THE AGE OF KNIGHTHOOD
I
Rain was a little brown hen-angel, the half-grown, all fluffy chicken
of a seraph, with a tang of earth about her, just deceptively human
and alluring enough to tear my heart-strings when she flew off
leaving me to bleed.
To guard her, I forsook my Brat whom I care for. But when she seemed
to love another man, and laughed a good-by to me I could only go. A
boy may love a maid and yet love life. So I loved Rain, but not as
yet more than I loved my life. That was to come, but in those days,
life was calling me, yes, tugging hard.
Certain fabulists have alleged that I joined the mounted police in
evening dress. This is not true, for when Buckie was escorting me to
Fort French, my place of enlistment, we lunched by the trail-side
with an American cowboy who had a quart of pickets. Afterward, we
played cards, my kit staked against his. He won, riding away in my
dress suit with the tie under his off ear, and the near end of the
collar pointing S.S.E., while through his nose he sang a hymn
beginning, "Oh say, can you tell?"
I still had my broken heart, and a dog, but as to the costume in
which I joined the police, my modesty forbids particulars.
One of the greatest difficulties in the writing of this book is that
my publishers have a craze for particulars. They say that the story
is too vague. I ought to state the facts. Now if, to take an
example, I give my regimental number in the mounted police, I shall
be identified, extradited and hanged just as I have begun to settle
down. I have borrowed Buckie's number, a cruel humiliation for me
because he was always so durned respectable that he had scarcely any
defaulter sheet.
"Regimental Number 1107 Constable la Mancha, J., is hereby taken on
the strength of the Force from the 20th instant, and posted to C
Division."
So read the orderly corporal, standing at the south end of number two
barrack room in Fort French while I lay on my trestle and purred.
Presently the corporal, announcing details, told off Surly McNabb,
troop teamster, to fetch a load of coal with me for off man. My purr
changed to a groan.
The bugle was sounding "Last post" with a cold in its head as the
orderly corporal clanked away to call the roll next door. Then Windy
O'Rooke sat up and shouted he had a dollar to say that "Surly bucks
stiff-legged at taking a blanked rookie on coal fatigue. It's me he
wants."
"Mr. Affable McNabb," said I, "has been using influence to get me.
You cuckoos who steal one another's ideas think Affable's a morose
beast with a thirst. But gentlemen, he has a faithful heart. My dog
to your dollar, Windy, I'll make him deliver a speech of fifteen
minutes."
"Done!"
McNabb intervened with a horse brush, which I fielded, and returned
to its own address. Reprisals followed, while I dived under beds
capsizing their peaceful inhabitants. So there was roughhouse for
the space of thirteen minutes while I was partly killed, before the
bugle saved me. For at "Lights out," the room corporal ordered
silence. The lamplight changed to moonlight and a red glow from the
stove, the stampeding of elephants became a creeping of mice, and
Windy sat up in bed for a long luxurious scratch.
Next morning Surly drove his four-horse team to an outcrop of coal
about sixteen miles up the valley of Old Man's River, and not one
word would he vouchsafe to me. While he watched me load the wagon he
ate his lunch, and smoked for hours but still said never a word.
Once when we started back toward barracks I thought he was going to
speak, for I asked him politely if he were not too tired, but he only
shouldered me off the wagon seat so that I lit on my tail in a blue
pool of profanity. I had to climb on the tail-board, dead tired,
black as Satan and most frightfully cold.
Did you ever try to whistle _Te Deum_ in rag-time? I tried it, with
my teeth for castanets, while I sat in a wind like a scythe and
whittled Surly's grub box into kindlings. Then I made me a lovely
fire in the load of coal, and sang _Lead Kindly Light_ to cheer old
Surly.
When it got too hot, I dropped down and walked behind singing,
"Oh, Paradise! Oh, Paradise! I greatly long to see
Old Surly in his Future Home attempting repartee,
While small red devils rake the coals to keep him good and hot
And when they ask him to cheer up, he'll say he'd rather not."
I was beginning to run short of rhymes when the horses got a whiff,
and all four of them stampeded as though there were no hereafter,
while Surly poured forth rhetoric from the midst of that bounding
conflagration, until he managed to capsize the wagon. When I arrived
on the scene I found him perched on a boulder still declaiming, so I
sat down to take notes of his benediction. "Please," I would ask, "I
can't do shorthand--what comes after 'lop-eared'?" or "Hold on,
McNabb--from 'pigeon-toed son,'" and at last, "Say, Affable, what's
the time? You've preached a good fifteen minutes so I've won my
dollar bet."
Then Surly grinned for the first time on record, so I measured the
smile with my pencil and noted it down at five and three-quarter
inches. At that the teamster laughed until the tears rolled streaks
down his dusty face.
What with reloading, and too much conversation, we got to the post an
hour late for supper. So the teamster told the troop cook that I was
a blackguard. Such is the origin of two famous nicknames, for he was
known as Chatter McNabb, and I as the Blackguard as long as we served
in the force.
The affair of the _Matrimonial Gazette_ has grown into a regimental
myth, but that is due to Rocky Mountain liars, for whose inventions I
do not claim credit. Historically the matter dates from my first
patrol, when a one-horse rancher at The Leavings gave me a copy of
the journal. I made haste to advertize. I announced myself as a
respectable bachelor, considered extremely good-looking and very
young, with pretty habits, domestic tastes, nice manners, a
bewitching smile, a romantic past and enormous expectations. Ladies
might correspond with a view to matrimony, and as my address was
"Fort French, North West Territories, Canada," they must have felt
that distance gave them safety. Sixty-eight damsels responded,
ranging from fourteen years of age to eighty, and most of them sent
photographs, original or borrowed. Keeping a dozen beauties for my
own consumption, I sold the rest by auction or private treaty at
prices varying from ten cents in cash to as many dollars promised.
Each mail brought sixty-eight love-letters addressed to J. la Mancha,
by his fiancées, and as Cupid's postman I distributed the ladies
according to their post-marks. If two damsels happened to write from
the same town, when a virgin changed her address on going to school
or leaving, when our gallants at Fort French swapped, sold, traded,
or pawned their dames, or parted with their dearest girls to settle a
canteen bill--then there was misunderstanding and prospect of a
fight. The claimants for a lady's hand would meet behind the stables
while the rest of us made a ring until the pair found out which
gentleman loved best. The correspondence was enormous and confused.
In these annals of true love I can only select one case as bearing
upon my story. The little cat in question claimed to be Mrs.
Burrows, widow, of Helena, Montana, submitted the photograph of a
widowed aunt, and loved Mr. la Mancha with a headlong passion. I
traded her, I remember, to the troop cook for an I.O.U. on a sucking
pig for Christmas. Cook swapped her for a terrier of three sorts to
Sergeant-Major Buttocks. He was caught by his wife in the act of
mailing his irrevocable vows, and finding himself severely
reprimanded, made a hasty sale of the Helena widow, trading her for a
pair of long boots to one of our officers, Inspector Sarde.
So far the game went merrily with no harm done, but now the
sergeant-major had to explain that although he was forever her
adoring José la Mancha, he was about to change his penmanship. This
he refused to do because his own wife forbade him, so I was sent for
by Inspector Sarde. At the troop office I had to concoct a letter.
In this I was Samuel Partington, requested by J. la Mancha to advise
the widow Burrows that he had injured his right hand while trapping a
catamaran, but was learning to write with the left, for what odds if
the fist was awkward so long as the heart was true.
Both the inspector and the sergeant-major were so delighted that I
made them a fair copy while both of them sat by without suspicions.
In this I explained to the widow how she had been swapped for a
sucking pig, a dog and a pair of boots, her latest proprietor being
Inspector Sarde. The fair copy was duly posted.
Still all went merrily and no harm was done. But none of us liked
Sarde. With all his undoubted merits he had a meek and guileful
tongue which curried favor, and a smile a deal more friendly than his
eyes. An officer who creeps in search of popularity is sure to be
detested by soldiers, and their opinion is not far astray.
One night in the barrack room a debate arose as to whether Inspector
Sarde was a gentleman. I took his part and bet a dollar I would
prove him thoroughbred. Next day I addressed a post-card to
Constable Buckie who was still at Slide-out, and on the back of it
wrote the story of a little jest I had at Sarde's expense. The card
was posted at the orderly room, found by the clerk and shown to
Inspector Sarde. I am sorry to say that Sarde read my post-card, and
handed it to the officer commanding, who refused to look and told him
he was a cad. So it proved by testing that poor Sarde was not a
gentleman, and I lost my bet. Moreover, from that time onward he was
my enemy, a fact observed by every officer and man in C Division.
This was a boy's feud with a man, the quarrel of a trooper with an
officer, the risks on one side, the power on the other, and I
preferred an open breach without any sneaking, free from degrading
secrecy. Looking back I know I was a fool, but not unmanly.
In the good old times there was a law of prohibition excluding liquor
from the territories lest it should reach the Indians. In an arid
country, such a law produces unnatural thirst, and even the most
temperate men take a delight in outwitting a fool government. So the
law breeds law-breakers, informers, whisky thieves, drunkards, bad
liquor and delirium tremens, promotes the use of drugs and generally
plays havoc with public morals. Let any man who doubts my statement
ask the nearest policeman whose duty it is to know the actual facts,
while legislators live in a world of dreams.
During a severe winter drought, Inspector Sarde's mother sent him a
case of eggs. As far as one could see it was quite in order that
Mrs. Sarde should send twelve dozen eggs to her abstemious son in
_partibus infidelium_, where luxuries are scarce. They were packed
in salt, shipped C.O.D. by express, forwarded from Fort Benton in the
stage sleigh, consigned per I. G. Baker and carried to Sarde's
quarters by a constable on fatigue. That was I.
In course of duty, I just bumped the eggs to see if they were
"fragile" as advertised on the case, and at once there arose a
perfume which no police constable could possibly ignore. Did hens, I
wondered, lay eggs filled with whisky? Or having laid eggs full of
meat did the hens blow them, fill them with comfort, and seal them up
with wax? Or had they matured on the way? Or was an officer, a
justice of the peace, importing illicit refreshments? Would they be
good for Sarde? Was it not my duty to save the officers' mess from
making a beast of itself?
I took that case to the barrack room and submitted it to a board of
constables, who pronounced each several egg to contain more than two
and five-tenths per cent. of alcohol, and resolved to compensate the
owner for that disgusting state of intoxication to which he was no
longer liable. The case was therefore reloaded with a dead cat, and
a puppy of last year's vintage, and a twelve horse-power bouquet on
which we laid an epitaph in verse.
"Toll for the eggs
The eggs which are no more
All sunk within the Braves
Fast by their destined shore.
We were not in the bottle,
No barrel met the shock,
We sprang a fatal leak,
We ran on Duty's Rock.
These are but cat and pup,
Not alcoholic eggs,
So weigh the vessel up;
Stand firm upon your legs:
Then boil the tea and pass it round
To the Guardians of our Land,
You bet your life it's not our fault
That whisky's contraband!"
Next day at morning stables, Inspector Sarde, being orderly officer,
put all the duty men under arrest for making chicken talk when told
to answer names. He said he was surprised.
Afterward, at breakfast time, he opened his case of refreshments,
which stampeded the officers' mess. He really was surprised.
Before office, old Wormy, our officer commanding, sent for Mr. Sarde.
"My yong frien', how you charge my mans for dronk on catan'puppy,
_hein_? Or you say dronk on veeskeyegg. Whose veeskeyegg? Yours?
How you come by dose veeskeyegg? Where you get, _hein_? _Bien,
M'sieu L'Inspecteur_ Veeskey-smoggle! _Sacre_ mo'jew Ba'teme. Damn!"
So we were all released without trial, but Mr. Sarde would like to
see Constable la Mancha at his quarters. I told the orderly sergeant
that I was suffering from severe alcoholic depression, but all the
same I was paraded up before the bereaved inspector.
"My man," said Mr. Sarde, "you know that a commissioned officer can
not threaten a constable."
I was shocked at the very idea.
"But I may promise, La Mancha, to watch over your interests like a
guardian angel."
I told him he was a tripe hound.
"Orderly Sergeant," said the officer, "you will note the words used,
and place this man under close arrest."
So I got a month's imprisonment, and they say it was most impressive
in the guard-room to hear my voice in the cells as I prayed for Sarde.
II
You may not remember, but an American cowboy won my dress suit at
cards. When he got back to his outfit over in Montana, he met my
brother, and gave him my address. Then Brat wrote to me, telling me
how on the day we parted he had struck grub with the Double Crank
beef round-up who took him on as wrangler, at twenty, while they
worked the Kato-yi-six.
This being translated from cow talk into English means that Brat as
he wandered afoot down Milk River coulée, came to a wagon where a
cook was busy molding pies on the tail-board. The cook told Brat
that his wagon attended the riders of the Double Crank ranch, who
were collecting beef cattle for shipment on the Sweet Grass Hills of
Montana. They had mislaid the boy who handled their pony herd, so
their foreman, when he rode in at sundown, engaged my Brat to take
the job at twenty dollars a month.
Moreover, Brat, being a good boy whom I had raised by hand, kept his
job for four months, and because he had a wooden face at poker won,
in addition to his education, wages and board, three ponies, a pair
of shaps, a saddle and spurs damaskened with gold. But as the winter
closed down, and spare men were discharged, my brother's heart filled
with dumb yearnings, so he took his pay, and rode across to Lane's
where he showed off his wealth, splendor and success in front of
Got-Wet. She very nearly succumbed.
Along came Buckie on patrol from Slide-out, very smart in a buffalo
coat and fur cap, a Russian grand duke to the very life with a ruby
and diamond engagement ring he had picked up cheap from a Montana
robber.
Brat found himself outnumbered, "by a mere Canadian, too," and in his
desolation blamed the soldier's scarlet serge. He wanted a red coat
more than all else on earth since cowboys were of no account in the
eyes of Got-Wet.
Slick Buckie was no fool. His triumph might last its little hour,
but his official visits were rare as transits of Venus, whereas the
cow-hand, a mere civilian, could be there all the time. So he talked
seductively about the outfit, but doubted if Brat was old enough to
join, or brave enough to face a rough career. Oh, he was very
doubtful about vacancies for recruits, and couldn't be bothered
anyway with Brats. They had one La Mancha in C Troop already, and
that was enough in all conscience with his devilish practical jokes,
when he fired that load of coal, got an officer mixed up with one of
his cast girls, and the whole division drunk on smuggled eggs. So
gently Slick lured his rival away from the arms of Got-Wet, and got
him duly enlisted at Fort French a hundred miles from temptation.
With Brat in barracks, I felt that my responsibilities were
overwhelming. There was so little room in number 4 cell for setting
a good example, and through the loop-hole in the log wall at the back
it would be difficult to train a young man in the paths of virtue.
Thrice daily I had him up outside the loop-hole to see that he
cleaned his nails and had no high water mark about his neck, that he
committed the standing orders to memory, brushed his teeth, wrote to
his mother, threw a smart salute, and minded his manners when
addressing a superior officer. He must not play cards except with
rookies, or borrow money from chaps who ought to be kept at a
distance, or get acquainted with any beastly civilians, or make silly
practical jokes, or give cheek to a blanked inspector, or correspond
with girls. Long years later, he explained to me why he had been
content to stand and freeze while I lectured. I was all he had in
the way of parents, and my voice reminded him of one which was hushed
at the solemn gates of Paradise "except of course," he added, "when
you used bad language."
It was rotten luck for him that I should be in prison just when he
needed me. Nobody else could be bothered to teach a mere coyote.
Nobody, for example, took the trouble to warn him to have moccasins
in his pockets during a sopping thaw out on the Milk River Ridge.
The patrol were wet to the waist when they camped, but by midnight it
was thirty degrees below zero, and the frozen boot cut the toes off
my brother's right foot, laying him up for two years.
Brat's great soft black eyes seemed always to be lighted from within,
his smile had a haunting tenderness. In him I could see my mother,
as I remember her before she left us.
III
Rain often used to tell me about her hero, her elder brother, Many
Horses, chief of the Crazy Dog band in the Piegan tribe of the
Blackfeet, and of his woman, the daughter of the head chief, whose
name was Owl-calling-"Coming."
Many Horses stood six foot two, lithe as a whip, rode like a god, and
had the surly pride of Lucifer. You may see his likeness, both as to
form and color, in old bronze portraits of Augustus Cæsar. But
please take that in profile, because poor Many Horses had a most
sinister spirit. Apart, however, from that, his was an astounding
combination of blessings--youth, health, beauty, grace, dignity, high
rank as a warrior, and virtues so exalted that I found him painful to
contemplate. He was a mixture of Bayard, Galahad and the Cid, a
knight-errant of stainless honor who had never seen a joke in his
life, being void of the slightest vestige of any sense of humor.
Among the merry Blackfeet that man was a freak.
At the time I lay in the cells, this savage gentleman discovered my
address and came north to kill me. Ideas with him were very rare
events, and in this one he took the pride of an inventor. But how
could he get inside the fort? A white man had merely to walk in
through open gates, but these were closed to Indians. He hoped for
the vacancy left by Tail-Feathers of scout-interpreter, but found
that the place had been filled by old Beef Hardy. A clever man would
have seen a dozen ways of getting in, but this hero was stupid as
heroes are in fiction, so he thought that only as prisoner could he
gain admittance. To get himself made prisoner he rode to Stand-off,
reined his horse at the door of the police detachment, made sure that
the boys were watching him through the windows, then fired at their
pet dog. So he was brought as a prisoner to Fort French, and lodged
in the cell next to mine.
Confinement knocks the morals out of any Indian, so after the first
night this poor chap was lonely and frightened. I was bored to
tears, and both of us were glad to have a gossip. Thus, before we
had heard each other's names or seen each other's faces, we were fast
friends, whispering Blackfoot through a knot-hole in the bulkhead.
We talked through Saturday afternoon and Sunday, we gossiped in the
sign language when out at work on Monday. By Monday evening, I had
given him full directions for finding and killing
Boy-drunk-in-the-morning, his sister's lover, his mortal enemy.
And so he told me the story of Rain's adventures during the Winter of
Death.
IV
When the buffalo hunting failed, Many Horses took his women and
children up into the valleys of the World-Spine and there, through
the moon of falling leaves, they had meat in plenty. But when cold
weather came, he and his woman Owl-calling-"Coming," out hunting far
from camp, got snowed up for more than a week. Only after much
prayer and sacrifices to Old Man were they able to climb through the
soft snow and get a back-load of meat to their home lodge on Cut-Bank
Creek. And then they came too late.
When Many Horses told me that, I had my eye at the knot-hole to watch
the sign talk. He finished with a sort of apologetic squint as
though he hated to worry me with trifles. It seems that toward the
end of the long waiting, his little son, aged five, had moved to the
chief's place, facing the door of the lodge, and there said family
prayers with the sacred pipe in his little frozen hands. So his
father found him, and the two younger wives with all the children sat
in their places, dead.
Owl-calling-"Coming" ran mad, but Many Horses got her down to Two
Medicine Lake, hoping for human company to lure her spirit back.
There they found a lodge with Tail-Feathers and his woman Rain, dying
of hunger.
It was in a dry, cold, dreary way that Many Horses answered my
questions concerning his sister Rain. She had married Tail-Feathers
because he wished her to. Now she was very poor, her property and
that of her man being sold for food in the early days of the famine.
Moreover, instead of hunting, Tail-Feathers would tumble down dead
and lie doggo, until Rain snared a rabbit and he smelt food. But the
big snow had put an end to Rain's poor foraging, and the man lay
doggo while the woman prayed.
It was then she vowed that if her man got well she would dedicate a
temple to the Sun God. Rain's prayers were very strong, for sure
enough her brother came with meat, and her man got well. So she sat
for days chirping and twittering like a small brown squirrel while
she fed her man with soup, and his strength returned. In those days,
Owl thawed to weeping, and her spirit came back to her body.
When all the meat was finished, Rain's secret helper came in a dream
bidding her send the two men, Tail-Feathers, her husband, and Many
Horses, her brother, to steal ponies from the Stone-hearts, and use
them for hunting the white man's buffalo (cattle). The men obeyed
and very soon her lodge was red with meat.
Now it was time, said Rain, to lay her vow before the chiefs in
council, so they broke camp and went down to the agency. There they
found the great chiefs begging the agent to have mercy upon their
people, for already a fourth part of them were dead, and the rest
were dying.
But the agent fed their corn to his fat chickens, and said he was
grieved at the deplorable superstitions of the Indians. Then the
chiefs starved in council until Rain sent them a pony-load of meat,
so that their hearts were warm, and they consented to her plea. If
the tribe lived at the full moon, in the moon of falling leaves she
should be made a priestess, and dedicate a temple to the Sun.
"My prayer is heard," she said, in her great joy. "My man is saved
from death, the Sun has given us food, and the animals will be kind
to us and pity us. In three suns, the wicked agent will be sent
away, and there will be food for all our people."
Three days were scarcely past before a big Stone-heart chief arrived
at the agency, who gave the corn and the agent's chickens to feed the
dying women crouched beside the gate. The wicked agent was sent away
in shame, and a wagon train of the Long Knives (United States
cavalry) brought food for all the people. Surely Rain's medicine was
very strong!
But as it happened, the trader, Bad Mouth, together with his woman,
and his daughter, Got-Wet, were staying at the agency, and when they
heard that Rain was to be made priestess of the sun, they put a rumor
about that she was unclean. She had lived, said Got-Wet, with a
white man disguised as an Indian, aye and traveled with him all last
summer. The chiefs had chosen a harlot to be their sacred woman.
Many there are among us who see appearances only, who live to keep up
appearances, even as a coffin does with varnishing and brass-work
though that within is something less than man. Tail-Feathers had
kept up appearances as became a virtuous husband as long as Rain's
wealth lasted, and now must make up appearance as an outraged
husband, casting his woman out of the lodge which was all that
remained of her dowry. She sat in the snow, her head covered with
ashes, hiding her face from women she had fed, who passed by holding
their noses. Even Many Horses believed her guilty, but Owl bought
her a little lodge lest she should die of cold.
For two days the chiefs debated her case in council and Many Horses,
though he believed her guilty, would not allow his fellows to accuse
his sister. At the end, he brought her before them for judgment, she
standing woefully frightened, with clenched teeth and fists lest her
timid feet should be tempted to run away.
"Woman," said the head chief, Medicine Robe, "we know that your
mysterious power saved your man from death. We know that your dream
foretold the coming of the Long Knives with food for our dying
people. We have heard your claim to be a sacred woman, and we may
not deny that right lest we offend the Spirit in the Sun.
"Yet by our law, no woman may be priestess unless her man declares
her a wife and mother of clean life.
"Your man accuses you of being a harlot. He asks that your nose may
be cut off as a warning to all the people. Come, I promise full
pardon if you confess your guilt."
"Am I a harlot," Rain answered angrily, "because I was sister to a
helpless, useless boy? Would God have spared my man because a harlot
prayed? Would God have sent food to our people but for this
mysterious power which is in me? Let God be my judge!"
The head chief was sorely troubled. "If you are a harlot," he said,
"and we make you a priestess to defile the holy ground, to profane
the House of the Sun, your death is nothing to us when God stamps out
our fires. Once more I offer mercy. You are free to go, so we never
again shall see your face."
Rain clutched at her breasts with both hands. "And my baby," she
cried, "my baby that is to come--shall it be called the White Man's
Sin? Do you think I will go away like a guilty woman, and have my
baby shamed? I stay, and in the name of God, I demand my right to
prove myself clean, a faithful wife, an honorable mother, a sacred
woman."
"Then we must open the Sun Lodge," answered Medicine Robe, "not by
the Blackfoot, but by the Absaroka rites. Among the Sparrowhawk
people the sacred woman comes up from the river bearing a fagot of
wood, and a bucket of water. She walks to the Sun Lodge, there to
make fire, to boil water, to keep house for the Holy Spirit."
"I am content," said Rain.
"But," said the chief, "her path is lined on either side by all the
warriors, and they will see that no woman suspected of foul life
shall reach God's house, for if any man knows that she has sinned, he
must thrust a spear through her body, and all the men must bathe
their weapons in her blood.
"Are you content?"
"I am content."
"In the moon of falling leaves, at the full moon, the Sun Lodge shall
be built at Two Medicine Lake, and there you shall walk through the
lane of warriors, to die as a harlot, or to live as a sacred woman."
"And I shall live," said Rain.
Many Horses, being of crossed vision, confused the issues. He was
shocked that his own sister should be accused, indignant with her for
being condemned to death, but most of all, enraged against the white
man who had caused the scandal. In his poor stupid heart, his honor
was the important thing at stake, and not his sister's innocence and
life. So he came to find me out and kill me, then take the
consequences as became a chief.
"Your sister," I told him, "has two friends, two champions. So one
must be murdered and the other hanged. Then Rain will have no
friends."
He had not thought of that.
V
Our superintendent commanding was painfully short of men, with half
his troop out on the plains, while the rest had staff jobs exempting
them from duty. At the great ten o'clock parade, the orderly
officers, sergeant-major and orderly corporal would assemble to hear
one rookie answer his name for recruit drill, stable orderly, mess
fatigue and odd jobs. So, at the end of a fortnight's rest in the
cells I received a hint that an apology to Inspector Sarde would win
me back my freedom, to do half the work of the post. I asked leave
to appear before Superintendent Fourmet, and when I was paraded at
the orderly room, was so jolly glad to see the old chap again that I
could not help smiling brightly.
"Prisonnier," said Wormy, "you withdraw the tripe 'ound?"
"Yes, sir." I cocked up one eye at Sarde.
"You apologize?"
"I wish I hadn't said it."
"_Bien_! You promise to be'ave?"
"For six months, sir; till the moon of falling leaves."
"Eh? Vat you means?"
"Then I'll put in for a pass, if you please, sir, and blow off steam
outside."
Bubbles of suppressed joy disturbed the serenity of the court. I
always find joy pays.
"Return to duty," said Wormy.
"About tur-r-n! Mar-r-r-ch!" said the sergeant-major.
But I snatched my forage cap out of his hand, jammed it on and threw
a salute.
"May I speak, sir?"
"You are permit to spik."
"Release the Indian, sir, and let me serve his sentence. Please,
sir, the poor devil's a friend of mine. He's innocent, and belongs
to the South Piegans, so what's the good of wasting government grub
to feed a United States Indian. If he's free, sir, you won't need a
guard."
"Stoff a nonsense. You would be prisonnier! How you say no guard?"
"Oh, sir, that's all right. I'll keep the guard-house clean and lock
myself in at night."
Dear Wormy loved a joke. "You say zees Indians he is ennocent,
_hein_? How you know?"
"I talk Blackfoot, sir."
"Vell done, my boy! Veil done."
"He's in for shooting up a dog. Can't be done, sir. His rifle used
to be mine--so I know it shoots round corners, and that dog, sir, is
all corners. Why, sir, if you aim at a cow with that old gun you
have to fire backward. The Blackfeet are rotten shots, anyway, and
this man's a champion misser with a squint. Let him off, sir."
"You offer to serve hees sentence?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you proof hee's not guilty?"
"You have my word of honor, and his squint, sir."
"Humph! You can go to your duty."
I cleared out quick lest Wormy should change his mind, and whistled
piercing shrills to Rich Mixed across the square.
For Many Horses, that day was one of bewilderment. From the
interpreter he learned that I was the very man he had come to kill,
that I had offered to serve his sentence for him, and that he was
pardoned. On his release at sundown I met him outside the gates and
gave him a long knife, just borrowed from the cook-house. "You
came," said I, "to kill me. When does the fun begin?"
For a long time he stood looking down into my eyes, then swung the
knife close to my ribs to see if I would flinch.
"Frightened?" I asked.
He dropped the knife between us in the snow.
"If I kill you," he muttered, "and they hang me, Rain will have no
friends."
I gave him some tobacco and my pipe. Then we sat down in the snow
and smoked, while some of the boys were jeering at us from the
gateway. But we spoke in signs and in Blackfoot, so that they did
not understand.
The man's very slow mind was working out new ideas. "We are Rain's
friends," he said, holding the pipe to the four winds, to sky, and
then to earth.
"And we believe," I said, "that she is innocent."
He made the sign of assent.
"You are ready," I asked, "to stake your life that Rain is innocent?"
"You and I," he answered, "are her brothers."
"I was her brother."
"Then," he said, clasping my hand, "I give you my name, and call you
Many Horses. I take your new name, Charging Buffalo."
He offered me blood brotherhood, the greatest honor that one Indian
can pay to another. But I laughed.
"You," said I, "shall be Charging Buffalo, but I'm too poor to be
called Many Horses. My name shall be
No-horses-but-wants-to-owe-for-a-mule."
He shook his head, bewildered, and made the sign, "No good," flicking
his fingers at me. How dull must life be for men who never see a
joke.
"Go," said I, "tell Rain to keep her courage up, and not to fuss."
So I made the moon sign and the zigzag fluttering down of a falling
leaf. "I will be there in the autumn."
VI
"Think of your sins.
What made you a soldier a-serving the Queen,
God save the Queen!
And God save the duffer who thinks of to-morrow,
God save the man who remembers his sorrow,
God save the man who must mourn for the past,
Sundown at last.
Here's rest for the past, and here's hope for the morrow."
That is what the bugle said, thrilling the clear dusk with torrential
music, as I came over from seeing my frozen Brat in hospital. Rich
Mixed danced ahead on three legs sidewise, while his eyes worshiped
me. For this day he had seen me at guard mounting, chosen as
cleanest man for commanding officer's orderly. The bugle thrilled my
bones, my heart was lifted up to the angel glories, which followed
the sun to his rest, but all the same to me most beautiful of all
things visible were the glowing scarlet of my own serge jacket, the
poised forage cap, the flash and gleam of my boots, the silver note
of my spurs, as I swaggered across the parade ground. For five
months, I had been a beauteous example of piety in humble life, and
though I was rather stiff from yesterday's patrol of sixty miles,
both loveliness and virtue were my portion. Rich Mixed lay on his
back to pant with adoration, and my riding whip flicked him tenderly
as I passed. For, in that instant, I thought of Rain. All my hopes,
dreams and desire made throne and clouds and rainbows for her court.
In thirty days more, I was to die for her, and had no other wish or
expectation.
Close in the wake of the bugle music tame the soft, distant, mournful
howl of a wolf. That was Rain's call!
Oh, then I knew I had been too good too long. With a sigh for
departed virtue, I swung off round the stables, dodged behind them,
climbed the manure heap piled against the stockade, and there stood
looking out across the plains. From somewhere close at hand in the
dusk, I heard a most seductive little howl. At that, I sent Rich
Mixed home, dropped lightly down the outer side of the rampart, and
pounded across the boulder flats until I saw a little heap of
something up against the sky-line.
"Oo-oo!" said the little heap, and "Oo-oo-oo!"
I scrambled up the bank of Old Man's River and whispered: "Is that
you?"
"Oo."
So I squatted, with ominous cracks at the seams, on one spurred heel,
then lighted a cigarette, so she might see my little new mustache.
"Well," I puffed, with becoming condescension. "What's up?"
Of course, I adored her, but with a woman it never pays to be
monotonous, for if she knows exactly what to expect, she loses
interest.
"Once, in the very-long-ago-time," she crooned, in a sing-song voice,
"there used to be a queer person called Boy-drunk-in-the-morning."
"Oh, bosh!" said I, hating the memory of such a name. "You mean
Charging Buffalo."
"Um?" With one wicked eye cocked up, she _moued_ at me. And that
struck me cold, for she had never flirted. "I used to like being
kissed," and she turned the other cheek.
"You little liar," said I, disgusted, "you never once let me kiss
you, made me swear I'd go to hell if I touched you. Why, half the
time you wouldn't let me into your lodge, so I had to freeze outside.
And when it was warm, you slept outside yourself. And when I said
I'd let you be my woman, you went and married Tail-Feathers."
"Still," she crooned, "I liked your attempts at kisses, and cuddles,
yes, and little wee, tender scratches round my neck."
The seductive little rogue! And yet how could a buck policeman in
barracks run his own squaw on fifty cents a day--and keep our wolf
pack out of her teepee--and not be caught by the authorities? Think
of the chaff, Sarde spying, the fury of the officer commanding, the
disgrace to the service!
Besides, there was something wrong, something artificial, unreal,
unworthy about Rain to-night. It was not to a cheap flirt I had
given the worship due to my mother, and to the Queen of Heaven.
"Go back to your man," I said sternly, "it's his job to scratch your
neck."
"I come," she purred, "to be your woman."
"I'll see you damned first!" I rose to go.
Then Rain stood up erect, all pride and joy, holding a baby at her
breast, for all the world like the great sacred pictures of Our Lady.
"See," she whispered. "My own man, Tail-Feathers, has a baby son. I
nurse this ever-so-small Two Bears. I love him, oh, so dearly.
Isn't he beautiful!"
"The deuce." It wrenched my heart to think what might have been--my
child, my happiness.
"Growls-like-a-Bear. Says 'Woof! Woof!' because I love my son!"
"Oh, I don't care," said I in a jealous rage. "It's nothing to me.
Once we were sister and brother, you and I, innocent children playing
in camp, and on the trail, playing at being grown up. You never were
my woman."
Then all about me in the gloaming, I heard a ripple of laughter, and
one by one there rose up out of the dusk gaunt Indians, trying not to
laugh lest they should seem ill-mannered. One grand old chief lifted
his head, palm forward, to the stars, making the peace sign. "My
son," he said, "I ask you to shake hands, after the way of your
people."
"How!" came the greetings all around me. "How, Shermogonish!
Greeting, soldier! We all want to shake hands."
"My son," said the head chief, "you are a Stone-heart. We believe
that your tribe are like ghosts, because you have no hearts, and do
not really live. Because you have no heart, our daughter, Rain, is
innocent."
My memory flashed back to that world I had left behind me ever so
many weeks ago, to happy parishes in Mayfair and St. James's, where
men were simple and unpretentious, frank and kind. So I saluted
Medicine Robe as one would address a minister of state, expecting a
blessing from Mad Wolf as though he were a cardinal, and felt that
Flat Tail was a retired general who had led an army in battle not so
long ago. Then there was Many Horses, my blood brother. I was so
glad to see them!
"My son," said the head chief, throwing his robe wide open,
disclosing the bow in his hand, the arrows at his belt. "I came to
kill you. It is well I waited. You will eat in my lodge?"
I said I was hungry enough to eat the lodge.
So they escorted me, walking in single file, with feet straight to
the front, as softly shod people do, lest they should bruise their
toes against the trail edge. When we came to the lodge, the head
chief took his seat with his guest and the men on his left, his wife
and all the women on the right. We had an Absaroka sausage, full of
interest and excitement as a haggis, Chicago bully beef, and a dish
of berries, with graceful acts of tribute to the gods, and the
decorous ceremony of the pipe to follow. Then Medicine Robe, as
host, spoke with a tender irony of the white men, but said that some
were straight even as Rising Wolf, his oldest friend. For Charging
Buffalo had given courtesy to Rain, his daughter, and lately
delivered Many Horses from prison.
Mad Wolf spoke next with grave sweet dignity, saying that his prayers
were answered as to Rain. They knew her powerful medicine came of a
pure life, and as a sacred woman she would bring good fortune to the
people.
But Many Horses said, "Let us wait till after the storm before we dry
our clothes. Some of the chiefs are seeking my sister's death, and
her own man has sworn to kill her at the Medicine Lodge. I ask my
white brother to attend the holy rites of the Sun God, and tell the
people he has done no evil to our sacred woman."
On this, the white brother made his first speech in Blackfoot, with a
strong foreign accent, somewhat to this effect: "I've been most
frightfully good for five whole moons, because I'm putting in for a
pass in civvies, for the moon of falling leaves on urgent private
business; and the Great White Chief, Old Wormy, will have to stretch
his heart to the size of a kit-bag before he'll trust me out of sight
in the dark. His heart is small this week, because somebody stuffed
his parrot till it bust.
"Unless he believes I bust his bird, I think he'll be all right. My
little brother, Brat, has lent me his cowboy kit. I'd have his
horses, too, but Brat lost them at poker to the hospital orderly.
Look here, Many Horses, your white brother wants you to come with a
spare pony, and show me the way to your circus."
"It is good," sighed my blood brother, who disliked lending his
ponies.
"All right," said I, "that sausage has made my heart warm to my
Indian fathers," I waved my hand to the women, "and aunts, and
things. I'll be on hand at the medicine joint to speak with persons
who talk bad about Rain, and I've put in five months' pay at revolver
practise.
"Now look here, you chaps, excuse my country manners, but that's
'First post' sounding in barracks now, so I'll have to run like a
rabbit to be in time for roll-call. If I'm late, I'll be
disemboweled and fined five dollars. So long, Chief. Cheer up,
little girl."
I bolted, leaving the Piegan chiefs to preserve their ceremonial
gravity, while the women rocked and sobbed with hysterical laughter.
VII
On the eve of my furlough, "to attend the funeral of an aunt at
Billings," I was accused by the sergeant-major of bursting the
esteemed green parrot of my commanding officer; and for giving cheek
got one month confined to barracks.
Also the Brat, in an attempt to win back his horses, played cards
with the hospital orderly, and whereby he lost his cowboy kit, a
residuary interest in Rich Mixed subject to owner's decease, a
three-pound pot of greengage jam and my new private revolver.
To crown all, I was warned for mess fatigue, so that when I bolted I
would be missed at daybreak.
Thus dogged by undeserved misfortune, I assuaged my grief by playing
cards with the hospital orderly. If he won, he was to have two black
eyes, an inflamed nose and a complete set of fractures, as shown on a
chart in the surgery. Perhaps this medicine man preferred not to be
greedy, for he lost three horses, a cowboy kit and stock saddle, a
.38 seven-chambered blue Merwin and Hulbert revolver with adjustable
three-inch and six-inch barrels, a pot of jam, a residuary interest,
thirty-two dollars and seventy-five cents in cash, and the cook's
I.O.U. on a sucking pig.
Much soothed, I addressed a private note to the commanding officer,
in which I told him that I had not spoiled his parrot, but tendered
in its place a tame whisky-jack, who could swear in French almost as
well as himself. With regard to breaking barracks and being absent
four days without leave, I felt bound to do so on a point of honor,
but left Rich Mixed as a pledge of my return to take my punishment.
The letter, the whisky-jack and the dog were to be delivered after
breakfast, when Wormy was always peaceful.
The moment after roll-call, I told the corporal of my barrack room
that I had an appointment to smash up the man who had busted old
Wormy's parrot. As it transpired, I had already done so, but the
corporal seemed pleased, and would not expect me back before he fell
asleep. At the stables, I changed into cowboy kit, then took my
newly-won saddle to the manure heap, where I dropped it outside the
stockade, and jumped down myself. Many Horses was waiting with his
ponies, and so I saddled one and we rode away, bound for the herd
camp. There lived Brat's ponies which I had won from the hospital
orderly, but the event of stealing them fell quite flat, since they
were now my property. My blood brother's Indian silence got rather
on my nerves.
We rode breast-deep in a silver mist, while the moon came glowing
like a coal above the frosty levels in the East, and swung the stars
blind across the awful silence. Once in two hours, we rested and
took fresh horses, at times would flounder through some deadly river,
or pass a sleeping herd of the range cattle, or clatter down the
steeps of hills invisible. Then the slow dawn merged into frosty
daylight, while on our right Chief Mountain, a snow-draped cube of
limestone, captain of the Rockies, glowed in the sun's red glory as
he rose. We passed the Medicine Line and entered the United States,
quite safe from all pursuit.
Toward noon, when a hundred and ten miles had given us a taste for
food and sleep, Mount Rising Wolf was high against the sun, edged
with an icy silver to where its wall fell sheer into blue-gray
shadows. Then, while the ridged and furrowed plain still seemed to
sweep straight on into that shadow, with staggering abruptness a
valley opened right before our feet, miles wide, of lake, meadow and
timber. We looked down, through scattered Douglas pines, upon a
circle of teepees a mile in girth, each tawny lodge of bison hide
painted with unnatural history animals, rows of dusty stars, or
symbols of lightning, flood, or a protecting spirit. The smoke of
feasts went up from within the lodges, the children played about
them, gamblers squatted chanting over the stick game, crowds in their
gayest best watched some old battle played by warriors, and round the
tent-ring crept a gorgeous procession of mounted men, singing some
tribal hymn.
Midway between camp and lake, stood a tall post, whence dangled a
faggot of sticks, and round it was a circular fence of branches
sloping inward as though to form a dome, not quite roofed over. This
was the Sun's house, completed after four days of ritual preparation,
and now awaiting to-morrow's dedication. Facing its east doorway,
Rain kept the long fast, attended by celebrant priests and sacred
women.
Many Horses unloaded his pack pony, and after making prayer set out a
scrap of looking-glass and an array of face paint, to put on symbolic
colors, with all the gravity of a white man busy shaving. Next he
adorned his war-horse, who showed much pride and joy. Last, he put
on his own ceremonial dress--a quilled and beaded buckskin war-shirt,
embroidered moccasins, leggings fringed with scalp locks, a coronal
of eagle plumes and a painted robe--each with its proper formula of
prayer, as befitting the whole armor of righteousness, which we
Christians have abandoned since it went out of fashion. I helped him
reload the pack horse, and then he passed me riding his war-horse
after the manner of the French _haut Ecole_. No horsemen in the
world rival the plain's Indians in grace, or the Blackfeet in
strength, beauty and majesty of bearing, and Many Horses, noblest of
all the Piegan leaders, looked gravely pleased with his magnificence.
As we rode down the hill, for all my fine cowboy gear, I felt mean
and common, consigned to the lower classes. One would have thought
this gallant and not myself had come to challenge the nation as
Rain's champion.
My reception at the chief's lodge was an affair of long and gracious
procedure, which I marred by chewing a dried cow-tongue, and finally
spoiled by going off to sleep with the meat in my mouth, and rude
growls when disturbed. While still I slept, More Bears, the
dignified public crier, drummed his round of the camp with my
challenge.
"Listen, all people, to the words of Charging Buffalo, adopted son of
Medicine Robe, brother of Many Horses.
"Who says I slept with Rain? Who says the sacred woman is unclean?
Let him meet me in single combat to the death, or wash his mouth and
keep himself free from slander.
"Does Tail-Feathers wish to prove his woman a harlot? Let him come
to the meadows at sundown and make his words good, or hold his peace
forever!"
When the sun was nearing the World-Spine, Medicine Robe made me wake
up for coffee, dog tired, stiff and famished, feeling the sick
reluctance toward life of some client in a dentist's anteroom, or
prisoner given a nice breakfast prior to execution. Presently, I was
to be taken out and shot by Tail-Feathers, champion rifle-shot of the
Blackfoot nation. I wished I were somebody else, anybody anywhere
else, yet managed to conjure up a pale and dismal grin when Many
Horses arrived, leading his painted war-horse and bearing his
splendid war-dress as gifts for his white brother. In return, I gave
my cowboy kit and the three ponies, quite sure I would not need them
any more. Then I sat cross-legged, forcing myself with sick distaste
to eat, while I made lamentable jests to shock my squinting brother.
Many Horses had just seen Tail-Feathers in a frightful passion,
showing the people how he could shoot at full gallop using his
carbine with one hand like a pistol. Kinsmen were rallying to his
support, whole clans were painting themselves for war, the duel might
well be prelude to a battle, and the whole outlook was extremely
black.
"Don't cheer me up any more," said I, thrusting the food away. My
shoulder ached where Tail-Feathers, with a very long shot, had
creased my hide only a year ago.
The Piegan chiefs drifted in, each leaving his horse at the lodge
door, to join the solemn gathering and profound misgivings, while I
twiddled my small revolver, and showed them the tiny pellets with
which I proposed to fight. Flat Tail wanted to lend me a roer, a
young cannon warranted at five feet to split a grizzly bear. Iron
Shirt, the sarcastic, told me I'd best clear out. Medicine Robe
proposed that each chief rally his clan for a display of overwhelming
force, lest there be civil war. But I explained that little
medicine-irons like my small revolver had all the fierceness of the
biggest cannon full of compressed ferocity, the same as with small
dogs. I sent a boy with one of my cartridges as a gift to
Tail-Feathers who, seeing its smallness, would not run away. That
set the chiefs to laughing, and I went on chaffing until I had them
happy. The honor of the outfit was in my keeping, the honor of the
flag, the honor of my race. I pity cowards who daily undergo such
fears as I had then, and suffer the throes of death without gaining
death's release.
Five months of daily practise at the cost for ammunition of nearly
all my pay had proved to me the virtue of my little killing gun up to
three hundred yards. For small targets it outranged my opponent's
carbine. Besides, I had filed a cross on the head of each bullet to
make it spread like a mushroom, large enough to put a bear out of
action. That is against the rules of war, so let the critic judge me
who has faced the odds himself, and with his lone gun challenged the
champion of a savage tribe in face of all his kinsmen.
Nothing had I to say about the range of my weapon, and as to my
practise, it was not wise to brag. Only by striking awe into the
hearts of the Blackfoot nation could I save the woman they had sworn
to sacrifice.
The chiefs were busy helping me to dress, chanting the prayers which
go with sacred garments, and with a strange thrill, I felt that these
men loved me. They roused within me the knighthood of my fathers,
that ancient chivalry which inspired men to fight for the honor of
ladies.
And now I remembered my spiritual ancestor, the knight of the
sorrowful countenance, el Señor Don Quixote de la Mancha. I laughed
with triumph as the chiefs fell back when I stood robed and armed.
Then I breathed the Ave in prayer to Our Lady, the great Queen of
Heaven, whom I served, defending Her woman, Rain.
The chiefs formed my mounted escort as we rode through the camp, then
past the Medicine Lodge, and that small booth where little Rain sat
praying. The big empty meadow was before us now, and here on our
right were all the people massed upon a hillside, the women and
children like great beds of flowers, the men in clusters, mounted,
their war-plumes at large upon the breeze. On our left, a solemn
grove of trees in autumn gold curved with the blue lake into a haze
of purple against the mighty cliffs and snow-fields of Mount Rising
Wolf poised like a cloud in the windswept blue of heaven. Ahead, the
low sun filled the meadow with a dust of light.
Then came a sudden impassioned roar of warning from the people, the
chiefs behind me stampeded to either side clear of the line of fire,
and out of the gold haze swept a rolling globe of dust. Then there
was silence, save that the dust globe scattered, revealing the
earth-devouring rush of a charging horse.
When danger comes at full gallop, there is no time for fear. The
brain works at lightning speed, the exalted senses live an hour
within each flying second. To shoot from the saddle? But would this
horse I rode stand fire! To gallop for position broadside to that
glare? Why make myself a target! To dismount, for cover and steady
aim behind the horse? Most certainly. The turf was quivering.
Can't see the man! Only fluttering plumes above the dust. Can't see
his horse--but only that blur of black. Point the forefinger along
the barrel, closing the hand. _One!_
Tail-Feathers fired also. His bullet whirred quite close.
Point, closing the hand--Two! Again--_Three!_
Down went the Indian's horse with a shattered shoulder, while the man
came sailing on a long curve through the air, head down--smashing to
earth on the nape of his neck--while the dust rolled away. There he
lay black against the glare, head twisted horribly aside, legs
twitching--stark now in the rigor of death.
I swung to the saddle and pricked gently forward, gun covering my
enemy lest he show signs of life. The palms of my hands were
sweating, my body all a-tremble, heart jumping, brain reeling, in a
great roar of voices. Why were the chiefs yelling as they closed
round me? Like a hurricane, the Piegan warriors, thousands strong,
came charging at me, firing at me, swirling round me with uproar,
like tumbling waters--distant waters--the rush of some far-away
rapids--or rain at night When my head cleared, the head chief, in a
blaze of passion, was roaring at the mob: "Silence! Fall back! Who
fights my son, fights me!
"Silence! Silence! Hear me! That liar defamed his woman, fouled
his own lodge, slandered the holy servant of the Sun, insulted
God--and died!
"You saw him die--not in fair fight, but trying to steal an advantage
over my son, who fought with the glare in his eyes.
"Are there any more liars here to slander our sacred woman? One at a
time--come, liars! My son and I and all your chiefs, are ready to do
battle.
"You, Thunder-Brooding, will you dare to fight me? You helped raise
the slander. Fight, or take your shame back to your lodge, you
dog-faced cur. Get home!"
The crowd was breaking, sullen, cursing me for a Stone-heart,
muttering at their chiefs, while the mother and sisters of
Tail-Feathers began to wail for their dead, appealing for vengeance.
"My son," said the big chief tenderly, "the anger of the people turns
on you, and my young men are very hard to hold. We chiefs will be
your escort until we get you safe out of this crowd, and your
brother, Many Horses, will ride with you to Fort French."
I was not allowed to see the sacred woman.
VIII
There was the Union Jack ablaze up in the sunshine above the gray
stockade. The bugler was sounding "Evening stables"; the duty men
would assemble, number off, number by fours, march to the stables,
break, and tend the horses. It was all exactly as usual, the
commonplace of life, the old routine, the dear familiar duty, the
knowledge of days to come shaped in the very pattern of days
past--even if one dropped in from another world. Attended by Many
Horses, I rode in past the guard.
Eleven poor devils were on parade in the brown canvas fatigue dress,
with brushes and curry combs. The orderly corporal was calling the
names, he and the sergeant-major in scarlet undress uniform, the fat
Inspector Bultitude in black undress, with a saber. I tumbled off my
horse and leaned against him reeling, then braced myself to attention
and saluted--the back of my hand touching the great rustling coronal
of eagle plumes, as I faced that staring, grinning and convulsed
parade.
"Come, sir," I reported, "to give myself up."
"Drunk!" Bultitude burbled at me. "Bur-r-r! Disgrace! Take that
bur-r-r--man to the guard-room, shove him bur-r-r--Cells."
"Consider yourself," said the corporal, taking me by the arm.
The air was all gray fog, and the corporal's voice was very far away.
"Come, chuck a brace! Stand up, man." The ride of two hundred and
twenty miles within two days had overtaxed my strength.
The gray fog went back, against the walls of old Wormy's
drawing-room, and the hospital sergeant said I was all right. He
gave me more brandy, and I sat up quite well.
The superintendent commanding stood with his back to the stove, and
Beef, our interpreter, was questioning Many Horses. My Indian
brother spoke, at first with a shy dignity, then with warmth, as he
told how I had saved Rain's life, and lastly with power, as he strung
wild flowers of native rhetoric pronouncing a message from his chief.
When he forgot his lines, I prompted him in whispers.
"From snake-tongued agents, land thieves, and Colonel Baker we turn
in our despair to the white North. We know that the fires of the
north men--(the northern lights) can never give us warmth, but only
portend the storm. Yet we put up our hands to that glow and feel
some comfort from men who never lie. The world is very dark for
Indian people. To show our hearts toward the mounted police, we send
your warrior back as our adopted son, with the name, the dress, the
rank of a Blackfoot chief."
You know how a horse has a child's brain with a saint's character.
My Indian brother was like that, with intellect enough to run an
errand, and majesty of character that made him seem more than human.
He spoke for a conquered and dying people, who yet were a master race
more spiritual than ours. Perhaps, in the life to come, we may be
their servants.
Wormy shook hands with the envoy and gave back a hearty message to
his brother chief, then sent off Many Horses to receive the
hospitality of the fort.
The old man sat down, glaring at me, for we were now alone.
"You begin," he said, in his native French patois, "by burning my
coal wagon, you make of my fort a matrimonial scandal, you steal
Monsieur Sarde's egg-box, you explode my parrot, you call me Wormy
behind my back, you rogue, you write that impudent letter, and break
barracks, you mix with those savages to bring disgrace on the force,
you run away to kill an American Indian and embroil me in an
international row with those infernal states, and then you come back
dressed as an Indian chief to turn my troop upside down, looking so
damned innocent!"
I tried to look like an orthodox police constable in a scrape.
"Please, sir," said I in French, "I gave you my word I'd be good for
six months, and I've been too frightfully good. The time was up,
sir, on Monday."
"But my parrot?"
"I thrashed the man who did that."
"Who?"
"Dunno, sir."
"I see. You can not betray a comrade. Still, I should like to know.
It was so mean."
"You'll know, sir. He'll be the first deserter. We're driving him
out of the force."
"My boys don't hate me, then?"
I couldn't answer. He had brought up tears which I had to swallow,
for we loved him.
Then he tried English. "Tink yourself, boy. _Le bon Dieu_. He send
my wife no child, an' ze pay--not too moch for buy tings at Hodsonbay
Compagnie, so? We haf not the life of luxury. Vot haf we but zee
troop, an' my leetle 'orses, eh? So you call me Wormy."
"English for Fourmet, sir."
"So!"
"Men, sir, without nicknames don't count. They're not worth counting
when there's trouble coming."
"They call you Blackguard."
I grinned.
"Then," he flashed round at me, "why you behave lak dam' baby, eh?"
And I flashed back, "Were you never young?"
The grizzled superintendent blushed with pleasure. "I took on," he
said, "as constable--Regimental Number Six, the Constable Fourmet.
But, my boy, I try. So you? Pooh! You burn my fort next! So you
go to headquarters."
"Oh, not that, sir!" I pleaded. "Can't you punish me here?" For I
thought of Rain.
"And I shall miss you," he sighed. "_Je suis Canadien_. I, too, was
le beau seigneur. So I lak not to loose a gentilhomme from my troop.
"Now you call me old fool, eh? Go ron away--change you your clothes.
_Vite_! An' to-morrow you report at orderly room to take your
medicine."
So we shook hands, and for once in my wicked life I shed tears of
remorse.
I had sinned against the discipline of the force, attacking the
foundations of the public safety.
I had disturbed the serenity of the Blackfoot nation, the most
formidable savages on earth, at a time when our weak settlements lay
at their mercy.
While in the Canadian service, I had killed a subject of the United
States, and nations have been embroiled in war by trifles less than
that.
It was Superintendent Fourmet's duty to expel me from the service,
and deport me from the country.
Oh, well for me if he had done his duty. With Rain my wife, we might
have lived in honor, helping to save a dying people before it was too
late.
I am an aristocrat for the same reason that a wolf is a wolf, and
hold equality to be an illusion of the uncouth. And as a wolf will
mate with wolf, Rain was my natural partner.
But we were held apart by an unnatural convention, that horrible
fetish respectability, god of the Anglo-Saxons, enemy of Christ,
forever forging chains for free and liberal spirits, parting honest
lovers, selling virgins in marriage to beasts, and vending clean men
to most unholy women. The temple is profaned by all who buy and sell
their bodies in wedlock or without, but most of all by the
respectable, who bind us with chains most grievous to be borne, and
where Christ gave us the one commandment--Love, dare to forbid the
banns.