white man. We are in time.”
“What is all this shouting about?” reproved White Wolf. “This is no way
to come to a chief’s lodge.”
“We come for a horse that has been stolen by that white man,” Skidi
boldly retorted. “There it is. We claim it.”
“No. The horse belongs to the American chief. His soldier is here to
get it. We talked about that yesterday. I will talk no more.”
“I will talk, for I am a man,” answered Skidi. “You let the white man
eat at your fire and sleep in your lodge, and during the night he
steals a horse. Are you a chief, that you close your eyes to such
things? We ask for our horse, or else a large present.”
“Whose horse is it?”
“It is a Pawnee horse, and that is enough.”
“The horse was not here last night, but it was here early this
morning,” announced White Wolf. “The American did not go out and get
it. I am sure of that. If he did, why should he have brought it here,
if he had stolen it? He could have easily made off with it, and others.
No; the thief who took the horse from the Americans has returned it, as
is right. Let the man who claims to own the horse come forward. But I
think there is nothing more to be said.”
The soldier was sitting, in his stained blue clothes, and gazing around
with a good-natured smile on his hairy face; but Scar Head could see
that he was thinking fast, and ready to spring for the lodge and his
gun.
“Are you going to send him away with the horse?”
“Who owns the horse?” White Wolf replied. “Why was it left at my lodge
door if not for the American to take with him? Somebody had bad dreams,
and went and got the horse, so that he might sleep.”
“In that case, the man deserves a present,” Skidi declared. “Let a
present be given in exchange for the horse and the American may go.”
“To whom shall the present be given?” White Wolf inquired.
“I will take the present, and give it to the man who owns the horse,”
said Skidi. “But of course if he has done this good deed he may wish to
be secret about it, and if he is accused of having done an evil deed in
the first place, he does not wish to be pointed at as a thief.”
“The American chief sent no present. He only asked for a horse that had
been taken from him. Here it is, left on the prairie at my door, and I
give it back to him.”
With that, Chief Charakterik stood and folded his robe around him, as
sign that he was done. The soldier rose, also.
But the squad led by Skidi murmured angrily. Somebody reached to grasp
the horse’s neck rope――
“No. Let him take it. He will not go far.”
“There will be a red scalp, for a dance, to-night.”
“The Americans will think the Pawnee are cowards, if all they need do
is ask for a horse and get it.”
“You talk like children,” White Wolf reproved. “Who among you claims
the horse? Nobody. Why was it left at my door, if not for me? Or did
it come of itself? It is mine and I can do with it as I please.”
“But the present! You will shame all the town if you, a great chief,
yield this way to the Americans. There is no proof that they have lost
a horse, and why should you give one up to them, for nothing? You have
no right to give the horse away until you find out why it was left at
your lodge. You should wait and find out. People do not leave horses
at lodges without expecting something in return. I may have left the
horse, myself; and I might look for a present. Where is the present?”
Thus Skidi cunningly argued.
“Yes, where is the present?” they all demanded. “You need not make it,
yourself. You can ask it from the Americans. Or tell the soldier to go;
and if he doesn’t like to go alone, we will help him on his way.”
Scar Head suddenly spoke up.
“The American can have the horse, White Wolf. I brought it, and I want
no present.”
Everybody gaped. White Wolf turned on him severely.
“You? You are a boy. Why do you say the American can have the horse? If
you brought it, where did you get it?”
“I found it.”
“Whose horse is it?”
“It belongs to the American chief. It is the one he lost.”
“How do you know?”
“I know,” said Scar Head. “It was hidden, but I went and got it.”
“You lie! You are a meddler!” Skidi stormed, furious. “Wait till I lay
my hands on you.”
“I do not lie. I brought the horse, and I can show where I found it,”
Scar Head answered.
“That is boy’s talk,” appealed Skidi. “Look at him! He is no Pawnee,
as everybody knows. He is not even an Indian. Who can believe what he
says? Are warriors to be ruled by a boy? I demand a council, on this
horse――and I will attend to that piece of impudence when I catch him
away from the lodge.”
Chief Charakterik hesitated. Attracted by the loud voice of Skidi the
village was gathering; Iskatappe had come, and Old Knife, and other
leading men who were unfriendly to the Americans; and Scar Head felt
small. Now Skidi had called for a council; and between the council and
Skidi the red-haired soldier and he himself were likely to fare rather
badly. Charakterik, too, looked angry. Only the soldier stood smiling,
backed against the lodge doorway, his gun in his hands.
But right in the midst of the crisis, somebody else arrived. It was
Baroney, the interpreter for Chief Pike.
“Go into the lodge,” ordered White Wolf, to Scar Head. “You have made
bad work. I will talk with you later.”
Scar Head went in, disgraced. Outside, the voices continued, with White
Wolf, and Skidi, and Baroney doing most of the speaking, and Rich Man
and Letalesha adding remarks.
After a short time they all quit. White Wolf entered, with Baroney and
the soldier.
“You are going away,” he said. “You may get your yellow pony and make
ready.”
“Where am I going?”
“With these two men, to the American camp. The horse matter is settled.
The American chief has sent a present, for the horse. Everybody is
satisfied. But you did a wrong thing, when you interfered in men’s
affairs. Why did you do that?”
“I like the Americans,” Scar Head stammered.
“Yes,” replied White Wolf. “What Skidi said is true. You are not red,
you are white, and they all know it. You can never be an Indian. Now
you have lost friends. The Pawnee will always look at you sideways,
and Skidi is likely to harm you. So I give you to the American chief,
to be rid of you before you are hurt. He asked me to send you away. If
I keep you it may mean trouble for me also. Get your horse. These two
men are waiting.”
His brain in a whirl, Scar Head hastened out, for his yellow pony. As
he passed through the village, there were scowls and jeers, because now
nobody respected him as the chief’s son; but he did not care. He was an
American, and these Pawnees were no longer his people. So he tried to
walk fast, like an American, and pay no attention to the black looks
and the slurs.
He rode back, on his pony. The two men were waiting, on their horses,
with the other horse in tow. White Wolf’s lodge received him kindly.
His brother, White Wolf’s real son, handed him a horn bow and
otter-skin quiver of arrows.
“They are for you. Do not forget your brother.”
The old squaw put new beaded moccasins upon his feet.
“They are for you. Do not forget your mother.”
The young squaw clasped a silver bracelet upon his wrist.
“It is for you. Do not forget your sister.”
White Wolf threw a white-tanned robe, soft and warm, from a young
buffalo-cow, over his shoulders.
“Do not forget your father. You did wrong, but your heart was good.
Remember that you have been a chief’s son. Always bear yourself like a
warrior. To a warrior, heat and cold and thirst and hunger are nothing.
A brave man lives, while a coward dies. Now go.”
“Come,” said Baroney. The stocky soldier smiled brightly.
With never a backward glance they galloped out of the town, into the
south and on.
Baroney began to lead. With the horse in tow, the soldier slackened, to
ride alongside Scar Head. He grinned, and spoke.
“Hello,” he said, again.
“H’lo,” responded Scar Head.
The soldier rubbed his nose, as if figuring upon what to say next.
“American, you?” he queried.
Scar Head caught the word, and nodded. The soldier spoke farther, with
another question.
“He asks your name,” called back Baroney. “I will tell him. His name is
Sparks. He is a good man. They are all good men. You will be happy with
the Americans.”
“Sparks!” That was a simple name and a good one, because it fitted.
Fire might be his medicine; the stiff bright hairs of his face were the
red sparks, shooting out.
The American chief had camped at only a short distance from the
Pawnee town, waiting on peace or war. There were shouts of welcome,
for Baroney and Sparks, and many curious gazes for Scar Head. He rode
proudly, on his yellow pony, with his warrior’s bow and arrows, his
chief-beaded moccasins, his bracelet and his white cow-robe. He was no
longer afraid of the Americans. Baroney took him on to Chief Pike, who
was standing beside his saddled horse.
The camp lodges had been struck, the Americans were ready to march.
Baroney explained to the young chief. Chief Pike listened――he nodded,
and spoke, and with a smile reached to shake Scar Head’s hand. The
medicine man also spoke, and smiled, and shook hands. The young second
chief came and did the same. Then they got on their horses.
“It is well,” said Baroney to Scar Head. “You will ride in front, with
the chiefs.”
“Where do we go?”
“We go to the mountains, and to find the Ietans.”
Scar Head said nothing, to that. It was a long way, and the danger way,
but he was with braves who seemed to feel no fears. They appeared to
know what they were about.
Chief Pike shouted a command and led out. The second chief repeated
the command, and turned in his saddle to see that it was obeyed; then
he galloped to the fore. The two chiefs rode first, side by side.
Baroney signed, and Scar Head found himself between Baroney and the
medicine-man. Four Osages, still――Chief Pretty Bird, two warriors and a
woman――followed. The American warriors trudged after, two by two, in a
column, with the extra horses bearing packs.
The warriors numbered eighteen. It was a small party, for a great
nation, when one remembered that the Spanish had sent several hundred
and that the Padoucahs or Ietans (the Comanches) numbered thousands.
The Osages of course need not be counted. The Pawnees thought little of
Osages――a poor and miserable people.
The Spanish had left a very broad, plain trail. The Americans were
following it, although it was an old trail and the Spanish chief had
been gone several weeks. It stretched straight southward, toward the
Kansas country, and the Padoucah and the Spanish country, beyond. If
the young chief Pike followed far enough, in that direction, he would
have need of all his medicine to get out again. But perhaps he would
turn west, in time, and aim for the unknown mountains, many days’
journey――although what he expected to find there, nobody might say.
It was the home of the Utahs, who warred upon plains people and were
friendly to only the Spanish.
He was a bold man, this young Chief Pike.
The march southward continued all day, pursuing the trail, until when
the sun was getting low and the shadows long a place was reached where
the Spanish had camped.
Chief Pike examined the signs. The Spanish of Chief Melgares had
camped in a circle. There were fifty-nine burnt spots, from campfires.
Allowing six warriors to each fire, that counted up over three hundred
and fifty. The grasses had been eaten off by the horses.
Chief Pike led his eighteen warriors on a little distance, and ordered
camp for the night beside a fork of the river of the Kansas. Scar Head
was well treated; the American medicine man or “doctor” eyed him a
great deal, but did him no harm; the warrior Sparks grinned at him, and
beckoned to him, but he did not go. It was a cheerful camp, with the
men singing and joking in their strange language.
He ate at the fire of the two chiefs and the medicine-man. They and
Baroney the interpreter talked together. Soon after dark everybody
went to bed, except the guards, and except Chief Pike, who sat up,
in his lodge, making black marks on white leaves, by the fire of a
sputtering white stick!
Scar Head rolled in his buffalo robe, at one side of the lodge; the
couch for the medicine-man (who was already on it) and for the chief,
was at the other side. He stayed awake as long as he could, watching
lest the medicine-man should try to feel of the spot on his head,
again; but he was tired, and before the chief had finished making
marks, he fell asleep.
V
THE CHASE OF THE BIG ELK
Bang!
One of the American guards, stationed on a little rise, had fired his
gun, as an alarm signal.
It was noon, of the second day, and Chief Pike had halted his men to
eat, and graze the horses. At the signal, everybody looked.
“Injuns!” cried the Americans, while the guard pointed and called.
Scar Head likewise looked.
“Pawnee,” he said. He knew them instantly, although they were still far
off.
Chief Pike and the young sub-chief shouted orders. The soldiers seized
their guns and formed to protect the horses; the guards came running
in. Scar Head strung his bow and plucked a good arrow from his quiver.
The “doctor” or medicine-man, standing with gun in hand, smiled and
asked him a question, in French.
“What are you doing? Making ready to fight?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” praised the medicine-man. “You will fight for the Americans?”
“I am American,” asserted Scar Head. “American. No Pawnee.”
The medicine-man laughed, but he seemed pleased.
There were many of the Pawnees――fully three hundred. They approached
swiftly, across the rolling prairie, from the north. They were
horseback, but they acted like a war party――all were warriors, with
guns and bows and lances. What did they want? Even Scar Head could not
guess. Had Charakterik decided to let the Americans be attacked? That
was foolish. The Americans were ready, and would fight hard.
Or, perhaps Iskatappe and Skidi and other hot-hearts had planned this
without permission, and were determined to see what they might do.
The Americans stood in a half circle, facing the Pawnees, their horses
tied short, behind them. Chief Pike stood in front of the center, his
sword in his hand. His sub-chief was at one end and the medicine-man at
the other end. Scar Head fitted his arrow upon his bow, twitched his
quiver around so that he might reach it more easily, and ran closer to
the medicine-man’s end, where he could shoot better. The soldier Sparks
was here, too.
Iskatappe led the Pawnees. They were nearing fast. Yes, Skidi was among
them. Scar Head decided to loose his arrows upon Skidi, who had called
him a liar and who was the mischief-maker. Now Chief Pike uttered a
sharp command, and the gun-locks of the few Americans all clicked; he
uttered another command, and the guns of the few Americans all rose to
a level line. Scar Head lifted his bow and bent it, pointing his arrow
upward, his eyes measuring the distance to Skidi.
But on a sudden the Pawnees stopped short, so that their ponies’
forehoofs ploughed the sod, and Iskatappe and another chief rode
forward more slowly, with the peace sign.
Chief Pike barked a command, so that the Americans’ guns were lowered.
Baroney went out and joined him, and they two met Iskatappe and the
other chief.
After all, Iskatappe only gave Chief Pike a piece of meat. They rode in
together, and the Pawnees came on, and the Americans let them.
“No war,” smiled the medicine-man, over his shoulder, at Scar Head.
“Maybe,” grunted Scar Head, but he was suspicious. When the Pawnees
acted this way, they were of two minds. The Americans would do well to
watch out. They did watch, but it was hard to keep so many Pawnees at a
distance. They edged about, smiling and alert for chances.
“Hello, little sneak,” greeted Skidi, of Scar Head.
“Hello, thief,” Scar Head boldly answered. “You are the sneak. You give
with one hand and take back with the other.”
“You talk big,” sneered Skidi. “Once you were a chief’s son; now you
are nothing. When I catch you, some day, you will be less than nothing.”
“Why don’t you catch me now?” Scar Head retorted. “I am with the
Americans. I am not afraid of you.”
“You are not worth the trouble. We are hunting meat. The Padoucah can
have you and those Osages. They and the Spanish will eat you all, for
us, and save us the bother. If we did not believe that, we would never
have let the Americans come even this far.”
It appeared to be true that the Pawnees were hunting, and not bent upon
war. Iskatappe had brought Chief Pike a present of bear meat, to wipe
out the memory of the horse-theft, he said. But the Americans stood
ready, trying to see what the Pawnees really were up to――and Scar Head
kept his eye upon the crafty Skidi.
Pretty soon Chief Pike and Iskatappe shook hands again. The Pawnees
were to ride one way, the Americans another. Scar Head was just in
time. As the Americans started, he brushed against the medicine-man,
so as to warn, with his French words:
“Knife. No knife.”
The medicine-man instantly felt of the knife scabbard on his saddle.
It was empty, as Scar Head well knew, for he had seen the clever Skidi
steal the knife out. Now the “doctor” exclaimed, and spoke quickly to
Chief Pike. They both reined aside, so did Baroney the interpreter――
“Come,” beckoned the medicine-man, to Scar Head; and while the column
went on with the second chief, they turned back to the Pawnees.
“We have come for a knife that is lost,” announced Chief Pike, to
Iskatappe, with Baroney talking for him in bad Pawnee.
“We know nothing about any knife,” asserted Rich Man, stiffly.
“A knife is missing from this man’s saddle,” Chief Pike insisted. “I
ask you to get it for me.”
“You grow angry about a very small thing,” Iskatappe replied. “What
is one knife to you? Besides, you say it is lost. Very well; then you
should find it. We know nothing about it.”
Chief Pike flushed, angry indeed. His blue eyes looked hot.
“Whether or not it is a small thing, we Americans are not men who can
be robbed. The knife may seem of little value, but it is ours. I am
here to get it from you.”
“That is strong talk,” Iskatappe answered. “I have no knife of yours.
Where is your knife?”
“Who has it?” the medicine-man asked, in quick low voice, of Scar Head.
“Skidi,” whispered Scar Head.
The medicine-man pushed forward to Baroney, and spoke with him.
“This man says your warrior named Skidi has his knife,” said Baroney,
to Iskatappe.
“We will see,” replied Iskatappe. He called Skidi, and told him to
throw back his robe; and sure enough, there was the knife.
“I did not know that it was that man’s knife,” Skidi defended. “I found
it on the trail. Now it is mine. If I give it up, I must have another
to take its place.”
“Your warrior lies,” Chief Pike flatly retorted, to Iskatappe. “He
stole the knife. Otherwise, how did we know that he had it?”
Matters looked bad. The Pawnees were surrounding thicker and thicker,
and the other Americans had gone on. But Chief Pike gave no sign that
he was afraid; neither did the medicine-man. Only Baroney acted uneasy,
and Scar Head’s heart beat rapidly.
“What the American chief says, sounds true,” remarked Iskatappe, while
Skidi glared and his friends jostled and murmured. “But maybe Skidi is
right, too. He should have another knife.”
“We are not here to trade knives. When an honest man finds what belongs
to another, he returns it,” Chief Pike replied.
“Much time is being wasted over a matter of no account,” growled
Iskatappe. “Here is your knife,” and he plucked it from Skidi’s waist.
“I am not stingy, so I give him one to take its place.” And so he did.
Chief Pike passed the knife to the medicine-man. The medicine-man was
wise. He immediately passed it back to Iskatappe.
“It is now yours. Keep it. By this you see that we did not come for the
knife; we came for justice.”
“You show us that your hearts are good, after all,” Rich Man granted.
“I think you have done well.”
The faces of the Pawnees cleared, even Skidi seemed satisfied, and
after shaking hands once more Chief Pike led out for the column and
left the Pawnees to go their way also.
The Americans under the second chief were a long way ahead. Chief Pike
acted as if in no hurry. He and the medicine-man cantered easily and
chatted and laughed like brothers; Scar Head and Baroney cantered
together, behind them.
“Our scalps were loose, back there,” uttered Baroney.
“Yes,” said Scar Head. “I smelled blood.”
“You are no Pawnee. They would scalp you, too. Were you afraid?”
“No. No one is afraid, with Chief Pike.”
Baroney laughed. He was a small, dark, black-bearded man who spoke
about as much Pawnee as Scar Head spoke French, but was good at the
sign language; so by using all three means, with now and then a word of
Spanish, he got along.
They had ridden about a mile, and were slowly overtaking the American
column, when another band of figures came charging. The medicine-man
sighted them, the first, for he pointed――and they indeed looked, at a
distance, to be more Indians, issuing from ambush in a river bottom on
the left and launching themselves to cut off the Chief Pike squad.
Scar Head himself read them with one keen stare.
“Elk,” he grunted, in Pawnee, and stiffened with the hunt feeling.
Baroney called, excitedly; but Chief Pike had read, too. He shouted,
turned his horse and shook his reins and flourished his gun, and away
he dashed, to meet the elk. In a flash Scar Head clapped his heels
against his pony’s ribs, and tore after. The medicine-man and Baroney
tore, too, on a course of their own.
The yellow pony was a fast pony, well trained. He had been stolen from
the Comanches, whose horses were the best. Scar Head rode light――a boy
in only a buffalo robe. The American horses all were poor horses, even
those traded for with the Pawnees, and Chief Pike, in his clothes,
weighed twice as much, on the saddle, as Scar Head.
The yellow pony over-hauled the Chief Pike horse――crept up, from
tail to stirrup, from stirrup to neck, from neck to nose. Scar Head,
his moccasined feet thrust into thong loops, clung close. Chief Pike
glanced aside at him, with blue eyes glowing, and smiled.
“Good meat,” he said, in French. “We two hunt.”
“Kill,” answered Scar Head.
“Can you kill?”
“Yes.”
“What with?”
“This.” And Scar Head shook his strung bow.
Chief Pike laughed.
“They are large; you are small. With a gun――yes. With a bow――I think
not.”
“You will see,” Scar Head promised. His heart was filled with the
desire to prove himself to Chief Pike. But he had never killed an
elk――nothing larger than a badger; he only knew that it might be done.
They raced. The elk were foolish things, and appeared to be thinking
more of some danger behind than the danger before. No――now Baroney and
the medicine-man had frightened them afresh, for they had swerved, they
paralleled the trail, and were scouring on to gain the open.
Good riding might head them.
The yellow pony knew. He ran like a deer, himself. Chief Pike’s horse
lengthened bravely.
“Hi! Hi!” Scar Head urged.
“Hurrah!” cheered the chief.
They were veering in. The band of elk were led by a splendid buck,
whose horns branched like a tree. The elk chief ran with his nose out
and his horns laid upon his neck, but now and again he shook his head,
and his horns tossed.
Baroney and the medicine-man were trying to close in, on the rear
flank――the medicine-man had shot. Scar Head belabored his pony harder.
The wind whistled in his ears, his white robe had dropped about his
thighs, he rode with his legs and notched an arrow upon his bow-string.
His eyes were upon the elk chief, and he almost lost sight of Chief
Pike, although he knew that Pike was thudding close beside him.
The reports of the medicine-man and Baroney guns sounded, driving the
elk before them. The elk chief saw the two enemies cutting him off
before. He recoiled sharply, to turn, but the herd forced him on; they
all bunched, confused. This was the chance, and in charged Scar Head,
on his yellow pony.
“Le grand cerf (The large stag)!” Chief Pike gasped.
“Oui (yes)!” answered Scar Head.
The herd broke. On bolted the stag, tossing his great horns. After
him pelted Scar Head and Chief Pike. It was another chase. But, see!
The Pawnees were coming, from before. The chase was leading straight
for them, they had seen, and fifty or sixty of their best hunters had
galloped in a long line, for a surround.
The stag saw, too. Or else he smelled. He turned at right angles, to
escape the net. A minute or two more, and the yellow pony was at his
straining haunches, and Scar Head was leaning forward with bow bent to
the arrow’s head.