THE TRANSLATION
From the spring and early-summer buffalo hunt, the robes were not all
dressed before the Moon of Berries, when the tribes moved into the
lee of the World Spine, to set their villages in river meadows
between the lakes and the timber. The harvest of the wild fruit, the
cutting of new lodge poles to replace those worn short upon the
trails, and the rituals of the Medicine Lodge, filled the shortening
days until the aspen leaves were all a quivering gold, and the frosty
evenings were given to feasts or dancing. At that season the Crow
cleaned out the Blackfeet and the Bloods, taking their robes to Fort
Benton, then with five wagons came to the Piegans.
He reached the Piegan village at sunset after a long day's march,
beset on his arrival by the men of the tribe who brought robes
demanding drinks. One keg of liquor he gave to the Council Lodge,
disposing for that night of the tribal government; but the Crow knew
nothing of the Blackfoot language, was deaf to all entreaties of the
warriors for trade or drinks. He sat on a rocking-chair within the
leading wagon, behind the tailboard which was iron-sheathed serving
him as a breastwork. "Greeting, my brothers," he said in the hand
talk. "Far have I traveled, who am old and fat. To-night my women
pitch my tipi, my men make a fort of our wagons, I smoke my pipe,
taking my rest. When the sun rises, trade begins. Send me my friend
Heap-of-dogs."
Knowing well that the Crow would not be moved from his word, the
people went to their tipis.
Presently Heap-of-dogs rode up to the wagontail, a very gallant
figure painted and dressed for war with a coronal of eagle pinions
which streamed from brow to heels. He was leader of the Crazy Dog
Society, or as we should say Chief of Police, and the Crow's devoted
slave while there was hope of a drink. Some of his warriors attended
him on foot.
"How!" said the Crow, lifting his right-hand palm forward, fingers
closed, the peace sign. Then as his rocking-chair swayed gently back
and forth: "Send your Crazy Dog warriors," he continued in the hand
talk. "Tell them to bid their squaws move camp and come here to
protect my trade. You'll mount a guard as usual."
Rain's brother gave his orders, and while his people departed he
played his horse as a virtuoso plays a violin through graceful
movements, those of a slow dance. "Now," he said in the hand talk,
"we are alone. A drink!"
Just so much. The trader measured liquor enough to loosen the young
chief's tongue, not one drop more. "Here's happiness," he said,
passing the mug; then took a dram of rum himself with kick enough in
it to set his own wits to an edge.
"Now me good Indian," said Heap-of-dogs happily, for when his tongue
was loosened, shyness fled, and he knew a few English phrases learned
from Storm. "Now I have news."
Black skin and Indian dress belied the Crow, who had the face, the
expression, even the characteristic gestures of the modern business
American, statesman, financier, or manufacturer, large-minded,
lightning-swift of thought, niggard of slow words which bit like
acid, straight to the point, and shrewdly humorous of judgment.
"News of Rising Wolf?" he prompted.
"He came alive again," said the Indian merrily, "for the warpath
against you, Big Chief, to take away your trade."
"He rode to the Hudson's Bay House?"
"No. To my sister Rain at the sacred lodge."
"Who set the Absaroka at me. Well?"
"I told you before," said Heap-of-dogs, "of my sister's man, the
white man, the prophet, Storm. My sister is holy, but he has the
white man's cunning. And Rising Wolf is wise. They come. They say
their God shall drive you from our villages!"
The Crow knew better. "See, my son," he said. "Their God lives a
long way off. I carry mine in this wagon. Which is the
strongest--an enemy nation beyond the World Spine yonder, or the
enemy warrior in your camp, knife in his teeth, creeping under the
lodge skin, feeling the heave of your bed robe, finding the way for
the heart? Such is my god; but theirs----" He chuckled softly, and
Heap-of-dogs passaged his horse to and fro, played by the liquor.
"Where are they?" asked the trader.
"One hour up the pass, camped to cut out new lodge poles, and to hew
a cross like they have at the holy place. They're going to set up
that cross in front of your wagon. They make strong medicine to
drive you away. I supped with them so I'm hungry, and thirsty. Big
Chief, I love your god."
"You shall pray to him when you've told the news--you're keeping from
me."
"Rising Wolf is burning the trail to fetch his friends from the Blood
and the Blackfoot camps. He says my sister will need guards--as if,"
he added haughtily, "my men were not enough."
"Faithful brother! You shall pray now," said the Crow, "just a short
prayer." He handed a second drink across the tailboard, then as he
watched the mounted man lift the mug to his lips, "when do your
sister and her husband come to this camp?"
"Before the sun."
"You must keep sober to protect your sister. There are bad Indians
about."
"But I want to get drunk!"
"Yes, afterwards. Not now."
"Oh, but my Crazy Dogs will keep Rain safe. They'll scalp the man
who lays a hand on my sister."
"See that they're sober, then."
"You don't want to hurt my sister?"
"Far from it. I want to save her."
"Save her from what?"
The Crow's eyes gleamed in the dusk under the wagon cover.
"From a fool husband," he answered.
"Oh, that's all right," cried Heap-of-dogs. "But I get his scalp. I
want his scalp on my belt. Best scalp in the world. Say it's for
me."
"When I have finished with him, not before."
"And you'll save my sister?"
"I'll make her wife of a big chief."
"What chief?"
"Am I not a big chief?"
"But if you get my sister for your wife, what sort of present do you
make to me?"
"It's worth a hundred ponies to you."
"Huh! I can steal your ponies any day. And besides, what do you do
when you break my heart with the killing of my poor brother, Storm?"
"See here, young fellow. You keep sober, and I'll see your braves
get none. And you obey my orders until, say, sundown to-morrow.
When I've finished with Storm, you get his beautiful yellow scalp you
talked about so much. You get me for your brother. Do you see what
that means? First, I give you, my brother, a keg for you and your
braves to dance the scalp with. You shall be so drunk to-morrow
night that you'll fall up off the ground. You shall be dead drunk
every night for one moon, and after that I'll teach my brother the
way I pray to my god all the time just a little. Why, it's ten years
since I've been properly sober, and all the time my god makes me
richer and richer with wagons, horses, scarlet cloth, axes, beautiful
guns. My god shall make my brother as rich as that! And you'll
never be sober again. Think of it!"
The trader sighed. "If it were only true!" he thought. "It gives
one quite a glow. The Devil, if there is any such person, must enjoy
a bit of philanthropy. It makes one feel so good."
The Indian felt the blood race in his arteries, the whirling joy.
Clearer vision, a new worldly wisdom, made him see the folly of
Rain's mission to the tribes. "She doesn't know what's good for
her," he thought. "She needs me to handle her affairs, and make her
the Big Chief's wife. Then she can run him, as he runs the Nations."
Then came insurgent memories of Rain's camp, and the meager supper,
of Storm hewing notches in the two logs, so that they would fit, one
athwart the other, to make a cross. "Like the logs notched at the
corners of a cabin." Storm dreaded the preaching. "I'd much
rather," he had confessed, "trust all to the mysterious power of the
cross, which burns away all evils, triumphs over enemies, conquers
Death himself. Death is not."
"That must be nonsense, but still----"
The young chief was riding his horse in circles through the dusk,
teaching a new dance movement of exceeding grace. The Crow thought
he had never in all his life seen anything quite so beautiful.
"I want," said Heap-of-dogs, "another prayer to clear my head."
"When it's earned," answered the trader.
"Suppose I fetch Storm's hair, will you give me a drink?"
"If you lay your hands on Storm's hair before I give you orders, my
Devil shall tear your entrails out, very slowly, and wind them round
a tree."
"But I want a drink! Give me a drink!"
The Indian had drawn an ax from the saddle and passaged his horse
against the tailboard to get near enough for the blow.
"Seems you want a pill," answered the trader, pressing the muzzle of
his rifle against the Indian's ribs.
Then Heap-of-dogs felt for the first time that hypnosis whereby the
Crow's eyes compelled him to obey, to the strict letter of his
orders. "All right," he muttered sulkily, drawing off.
At that moment another horseman came surging down upon them, shaking
the turf with his rush, yelling exultant war whoops, as he charged
between the Indian and the wagon. He pulled the horse on his
haunches, with forefeet sliding forward.
"That you, Hiram Kant?" asked the trader, peering out of the darkness
into the dusk, where he saw the American trapper, once known to the
Indians as Hunt-the-girls, but now called No-man, friend of Rain and
Storm.
"That's your little prairie chicken! Look a-here, Crow, I got a
whole pack of beaver pelts in camp here. See? I've come for a
fortnight's drunk. Me and my hoss has our tongues out. Quick, gimme
a drink!"
For years had No-man boasted to his friends.
"Turn your pony loose, and come up into the wagon," answered the
trader. "Meanwhile, here's a tot. Heap-of-dogs," he called out in
English, "see this? Want to watch the white man getting drunk with
me?"
Rain's brother rode off into the gloaming to carry out his orders,
and to make his fortune.
* * * * * * *
Pale golden light revealed the sky line of the Great Plains to
eastward, dreaming mountains awakened as the first grayness of the
daybreak outlined their sheer scarps, their level snow fields. The
hoarfrost of the meadow began to be veiled by the dawn mist and
Heap-of-dogs sober, gloomy, resolute, rode out to meet his sister.
She walked by her saddle pony, who trailed the new set of lodge
poles, eight on either flank. Storm led his horse, which carried the
two logs of the cross. The other ponies followed, stopping to get a
bite of the sere brown bunch grass, then trotting a few paces to
catch up with the leaders.
"Everything ready?" asked Storm, as his brother-in-law gave the peace
sign by way of greeting.
"All," answered Heap-of-dogs, bending down from the saddle to caress
the white man's hair. His hands and his feet were small and
delicate, his touch like that of a woman. "My warriors," he added,
"were too proud to dig the hole for the cross, but the women did
that, and made the wedges."
"Just as I told you?" asked Rain--"opposite the Crow's trading wagon?"
"Three horse-lengths distant. I left space for your lodge between
the Crazy Dogs' tipis, where we can guard you best. No-man came last
night to visit the Crow. He's lying dead drunk under the trade
wagon."
"Oh, I'm so sorry for him, so sorry," said Rain. "I couldn't find
him in my dream. Brother, I couldn't find anybody. Ever since we
left our home both Storm and I have been so lonely on our
dream-trails. We can't find Catherine, or my mother. We pray for
Hiawatha, but he does not come. All the dear Spirits have left us."
"Then the Crow's medicine," said her brother, "must be very powerful.
You'd better turn back."
Not even Storm knew this woman so well as he did. She pressed on,
resolute across the pasture and through the pony herd, which had
started grazing. Before her she saw the village of her people, that
far-flung ellipse of tipis, like the rim of a wheel dark yonder
against the orange glow on the sky line. Plumes of blue smoke began
to rise from the lodges, as the small group drew abreast, closing the
southern edge of the camp. Not since her childhood had Rain in her
waking life seen the beloved and familiar things of a Blackfoot
village; rows of painted "dusty stars" which adorn the base of the
lodge skin, representing puffballs; tripods beside the tipis which
carry the bundle containing sacred things, or a brave's war dress;
travois, the cart with trailing poles instead of wheels on which the
very old folk, the babies, and little puppies ride with the marching
tribe; rag dolls or blunt arrows lost by the children at play. The
childless wife went on with an aching heart, while her brother rode
ahead, curbing his restive charger to a foot pace, his magnificent
war dress in black silhouette against the orange daybreak, the little
ruby cloud-flecks. Storm followed her, his pony staggering under the
heavy beams of the cross. The woman's heart was crying for the
everyday things, the home life, the babies, the gossip, the dancing,
the wholesome world which she could never know. Her man went towards
the light through a peace which is not of this world. And so they
came before the village was as yet astir, to the trader's fort of
wagons, the tipis of the tribal police on guard, the hole in the
ground with the wedges for stepping the holy cross. The warriors of
the Crazy Dog band stood at their lodge doors grinning. Not one of
them greeted the holy woman, though two or three in years gone by had
come to her as pilgrims, and been helped.
It is a very shameful thing for a warrior to aid in woman's work,
such as the unlading of the pack beasts, or the setting-up of a tipi;
but Storm carried no weapons, nor did he claim to be anything except
his Master's servant. Still, he felt degraded under the eyes of the
Crazy Dogs as he helped Rain. He made the rawhide lashing which
bound the four key poles of the lodge, whose butts made the corners
of a square upon the ground, while their four shafts described the
outline of a pyramid, and their heads keyed one with another so that
no gale would dislodge them. The other twelve poles, resting against
these crotches, turned the pyramid into a cone, and their butts
completed the square on the ground into a circle. Next, the heavy
skin of the lodge was hoisted by aid of the vane pole, wrapped about
the cone and fastened above the door hole with wooden pins. In all
this, and the remainder of the work, Storm, having but little
practice, was very clumsy, and put to shame because Rain chided, and
the Crazy Dogs were shouting rude remarks.
Rain's brother had awakened the Crow, who got out of his blankets to
give the man a pint of trade liquor, then a tot of rum to quicken its
action. A few at a time the Crazy Dogs were brought to the
wagon-tail for the same treatment, making them all mad drunk within
the first few minutes. The trader mixed a still more powerful drink
for himself, which seemed to have no effect.
The priestess and her man saw nothing of all this, for they were busy
unloading the other ponies, whose cargo they carried into the lodge.
They scarcely noticed that they were now encircled by a ring of
hilarious Indians who watched their work and jeered. The pony who
had the two great timbers was led near the mortise hole directly in
front of the trading wagon, distant some few paces. There Storm cast
off the lashings, letting the timbers crash to the ground. He and
his wife lifted the ends of the shorter beam until its notch was
lowered athwart the notch in the longer piece of timber. Storm, with
wet rawhide, made the seamanlike lashing which bound the two together
into a cross.
He did this kneeling, while Rain stood for a moment to see how the
lashing was made, which when dry would hold if even the solid log was
broken.
"It is good," said Rain, just to please him, as men are always hungry
for a word of praise.
"I'm still," he answered complacently, "more sailor than medicine
man."
At that moment both were seized from behind, and pinioned by the
elbows. Taken completely aback, the priestess found Heap-of-dogs
giving directions for her removal; but somehow in these last few
minutes her brother had changed, seemed like a different man, no
longer morose or silent, but showing white flash of teeth, glitter of
bright eyes, glow of ruddy health, a strange aloofness and remoteness
as though he did not know her, as though they had never met.
The Crow was standing beside Heap-of-dogs nudging him with an elbow,
leering at her as No-man had leered once. "Not so bad, eh? Needs
feeding up a bit. Well, take her to my tipi."
The words were English, the gestures those of the sign talk, but the
look and the smile told everything, laid bare the fathomless
treachery of her betrayal. Her brother had sold her to this beast.
The guiding spirits had deserted her. God had abandoned her. There
was no hope in earth, or any heaven or hell, but only this horror.
She opened her mouth to scream. Then pride rescued her. She was not
here to amuse her enemies, or to shame her man, or to abandon him as
God had abandoned her; but to be loyal as Love, to be strong as
Death, giving Storm heart and courage who needed her so sorely when
he was in trouble, when he was in danger. "Courage!" she called to
him. "Courage, Warrior!"
Indeed she had to shout, so great already was the clamor growing up
about them. A crowd was gathering rapidly, and the camp police were
just drunk enough to ply their clubs at random, while they lacked the
numbers needed to keep the ground clear. The bartenders at the wagon
were taking on special police, each of them pledged with a pint to
keep the crowd off.
Yet while the riot grew, the vortex round which it swirled seemed to
become so quiet, that presently Rain heard quite clearly the low
voice of the Crow as he spoke to Storm. By main force, she wrung her
captor half round until she could face the scene.
The Crow was speaking quite amiably, and by his gestures in the sign
talk Rain understood him where his English failed her.
"Well, Storm," he said, "I hear you've come to preach against my god."
"I have."
"Going to put up your shingle in front of my wagons?"
"I am."
"Waal, I've got along of a quarter million dollars to back John
Barleycorn, my god with, agin your God."
Storm looked him in the eyes, and laughed. "Well?"
"White man, I ain't exactly partial to your tribe, your bleached,
washed-out white men. I," he said this proudly, "am of the black. I
been insulted too much and too often to be fond of you-all--much.
Still, I'm not a bad sort of fellow, I'm a bit of a sport, kinder
warm-hearted enough, anyways, to give your God a sporting chance agin
John Barleycorn."
"Well?"
"What is it that saves our souls, young feller, the cross, or the man
on the cross?"
"The God on the cross."
"Well, I ain't got your God handy, so a man on the cross is as far as
I'm prepared to go. I'm putting up a handicap in favor of your side.
That's what I calls a sporting proposition. Now, isn't it?"
"I am no judge," Storm answered, and the trader chuckled. His manner
was friendly, almost confiding.
He carried in his hands and clanked together four spikes such as are
used to pin the rails down to the ties or sleepers on an American
railroad. They had served in his camp for tent pegs--a sign of
riches that, and many had been the attempts to steal such treasures.
"These here spikes," he said, "is to nail you good and hard to this
cross. Then I'll turn my god loose, and you can do the same. You
and your woman here can preach all you've a mind to. Only, I stake
my life and a quarter of a million dollars that your God's dead."
It was then that Rain grasped his meaning, and screamed again and
again for mercy, offering her body as her husband's ransom.
But the sacred woman's appeal had stirred the dying embers of her
brother's manhood. Heap-of-dogs took station in front of Rain,
blustering, pot-valiantly defiant, offering battle to the Crow or
anybody who should dare to touch her.
At a sign from the trader, one of his bartenders poured two or three
drops of a drug into a pint of fire water, then brought it running to
Heap-of-dogs, who swallowed the whole at a draught. Afterwards he
stood rocking backwards and forwards, wondering who it was he wanted
to kill, babbling invitations to anybody who would like to have a
battle.
The Crow knew well that at any moment some friend of the sacred woman
might cry a rescue, and short shrift would he get if the chiefs of
the tribe awakened from their debauch before he could show them the
accomplished fact. If he would live he must carry his audience with
him, so now in the sign talk he explained to the crowd how much he
admired their sacred woman, what a killing he and her brother would
make if anybody dared molest her, how he proposed most honorably to
make Rain his wife, so soon as he had freed her from a swindling
charlatan and his bogus God. Meanwhile, in the greatness of his
heart, the Crow, for this day's trading only, gave away a little
glass, a chaser of rum, with every pint of fire water. He was
perfectly sure that prime robes would be forthcoming to meet so great
a business opportunity.
One may realize that when the blood ebbed out of Storm's face, lean
from ten years of self-denial and frequent fasting, his ivory pallor
and the bluish shadows would emphasize the deep-cut lines of age, of
rigid character, the high austere and saintly beauty of him, the
blaze of power in his fierce blue eyes.
"Be quick," he shouted in Blackfoot to the Crow. "You talk too much,
and do too little--frightened of my God! You"--he turned to the man
who held him pinioned--"how can I lie down on this bed of timber
unless you loose my arms? Loose me, you fool, that I may kiss my
woman, and take my place there, ready."
In sheer surprise the Indian loosed him, and standing free, Storm
ordered the Crow, as a master to his servant, "Go and get a sledge
hammer. The spikes," he said, "are useless unless you can drive
them." He took Rain in his arms. "We are not cowards," he
whispered. "Death is nothing to us, who have died so many times--and
live forever. You taught me to be brave."
"Kill me," she whispered, when he kissed her. "You have your knife
still. Save me from the Beast! I'm frightened! Save me!"
"Where is your faith!" he answered. "Our God shall deliver both of
us. Trust Him!"
With that he whipped the knife out of his belt and brandished it,
shouting to all the Indians. "Witness! The Crow stood at my mercy,
but I have not stabbed him. God shall judge, not I!"
He flung his knife away.
Storm lay down upon the cross, his arms extended, his eyes looking up
at her face, a smile upon his lips. The death song died in Rain's
throat.
"We shall meet," he said, "in the Great Dream presently. Be brave."
"I do begin to see," she said, "there is a God! Look, Storm"--she
pointed to the trader--"below his belt, see inside of him, that dim,
gray, great Thing clutching--clutching. See"--she clutched in the
air with her hands--"like that. What is it?"
Storm lifted his head from the cross and turned to look. "Crow," he
said, "my wife and I can both see the most awful slow death inside
you. Within three weeks you shall answer for all you have done, for
every crime, for every evil thought. We pity you. From the very
bottom of our hearts we both forgive you."
The Crow had turned livid, attempting to laugh while his mouth went
dry. His black hand clutched his throat as he spoke in a hoarse
whisper, struggling to get his voice back. "What if I let you off?
Here--take one drink to show these men you're beaten--you and your
woman--free!"
The place was reeking with heavy fumes of liquor. The astral air,
the living atmosphere of all emotion, was filled with fierce desire.
Storm was heir to a line of dipsomaniacs, by his very blood born
drunkard, and in his quick health swayed by every lust. No man held
life more dearly. Only the strong love of his mother and of his wife
had tamed the beast passions raging in him, transmuted the wild soul
into still spirit. Now he met the fiercest temptation of his whole
life with triumphant laughter.
"Give me that sledge!" yelled the Crow; then to the Indian who had
arrested Storm, "Hold the spike--damn you!"
"Let me hold the spike," said Storm, taking it from the Indian.
"I'll hold it with my fingers, this way, the point against my palm,
so. Now, drive!"
The Crow let drive.
* * * * * * *
When the cross had been lifted, and its foot wedged in the
mortise-hole, they lashed Rain there, her head against Storm's knees.
"Lean back hard," he said between his teeth; "it takes away half the
pain."
She obeyed, no longer bowed down, but facing the people bravely with
eyes half closed and head thrown back. The sweat from his face
dropped on her hair.
"Now preach!" The Crow was shouting at her. "Preach!" he repeated,
slashing a mug of liquor into her face. "Preach----"
At Rain's feet her brother lay upon his face unconscious, and close
beyond him a ring of men confronted her as they swirled slowly
sideways round the cross in the first movement of the scalp dance,
drunk all of them, and reeling. Behind them were women carrying
buffalo robes which their men traded over the counter to the Crow's
bartender, getting for each a pint, with a dram of rum. Most of
these men were drunk, also the women, laughing, shouting, dancing,
quarreling, or yelling insults or throwing stones at Storm. An
immense crowd of people jostled and swayed, trying to enter the trade
ground and buy liquor or to get a nearer view.
The trader had taunted Rain, calling her vile names, because she
would not preach to amuse his customers. It was no time for
preaching.
The sun had risen, and swung slowly upward into the southern sky,
while still God showed no sign, wrought no vengeance, gave no
deliverance. Only the Crow's god visibly triumphed, for the addition
of rum to the trade liquor sent a man mad drunk for every pint, and
the trader with all three of the bartenders could scarcely cope with
the rush of business. Towards noon that saturnalia had every man in
the tribe, nearly all the women, many of the children, raving mad.
The man on the cross confronted the sun, whose ever-increasing
splendor of light and heat gave him the merciful delirium of pain,
mounting towards its climax. And Rain, bound to the cross with wet
rawhide, felt as the lashings dried shrinking, the slowly growing
agony of swollen wrists and arms, without the man's triumphant faith,
or any hope either from earth or heaven, for still there was no
thunder of Rising Wolf's rescuing horsemen, still no portent, still
no miracle to attest that God reigned, or would avenge.
Yet in the steady growth of her own pain the woman realized at last
the valor of her man. In the stoic fortitude with which he faced the
agonies of slow death, she found a healing pride which comforted her
soul. While he set so great an example, she would be worthy of him,
worthy to be his woman. More than that, she saw in his mysterious
power proof absolute of something superhuman, something inspired,
miraculous, divine.
They twain had been as one flesh, a lamp of the All-Father burning in
the darkness of the earthly mists; but now, as the oil feeds the
flame, her soul sustained his spirit; and that majestic light blazed
visible to the Hells and to the Heavens. To light the way for the
lost, to comfort the spirits in prison, to inspire those who climb
the steeps of purgatory, even to fill the lower heavens with a new
song of praise--that is the glory which is called Martyrdom.
The mists which veil the spirit-realms were thinned and rent asunder;
the heavens, as we see them, were rolled together like a scroll. At
last the priestess realized that she had not been in danger of
outrage or pollution, but given the inestimable glory of the cross.
She knew that her body was dying. She was beyond pain, giving her
strength to Storm, whose body still endured in agony, unable to let
him go.
At last, towards midday, No-man, who had been lying under the
trader's wagon, awake some hours ago with a sick headache, crawled on
his hands and knees into the open, got to his feet by the aid of one
of the wheels, and stood there, clinging to the spokes. Still drunk,
he staggered towards the bar in search of liquor to set him to
rights. In a dim way he realized the pandemonium of raving savages
as he shouldered his way among them. They greeted him, hilarious,
eagerly pointing out the cross, and his friend, to whom he came
bewildered, and stood in front of him swaying upon his feet, rubbing
his eyes to clear them, trying in vain to realize. Then his brain
cleared suddenly, and he stood sober, shouting until Storm heard him,
saw him, spoke to him.
Yet this was not Storm, the seer, who spoke now, not Bill Fright,
bargee and seaman, not even John Rolfe of his last life, or Gaston le
Brut, the crusader, or Harald Christian, slave in Iceland. The
spirit had flashed back to an earlier memory. Once again Storm was a
Northman in the Roman army. He spoke in Latin with a broad Northland
accent, spoke to the squad commander, the Decemvir, the Ten-man.
"Ten-man," said the Martyr, in a low, wailing voice. "Decemvir.
This woman's tears rusted my armor for me. Oh, plead for me! The
Centurion favors thee. Plead for me that I be not scourged, and
dishonored because I do love this woman."
No-man heard only strange words which were spoken in delirium, a
voice which pleaded with him. Rain's eyes, wide, staring, terrible,
seemed to pierce him through--but when he spoke to her she made no
answer. Then came the burning memory of his sin against Rain, her
terrific and deserved vengeance, Storm's forgiveness, the wonderful
friendship of them both which for these latter years had been the one
bright light for him in a maimed life.
Sobered, horrified, and in tears, he groped his way back to the
wagon, where he found and loaded his rifle. It seems to have been a
double-barreled muzzle-loading weapon fired by percussion caps,
casting half-inch slugs, quicker in action than the old-time
flintlocks.
"Thou shalt do no murder!" so the words ran.
"What, then, if I do murder?" thus he reasoned. "I shall be damned
to Hell forever. Well, I'm damned anyway for what I done, so it
don't matter to me. But it matters a lot to them to put an end to
all their pain, and let them loose into Heaven.
"What if I'm killed for doing this?
"Well, it's up to me to die, if I like, for them I loves--the woman I
love, the man I love, the only two people on earth who done much good
to me.
"I'll have to play drunk to these Injuns to get me in point-blank
range, and my hands is none too steady even then. Wish't I could
have just one last drink to steady me. No, better not. I may just
as well die sober--to please them. Here goes."
Some there are among us who have lived sheltered from all temptation
to do wrong and therefore very quick to judge their fellows. To such
the event which followed will appear disgusting drunkenness and
atrocious murder.
Others there are of us who have ourselves been hurled by elemental
passions against raw issues of life or death; and whether we be
believers in Death or whether we be Christians, we shall claim that
there can be no greater deed of love, no higher act of valor.
Reeling, staggering, brandishing his rifle, shouting to the Indians
to come and see the fun, laughing hysterically at the man crucified,
at the woman dying, No-man came in front of the cross, and at
point-blank range with exact and perfect aim shot Storm through the
heart, Rain through the forehead, releasing both of them.
Then he reloaded his weapon to kill the Crow. Already the trader,
roused to action by the hundred-tongued clamor of the event, was
threatening with his pistol from behind the bar, waving to the
Indians to stand clear.
Without the slightest warning he let drive through the white man's
back, breaking the spinal cord.
* * * * * * *
At dusk came Rising Wolf with some few friends from the Piegan tribe,
who followed him in uncertainty, pacing their horses among the people
who lay drunk on the prairie.
The wagon fort, and the village beyond, seemed strangely empty. No
evening smoke went up from the tipis. The usual clamor of those who
called the names of guests bidden to feasting, of the camp crier, of
the dancing, the pony racing, the games, was hushed as though night
had fallen. The boys failed to bring the night horses, which should
be at the lodge doors. Neither were there maids to scurry along the
watering trails, nor lovers to watch them pass. Only dogs prowled
along the skirts of the tipis. Over the meadow hung a sense of
terror, of desolation, and sometimes far away, or sometimes near at
hand, the startling death wail of the mourners cleft a boding silence.
Within the wagon fort the Crow lay, stricken with rending pain; but
it was not for him that his women were wailing. His children also
had contracted smallpox, which now spread from lodge to lodge through
the whole camp, where cry after cry of sharp-edged despair attended
each new discovery of the pestilence.
Rising Wolf buried the bodies of his friends at the foot of the
cross, where, on the blood-stained timber, he carved an inscription
to their memory.
RAIN
STORM
NO-MAN
TOOK THE WOLF TRAIL
MOON OF BERRIES 1846
GLORIA IN
EXCELSIS
DOMINE.
A few days later he showed this to Father de Smet, who came with an
escort of thirty mountaineer warriors to visit the dreaded Blackfeet.
The priest rendered the last office.
Being of one faith, de Smet and Rising Wolf worked together
throughout the plague of 1846, from which the Blackfoot nation has
never rallied. Only a pitiful remnant represents to-day that breed
of savage gentlefolk, the finest horsemen in the modern world. The
Christianity which they see in practice has not converted them, nor
can they still believe in the Sun-god who left them at the mercy of
the Stonehearts.
Hope is dead, and with that is gone the sunny, breezy, happy warrior
spirit; but not the stoic manhood underneath, or the strange
distinctive charm which appeals with greater power than ever to white
men who have hearts.
* * * * * * *
Of the three who went over the Wolf Trail, No-man had died without
being tortured, so he was the first to awaken, not on the earth or in
his earthly body. The flowers attracted his first thoughts, a bush
near by his head of wild briar covered with roses in blossom, some
red, some white. Tall fronds of goldenrod bent over him, and the
whole pasture glowed with big, brown-hearted, orange-petaled
marigolds, up to the edge of the sarvis bushes snowed down with their
sweet blossoms. "Surely," he wondered, "it is the berry moon. Why
are there flowers?"
His deerskin hunting dress had been old, soiled, ragged, most of the
fringes used up for strings or lashings. Now it was brand-new,
perfumed with wood smoke.
He had been sick, but was well, maimed but was made whole, with such
a glow of health, riot of blood, and joy of life, quick heart, live
brain, as he had not known for years.
He had not eaten food since goodness knows when, and yet he felt no
hunger, while all the craving for alcohol was gone. He would never
know hunger again, or any thirst.
Where were the Blackfoot camp, the wagon fort, the cross, Storm
crucified, Rain dying?
There came a little bunch of antelope, grazing, who presently stood
at gaze with all their natural curiosity, none of their quick fear.
He reached for his gun. It was gone. The antelope went on grazing,
not frightened even when he jumped to his feet shouting from sheer
astonishment.
And a voice answered:
"Man-alive!"
There was Nan, his girl, she who had jilted him, she whom Storm had
seen, her fingers stiff with cramp as she sewed shirts, beside a
window, looking out upon the Atlantic sea, crying, and crying for
him. She came across the pasture through the tall flowers, walked
with a healthy stride, swinging a sunbonnet, a nut-brown lass
freckled, dimpled, laughing, shouting to him that greeting out of the
lost years, "Why, man alive!"
He seized her to his breast, and if he did rumple her shirt-waist, he
didn't give a damn, while he verified each dimple with a kiss, and
took the freckles wholesale.
By her prim and downcast virginity, in her fresh crisp beauty, for
every grace, for every charm, for everlasting love, he found a litany
of thanksgivings, and most of all for her forgiveness, for her
tolerance of his misdeeds.
"Your folks," she said at last, "is waiting. They said I'd best come
to fetch you."
"But"--he was puzzled--"what are you doing here in the Injun country?
What's this about the folks?"
"But, Man-alive, this isn't the Injun Country. Why, you're dreaming!"
"Then let me go on dreaming!" answered Man-alive. "And take me to
the folks. Where are we, anyways?"
"In Summerland," she said. "Our town is yonder behind these bushes,
but we must give the people time to get things fixed."
"What things?"
"Why, Man-alive, the flags, the arches, the triumph, a proper
American triumph to welcome a proper American hero! Davy Crockett
himself is going to give the oration, being an ex-Congress man. He
says you died a greater death than his."
"Death?" He laughed. "Dead? Bet you a castor I'm not! I never been
so much alive before."
"What's a castor?"
"A pelt, a beaver pelt, of course!"
"I never heard tell of pelt. Yes, you may have your arm there until
we pass the bushes. Then you must try to act respectable. This
isn't wild west here."
"You say I'm dead."
"Me, too," she answered cheerily. "Thanks be, that's over"--her face
turned grave--"that bad dream we called life. See, here's our
town--the dearest, sweetest place. Listen. It's the Grand Army
band."
"What's that?"
"Grand Army of the Republic, of course. Your dad is trying to start
branches down on earth, only the people are too stupid. He thinks
this Mexican war may wake 'em up a bit. Now take your arm from my
waist, or they'll see."
They saw. A band of the Grand Army of the Republic struck up
"Conquering Hero."
* * * * * * *
Now, of the briar rosebush seen by Man-alive, there is a story, which
was related long ago in the fifteenth-century travels attributed to
Sir John Mandeville. The story runs that after the Crucifixion there
did appear upon the hill of Calvary a briar bush wherein each several
drop of sweat and every tear became a white rose, and all the drops
of blood begat red roses.
Where Ananias was an amateur but the author of these old Travels a
Great Master, one must be modest, but this present writer is aware
that he and his fellow craftsmen break through at times into the
Truth. That rose bush may not very likely have blossomed down on
earth, and yet it might well appear upon the holy site a veritable
thing upon the astral plane, much visited by people in their dreams,
watered by fairies, guarded by the angels. One dreams of such a rose
bush growing thus out of the sweat, the tears, the blood of martyrs
crucified, and sheltering Rain as she lay in Storm's arms asleep
until the third day, the time of resurrection.
Man-alive would see the roses there, but not the astral cross of
lambent flame like carven moonlight, or the luminous figures of the
priestess at rest in the arms of a martyr crucified, or the spirits
Catherine and Thunder Feather, who knelt keeping vigil beside their
children, or their guardian Hiawatha, descended from the middle
Heavens, his glory softened lest its exceeding splendor be unbearable
to people of the mists. He witnessed the meeting of those
long-parted lovers, in a region where hearts are opened and
misunderstandings quite impossible. But he also saw four angels
attendant upon the cross. It was long since human hands had
fashioned a cross like that, claiming a guard of Angels.
Rain awakened, and when she saw her mother, Catherine, Hiawatha, and
the four Angels on guard, her cry of joy roused Storm. He was a
little bewildered at first, supposing himself to be still that Roman
soldier who so long ago had helped to crucify the King of Angels.
Then slowly he realized that he was Storm who had made atonement, who
now bore, on his own hands, feet, and breast the very stigmata, the
wounds whose blood-drops burn and glow as rubies. That is the reason
why on our earth the ruby is more precious than the diamond or any
other stone, being, as it were, the shadow cast by the very holiest,
loveliest, and rarest thing in Heaven.
When they tried to stand up both Storm and Rain were seen to be
suffering from shock, for even the body spiritual is jarred by such a
death as theirs. They could not stand, but at a sign from Hiawatha
knelt before a table which now stood at the foot of the cross. Upon
the table were a Cup and a Dish which cannot be seen except by those
of pure and perfect knighthood, such as Sir Galahad, and Joan of Arc,
for the Chalice is that used at the Last Supper, and the Dish is the
Holy Grail.
Two of the Angels, having performed the rite done in Remembrance,
brought the Grail which contained the broken bread, and the cup of
wine. "Take, eat," said the one. "Drink ye all of this," said the
other.
These two, who had hungered and thirsted, were now fed, so that never
afterwards could they know hunger or thirst, weakness or any pain,
but were immediately filled with more than human strength. Moreover,
so great was the enlargement of their faculties that they could hear
music, of which only a little had been revealed to Handel and Mozart,
Bach and Beethoven; they could see such color as was disclosed to
Turner; forms which Pheideas and Praxiteles tried to model, da Vinci,
Raffaele, and Michelangelo to paint, or Shelley to describe. Yet,
even in the hands of genius, our arts are bankrupt, unable to render
a penny in the pound of the Realities which have inspired them.
Yet, because in the act of writing these passages, I hear with the
inner senses most tremendous music, and see, when I close my eyes,
color ineffably lovely, I feel the assurance that the words may be
true beyond my knowledge. It seems to me that I see the cross
uprooted, and laid down. Then the four Angels hold a laughing
argument as to whether Storm and Rain shall stand as in a chariot or
sit as in a throne, it being decided that they shall do exactly as
they please; while Storm has but one wish, that his arm may enfold
his wife, and she denies him such conduct as that in public. I see
them seated upon the arms of the cross facing its foot, while the
Angels, one at each limb of the glowing timbers, lift it upon their
shoulders.
Those who have been used to seeing pictures of Angels may be reminded
that the wings are symbolic only, of beings whose flight is swifter
than our thought. They need no wings, who flash with the speed of
light upon their journeys.
Those of us who have not read the modern lucid books describing the
planes of being may care for a moment to consider the lilies, which
offer the best analogy we have for understanding the Heavens. The
bulb of the Liliacese, that is, of such plants as the lily, camas,
onion, and hyacinth, consists of many layers or spheres concentrated
round one nucleus. In our planet Earth, the nucleus is the world
visible, which has three layers of subplanes, the land, the sea, and
the air, of different densities, for the water is thicker than the
air, and the rocks more compact than the ocean which rests upon them.
Outside these three layers of the bulb there are others, concentric
spheres of ether, less in their densities, quicker in their
vibrations, too tenuous for perception by our gross animal senses.
Our astral bodies are attuned to the vibrations of the astral
subplanes, which we visit in dreams and dwell in after death. Our
spiritual body, when it grows, is able to inhabit the land, sea, and
air of the lower spirit-plane or heaven spiritual. Beyond are the
heavens celestial, and their outermost layers are those of the
Christ-sphere, an orb enormously transcending the material sun in
size and radiance. In all there are forty-nine, or seven octaves of
subplanes, alluded to in Genesis as that Ladder of Being, on which
the patriarch Jacob saw traffic of ascending and descending Angels.
Imagination, the formation of images in the mind, may have two
separate modes, that of an artist creating forms to which he shall
give expression, and that of the seer who is able to perceive things
which are shown to him. One cannot ever know to what extent one
creates, or in what degree one perceives.
My vision is set down as it occurred with some of the mental comments.
Each of the four Angels bears upon his shoulder a limb of the lambent
cross. On this Storm sits naked as he was crucified, but Rain wears
a robe which has the texture one sees in the petals of an Easter
lily. It is edged with a decoration of pistils and stamens,
sprinkled, made out of dust of light seeming to signify fertility.
Both figures are strongly radiant.
Behind them is Hiawatha, a great figure, august, serene, luminous.
Catherine and Thunder Feather have fallen away, unable to endure the
increasing splendor of the light.
The foreground is of tawny plains, reaching away downward to a sea
deeply blue. Hull down, beyond are far-away white Alps.
This landscape, a province in extent, is, as it were, the arena of an
amphitheater, but the floor of the lowest tier or circle is far above
the summits of the alps. The edge of the tier is not defined like
the frontage or balustrade of a balcony, but vague, as when one looks
up at the floor of a cloud field. It is the margin of a world which
has its plains, seas, hills, ethereal Andes, all glittering etched in
light, with a detail of trees luminous, temples opalescent, and
iridescent palaces. There are innumerable multitudes of people
watching.
It is as though this upper world were (invisibly) continuous
overhead, but only becomes visible towards the horizon.
Above this first tier of the amphitheater there is a second, even a
third, perhaps more. But against even the second tier our sun would
look like a round patch of darkness. And this second tier is like a
shadow cast by the third. The light is utterly beyond human
endurance, yet it proceeds from the spectators, circle on circle,
world above world, populous with an innumerable throng, millions of
millions, either of the redeemed or of the angelic hosts.
A procession should march, but the ever-growing pageant of the cross
advances, not in position, with regard to space but in the splendor
of its tremendous light. Its progress is not even an ascension, but
rather a translation.
And yet there must have been an ascension, a lifting-up into space,
for when at last it moves forward, it is not across the tawny plain
of the arena, but through a garden whose paths, lawns, flowers,
trees, are made of light, not blinding but refreshing to the eyes.
Beyond, in the far distance crowning a plateau of light, there is a
temple--I remember reading about it in many telepathic descriptions
of the heavens--each of whose four porches carries a cupola. The
four porches describe the figure of a cross, and in the midst above,
the drum of the main building is sculptured in deep-cut bas-reliefs.
This drum carries a circular colonnade, from whence the main dome
soars until its ever-changing and prismatic radiance is lost in mist
of light, a cloud of glory.
They who joined the procession of the cross have become a multitude
and they seem to move in silence, with a sense of hushed reverence.
For there is One coming through the garden to meet them. Words are
like the dice which a gambler throws at random, and it is better not
to attempt thoughts which no language can render.
At His coming the four Angels bow down, then lower the cross from
their shoulders, but Storm and Rain are bidden to kneel at His feet
that they may receive His blessing.
If their hearts quake, if their limbs turn to water, all spirits bow
down before Him not in fear, nor in dread, only in homage.
"Be still, and know that I have loved you, and have longed to give
you Life."
THE END