THE PROMISE
The silent, shadowy figure swayed toward Bill Carmody, who met the
stabbing glare of the black eyes with the steady gaze of his gray ones.
For long, tense moments their eyes held, while the girl watched
breathlessly.
Raising the blade high above her head, the old squaw brought it
crashing upon a rock at Carmody's feet. There was the sharp ring of
tempered steel, and upon the pine-needles lay the broken blade, and
beyond the rock the hilt, with a scant inch of blade protruding at the
guard.
Stooping, the old woman picked up the two pieces of the broken
sheath-knife, and, handing the hilt gravely to the astonished man
carefully returned the blade to her blanket. She pointed a long, skinny
finger at Bill, and the withered lips moved.
"You are the one good white man," she said. "I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the
daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, have spoken. I--who, since the death
of Lacombie, have said 'there is no good white man'--was wrong, and the
words were a lie in my mouth. In your eyes I have read it. You have the
good eye--the eye of Lacombie, who is dead.
"I have followed upon the trail of my daughter, thinking it was in your
heart to meet her here and carry her to her ruin in the land of the
white man. With this blade I would have killed you--for all men
die--would have followed and killed you in the land of your people. But
now I know that your heart is good. I have broken the knife.
"You will keep the hilt, and when you are in trouble, in need, in want
of a friend, you will send me this hilt, and I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the
daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, will come to you."
Her eyes rolled upward as though seeking among the tiny, far-winking
stars the words of some half-forgotten ritual, and her voice rose in a
weird, hesitating chant:
"Through the snows of Winter,
Through the heat of Summer,
Across high Mountains,
Over broad Waters,
Braving lean Want,
Scorning fat Plenty,
Nor turning aside
From the fang of Wolf,
From the forked arrows of Lightning,
From the mighty voice of Thunder,
From the hot breath of Fire,
From the rush of Waters,
From the sting of Frost.
Nor lingering to the call of Love,
Nor heeding the words of Hate.
In the face of Sickness,
In defiance of Death
Will I come
That you may know I am your Friend.
Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World,
And sit upon the High Places of the Great World,
This is my Vow!
Should my feet lag upon the Trail,
Should my heart turn to Water,
Should I forget--
So that in the time of my friend's need
I answer not his call;
Then, upon my head--upon the heads of my children--and
their children
Shall descend the Curse--the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah!
The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!"
The quavering chant ceased, and the undimmed old eyes looked again into
the face of the man.
"And because you are good," she went on, "and because you have heard
the vow, when this broken blade comes to your hand you will know that
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, in the last
extremity of her need, is calling you.
"And because you are strong and brave and have the good eye--you will
come. And no people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth,
nor of the earth, shall prevent you. I have spoken."
Bill Carmody listened in awed silence until the old woman finished.
"I, whom you choose to regard as the one good white man," he replied
with a dignity matching her own, "will one day prove my friendship.
Upon sight of the fragment of blade I will come.
"No people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the
earth, shall prevent me--and one day you will know that my words are
true."
He raised his hand and, gazing upward, repeated the words of the
strange chant. At their conclusion he gazed steadily into the face of
the old squaw.
"This is _the promise_," he said gravely. "I have spoken."