the Mouse River. Already the Pillager was making for the corral.
Now the Minnetarees had a despicable custom in trade of agreeing to a bargain, exchanging goods, pronouncing themselves perfectly well satisfied, and, after an hour or so, coming back and demanding that their property be returned to them, leaving the purchase price "on the ground" as they say. Flat Mouth had told me about these trade tricks by which they hoped to induce the trader to increase the price first agreed upon. Not once, but as often as the victim will endure this insolent disregard of the bargain, will they come back and ask for their property or an increase in goods.
Whether Le Borgne would act in this fashion in an ordinary trade I did not know. I was inclined to believe he would trade fair, but, with the girl as the stake, the temptation would be great, once he got over his first enthusiasm in owning the robes. He might be cunning enough to believe that the white skin had already sent the Mandan woman from his village, and that she had seemed to be the source of his annoyance and trouble. That his murder of the younger woman was back of it all would never appeal to him.
Soon the Pillager came back with the horses, riding one with his gun held high, his bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and his other hand clutching the two halter ropes. He was closely followed by a crowd of men, women, and children. Chief of the Wolves was very active in getting in front of his horse and causing the chief to rein in. I stepped to Miss Dearness's hut and spoke her name. She opened the door and came out, her head closely muffled, her face very pale, and her blue eyes blinking at the sun.
"I saw it all," she whispered. "I cut a hole through the hide-door. It was brave of you, wise of you. I'm so glad you—bought me!"
A commotion in the crowd attracted my attention. Chief of the Wolves, sensing our purpose and seeking to delay us, had crossed in front of the Pillager's mount once too often. Struck by the horse's shoulder, he had been hurled to one side. An angry murmur arose. Flat Mouth brought the two horses to the porch and, as I took charge of them, he backed his horse violently, splitting the mob into two sections. Then he brought his animal about, faced the savages and, with his axe held out to one side, he leaned forward and cried—
"Do you want to see a Pillager Chippewa cast his robe?"
Old Choke-cherry urged the men to give us room and not to crowd round us like foolish children. Chief of the Wolves crawled to his feet and glared murder at the Pillager's back. Then he glimpsed me with the double-barrel, and slunk aside.
"Make a hole through them, Eshkebugecoshe!" I called out, slapping the girl's mount and sending her after the chief.
Flat Mouth's horse commenced prancing and bolting from side to side as though unmanageable, and the crowd broke and scattered, some diving into doorways, some running in between huts, and, as the way cleared, the Pillager advanced with the girl close behind him. I came last with my gun half raised, watching the tops of the huts as well as the ground. No one, however, made any active demonstration against us. We avoided Le Borgne's hut and struck north for the Missouri. In my last glimpse of the Minnetarees I beheld Chief of the Wolves running towards Le Borgne's hut with old Choke-cherry bobbing after him.
We soon made the Missouri, and Flat Mouth quickly found a bull-boat. I paddled Miss Dearness across, and he swam over with her horse in tow. Leaving my gun with her, the Indian and I went back. I remained in the boat and towed my mount over, while my friend repeated his feat of swimming.
Flat Mouth said three days of ordinary travel would take us to the Côteau du Missouri, the high ridge separating the waters of the Missouri and the Mouse, but believed we should make it easily in a bit less than that as we had no pack animals and were sacrificing everything for speed.
He set the course for Miss Dearness and me to follow while he rode down the river to pick up the Cheyennes. The girl and I had not gone far before he came after us with twenty warriors. They would go with us to the Côteau, he said, but no farther, as our line of flight was along the western edge of the Sioux territory. When I asked him where the rest of the Cheyennes were, he said they had crossed the river to go home, being afraid of the Sioux.
Before sundown our escort abruptly bid us good-bye and galloped madly back to the Missouri. Perhaps it was better that way, for while the twenty horsemen gave us a brave appearance, they also furnished a large target for a Sioux eye. It would be necessary for them to delay and kill meat, and our pace would be much slower than when we rode alone. That night Flat Mouth used his bow and arrows with good effect, and we had fresh meat.
For two days more we pushed on, watching for the Assiniboins on the west and ahead of us, for the Sioux on the east and ahead of us. Then we struck the ridge and beheld a high hill which Flat Mouth called the Dog's House. What was most encouraging was to behold the banks of the Mouse.
That night as we sat in the smoke of a smudge to protect ourselves from the mosquitoes and wearing dressed-leather hoods over our heads as an additional protection, Miss Dearness coughed and choked and at last managed to say—
"The X. Y. will pay you for the robes and skin you paid for me."
"Never," I imperilled my lungs by replying. "It's the only trade I ever made I was satisfied with. I've only one thing to regret."
She nodded for me to explain, and I said—
"Since we started from the Missouri you've been so wrapped and bundled up I've forgotten what the color of your hair is."
Instantly the hood flew off, the capote fell back, and, in defiance to the millions of mosquitoes, the red glory of her hair was revealed. With a yelp of protest I leaned forward to aid in adjusting the hood and the capote and, losing my balance, would have made clumsy work of it had she not caught my elbow and steadied me for a second.
Flat Mouth, who had been with the horses to see that the torture inflicted by the mosquitoes did not stampede the animals, now drew up to our fire, the horses crowding in behind him to get into the smoke. I wanted to talk with the girl—to have her talk to me, and yet I was glad he came. I fired questions at him to keep my mind from her.
We learned our course now would be down grade and over a pleasant country with no obstacles to speak of. The land was dotted with small hillocks and these usually were covered with buffaloes. If it had not been for the mosquitoes, the trip would have been very comfortable. Of course we must forever be on the watch against the Assiniboins and Sioux—and also against a pursuing party of the Minnetarees. The latter we expected to discover at any time, swarming down on us to give back our robes and reclaim the girl. Not until we reached the ridge did we cast them out of our fears.
The first night after quitting the ridge, when a fresh wind had blown the mosquitoes away and we were bowing our heads over our cooking, some uncontrollable impulse seized me and mastered me, and shortly I awoke to the astounding fact that I had kissed the girl.
She made no move of resentment, nor said any word, but put on her dressed-leather hood and glanced at me reproachfully. I jumped to my feet and strode off in the darkness, cursing myself. She was under my protection, and I had not supposed my three years in the wilds had so entirely wiped out my training. I can see now I was unnecessarily harsh with myself, that I was young and meant no harm. Still I took myself to task seriously enough that night. When I went back and found her, still hooded, a pathetic and lonely little figure, I had no fine words. I kicked the turf and did manage to blurt out:
"That won't happen again. Don't bake your face with that hood." With that I went over by the horses and threw myself down.
Her cold voice cut like a knife as it followed me, saying—
"Having bought me, I suppose you believed you owned me."
I groaned and dug my fingers into my ears. Before I slept that night I knew I loved her and had spoiled everything by my unpardonable action.
The Mouse was conquered and we passed down the Assiniboin in two canoes obtained from Fort Assiniboin. I paddled one, and she and Flat Mouth paddled the other. I had attempted to renew our old footing as though nothing had happened, but the glance she gave me told me how hopeless it was. After that I met her only as we landed to make a camp at night, and then only as we ate our fish and meat. She no longer eyed me coldly, but stared at me without seeming to see me.
At the Forks we passed the camp of some H. B. men from the Albany factory. I waved my hand but did not turn in to join them. I had no heart for companionship. It was not until I was some miles up the Red that I observed the absence of the girl's canoe. It came in sight just as I had finished cooking and eating a fish and was resuming my journey. I knew she and the Pillager had turned in at the H. B. fire.
I forced myself to think of old Tabashaw and to wonder if the old rascal had succeeded in bullying and coaxing all the rum from Probos. I repeatedly framed my report to the Gentlemen of the North, trying to excuse my absence from my post and explain why the spring hunt had resulted in a failure.
Then it came over me and nauseated me—homesickness. To remain there through the summer, fall and winter, and to see no white man's smoke until the next summer seemed to be more than I could endure. All the way up the river I fought it over with myself. Then I realized how silly it was to try to keep the girl from my thoughts. I loved her. I would tell her so. At least she should know that much of the truth, even though she laughed at me. I believed I would feel better if I humiliated myself to her.
So, when I reached the stretch below the X. Y. post on the Scratching, where poles must be used instead of paddles, I stayed in camp and killed time until she and the Pillager came up. I thought she wanted him to go on, but seeing me, he was eager to land. I greeted her and she eyed me blankly. I fidgeted and waited. Then I could not endure it longer. The Indian was some rods away, roasting some meat. I made sure of my position in my canoe, then turned to her and said:
"That time—back there—I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't loved you."
"Don't mention it," she politely replied, turning and walking to the fire.
"I won't again," I called after her, cursing myself for an addle-headed lout.
I sent my canoe into the stream and pitted my strength and sleepless mood against the river and the hours. More of a ghost than a man, I at last crawled ashore at the Pembina post at the edge of evening.
The old familiar drunken howls saluted me from the fort. I picked up two oak axe-helves, where some of the drunken beggars had thrown them, and tucked them under my arm. When I reached the stockade gate I heard old Tabashaw making a drunken speech and exhorting his tribesmen to enter the fort, find Probos and drag him from his hiding place and cut his throat. I glanced up at the fort windows and saw Probos's fat, greasy face flabby with terror. Leaning my gun against the stockade, I took an oak helve in each hand and quietly stole upon the gathering.
Then did I put the fear of the manito into their souls. I waded back and forth cracking heads and upbraiding them for worthless dogs and concluded by getting old Tabashaw by the neck and kicking him outside the stockade. Probos, with tears running down his flaccid face, told me the Indians had grown to be very insolent; that his life was threatened every day. No trade had been brought in, as none of the hunters had gone out. It was believed the Sioux had killed me and the girl and the Pillager. On the morrow Tabashaw had proposed to raid the X. Y. post down the river and secure the supply of liquor. Then he proposed to burn all posts on the river.
Next morning I sent Probos back to the Reed River and had the Indian women clean up the fort. I assessed every hunter in the camp with a debt of fifty skins to pay for the rum he had consumed, and told them they would not get any more until they squared their debts. For two weeks I worked with the devil riding me. I hated the thought of night and invented excuses to keep up and busy. The gardens had been sadly neglected and the women were kept at work tending these. The hunters were gradually cleared from the fort and the grounds until I had nothing to do but sit down and hate myself and the country. The Pillager had been but a poor companion after he joined me. He spent most of his time hunting buffaloes, and when we met he made no reference to Miss Dearness. I wouldn't ask him about her or affairs at the X. Y. post for anything, and he had no talk except concerning how fat the cows were and the like.
One day I walked down to the river, thinking to take my canoe and paddle upstream and kill time. As I stood, trying to decide whether I really would go or not, a canoe rounded the bend down stream and I could scarcely believe my eyes as I beheld the flaming torch of hair. I would not go upstream as she was going in the same direction. She continued in the middle of the river, fighting the full force of the current. I stared straight ahead. She came abreast of me but did not appear to see me. Then, with a vicious cut of the paddle, she turned inshore and before I knew it was pulling her canoe up on the beach.
"You're not very neighbourly," she quietly remarked, looking up into my face.
"I'm poor company," I replied.
"Well, I'm going away. I've brought you the keys to the post. Angus will stay there till you come to take over things."
"You going—" I whispered, feeling this was the end of the world.
"Going back east," she pleasantly explained. "The coalition doesn't seem to interest you."
I must have looked my stupidity, for she patiently explained:
"The N. W. and the X. Y. have joined forces. I'm to turn over everything to you."
"When did you learn this?" I cried.
"When I stopped at the H. B. camp at the Forks and found an X. Y. express there. He was on his way to me with a message from the X. Y. headquarters. Simon McTavish is dead. Sir Alexander MacKenzie is now willing to combine. There is no X. Y. company. It's the Northwest company now."
This was astounding and most welcome news. It would make it possible for N. W. Northmen to bring the Indians back to their senses. I said "When do you go?"
"Soon. In a day or so. There's a summer brigade coming down the Assiniboin. The Pillager is to paddle me to the Forks."
I rubbed my head and forced myself to reason a bit. Then I knew what had puzzled me and I asked—
"If you knew about the coalition when you reached the Forks, why did you keep on to the X. Y. post and wait two weeks before telling me?"
She turned away abruptly, with more of her aloofness, I assumed. I stepped out on the strip of sand and picked up the paddle she had dropped. Then, turning, I surprised her stealing a glance at me. Never could a Sioux knife in grating through my ribs give me such a pang as did sight of the two tears rolling down her cheeks.
I gaped, then seized her hand and waited a second to make sure my medicine was right. She did not offer to draw away. Very slowly I drew her to me.
"What made it wrong the other time was because you hadn't first told me that you loved me," she whispered.
A brown river rushed over the southern horizon, dotted with the brown carcasses of its shaggy victims, bringing the breath of menace from the country of the Sioux where the opportune coming of the Lewis and Clark expedition up the Missouri gave me my chance to help the English girl. She always held it was not right—the way the fur trade was conducted. And I always sat silent and let her have her own way of thinking. As I grew older I realized it was a beautiful way she had of thinking. Being a Northman, I didn't agree with her in my thoughts. But now, since she's gone away on the river that is always calling, I wonder.
THE END.
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.