“THUNDER-CLOUD’S” REVELATION.
“Wal, we’re in for it,” said the “Crow-Killer,” philosophically. “But,
if they will only give us time, we may trick ’em yet,” he said.
“Yes, but they will not give us time; they are too afraid of us to
linger in their vengeance.”
“You’re right, Dave; I expect they’ll settle our hash in short order.
Wal, I’ve been fighting the Crows ’bout twenty years now; I’ve shed the
life’s blood of many a Crow chief, and they can only take my life in
return; so the odds are on my side,” said the “Crow-Killer.”
At that moment the old chief, the “Thunder-Cloud,” followed by two
other warriors entered the lodge.
“Take the young brave to the lodge of the ‘Thunder-Cloud.’” The Indians
assisted Dave to rise from the skin-couch upon which he had been placed.
“Let the ‘Crow-Killer’ open his ears and hear the words of the Crow
chief,” continued the old brave.
The two Indians conducted Dave from the lodge, through the village, to
the hut of “Thunder-Cloud.” Just at the entrance, the party was met by
the “White Vulture,” who looked at the warriors in astonishment.
“Who has dared to take the pale-face from the lodge where the ‘White
Vulture’ placed him?” questioned the chief, angrily.
“The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ would talk with the ‘Crow-Killer’ alone,”
responded one of the Indians; “he has a secret to tell the pale-face
that will make the great chief howl like a dog.”
“It is well; the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ is a great chief; let my brothers go
on,” replied the “White Vulture” as he walked away. The Indians placed
Dave in the lodge and left him to solitude and the bitterness of his
own reflections.
The “White Vulture” walked slowly through the village, paused at the
hut wherein was confined the “Crow-Killer”--listened for a moment at
the door, and then as if hearing something to excite his curiosity, he
noiselessly stole round to the back of the lodge, extended himself upon
the ground and listened to the conversation going on within.
After the Indians had departed with Dave, the “Thunder-Cloud” gazed
with a look of curiosity upon the massive form of the great enemy of
his nation--the famous “Crow-Killer”--as he lay extended on the bed of
bear-skins.
The hunter’s face was stoically indifferent as he gazed upon the old
chief.
After a long silence, the old chief stirred up the little fire burning
within the lodge, which threw a glimmering, uncertain light around.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great chief,” said the old warrior, breaking
the silence.
“What does the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ want with the ‘Crow-Killer’?” asked the
guide, speaking in the Crow tongue.
“Many braves of the Crow nation have been sent to the happy
hunting-grounds by the knife and the bullet of the ‘Crow-Killer.’”
“The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ speaks truth,” replied Abe. “I’ve done for enough
Crows to keep the race on short allowance for braves.”
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great warrior; he steals like a snake into
the lodges of the Crows and he overcomes the great chief, the ‘White
Vulture,’ in single fight; the blood of the Crow braves is red upon his
hands; their spirits cry from the white clouds for vengeance. It is
good; the chiefs of the Crows listen; their ears are open, they hear
the wail of their slaughtered brothers; the ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great
chief, he will die before the sun comes over the big river.”
“The chief speaks with a straight tongue; the ‘Crow-Killer’ has done
all that the chief has said; he is a great warrior and the Crows are
dogs that howl and run before him; no Crow chief dares to meet the
‘Crow-Killer’ in single fight. He has slain every Crow warrior that
has faced him. The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ had a brother; that brother, the
‘Rolling Cloud,’ fell by the knife of the ‘Crow-Killer’; he stole
away the singing bird of the Crows, and the ‘Little Star’ sung many
moons in the wigwam of the white chief. The ‘Crow-Killer’ does not
fear death; he is not a dog to howl with fear; he will be tied to the
torture-stake and he will laugh at the Crow warriors that run from him
when he is free and dance around him when he is tied. The Crows are
dogs and the ‘Crow-Killer’ spits upon them!”
The veins upon the forehead of the Indian swelled purple with rage, as
he listened to the taunts of the demon of his race--taunts hurled at
him in his own tongue. At last, the Warrior found his voice:
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ talks big; let him open his ears and the
‘Thunder-Cloud’ will speak words that will make him howl like a dog.
The ‘Crow-Killer’ will not die like a chief at the torture-stake;
he will die here in the wigwam of the Crow--die by the knife of the
‘Thunder-Cloud’; but, before the red chief strikes the pale-face, he
shall listen to words that kill.”
The “Thunder-Cloud” approached nearer to the “Crow-Killer,” and then,
with a glance of deadly hatred, he spoke again:
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ has said that he stole away the ‘Little Star’ and
that she sung many moons in his wigwam by the big river. The white
chief speaks truth. He did steal the singing bird of the Crow nation;
she sung in his lodge, and when the ice in the big river melted, the
‘Little Star’ gave the ‘Crow-Killer’ two young braves. The white chief
was proud of his pappooses, but the Crows had not forgotten the singing
bird, and when the leaves and grass began to die, the ‘Thunder-Cloud’
led the warriors of the Crows to the big river to the lodge of the
‘Crow-Killer’ and took his squaw and his two pappooses. Then they
traveled to the Crow villages, but when all was dark they halted by the
bank of the big river; there the Blackfeet surprised the Crow camp; the
Crow braves fought like the white bear, but the Blackfeet were like the
blades of grass on the prairie and took the ‘Little Star’ and the two
pappooses of the ‘Crow-Killer’; but the blue-coated white braves came
upon the Blackfeet and took their scalps. Then the Blackfeet warriors,
flying with the ‘Little Star’ and the pappooses, were set upon by the
Crow braves, who again took the ‘Little Star’ and the young braves
but, after the fight, one of the pappooses was gone.” The old hunter
started in astonishment.
“Either the Blackfeet braves or the blue-coated whites had taken one
of the pappooses, but the Crows had the ‘Little Star’ and the other
pappoose. They carried them to their lodges by the big mountains.
The ‘Little Star’ would not marry the ‘Rolling Cloud,’ and she was
killed by the Crow nation; but the young pappoose--the pappoose of the
‘Crow-Killer’ and the ‘Little Star’--was reared and made a warrior of
by the Crows. He is now the ‘great fighting-man of the Crow nation.’
Does the ‘Crow-Killer’ understand? the ‘White Vulture’ is his son!
That son, to-night, has given him into the hands of the Crows. The
‘Crow-Killer’ has killed many a young warrior of the Crow nation, but
the red chiefs will be avenged, for the ‘Crow-Killer’ will die and know
that his son is a great Chief of the Crow nation, and that son hates
and will kill the whites. Has my brother heard?”
And the old chief looked down upon the guide with a glance of triumph.
Busy thoughts were in the mind of the ‘Crow-Killer.’ He replied not to
the Crow, and looked at him with an expression of contempt.
“My brother is silent. Have the words of the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ taken away
his tongue? Let the ‘Crow-Killer’ listen again. When the light comes
over the big river, the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ will come back, and the knife
of the Crow chief will drink the blood of the ‘Crow-Killer.’ The chief
has said; it is good.” Saying which, the Indian stalked from the lodge.
In a few minutes Dave was brought back by the two guards, and again
placed within the hut; then the Indians withdrew and laid themselves
down before the door.
The “Crow-Killer” repeated the story of the “Thunder-Cloud” to Dave;
the mystery of the birth of the young guide was all made plain, as well
as the wonderful resemblance between him and the “White Vulture”; they
were brothers!
“Wal, it’s fate,” finally exclaimed Abe; “I don’t rebel ag’in’ it.
I confess, though, I’d like to have a chance to tell the Crows what
I think about ’em afore I die. It kinder makes me feel proud to
think, too, that a son of mine is their great chief. Blood will tell;
the white blood, my blood, has made him what he is--the biggest
fighting-man in all the Crow nation.”
“We have not many hours before us,” said Dave.
“No, our time is ’bout up; the old chief don’t dare to let us die in
public, now that we know this secret. He’ll probably send the Indians
that guard the lodge away on some pretense, an’ then quietly finish us.”
And so we’ll leave the two guides to their reflections and return to
Leona. The poor girl was in despair; she thought to herself that she
alone was to blame for the danger of her lover, for, if it had not been
for her, he would never have come, and would have escaped the certain
death that now awaited him.
“Oh!” she cried, in agony, “why did I ever see him--why should I cost
him his life?”
Some time had passed since the Indians had removed the two guides from
the lodge; she dreaded every moment lest she should hear the sounds
that would announce to her the death of her lover; but, the Indian
village was still as death.
Suddenly the poor girl heard the sound of footsteps approaching the
lodge; ’twas but a single man; the skin of the doorway was presently
pushed aside, and the tall form of the “White Vulture” stood before the
helpless maid. In terror she gazed upon the Indian; by the dim light
of the flickering fire she could distinguish his features, now utterly
divested of paint, and for the first time she noticed the wonderful
resemblance that the Indian chief bore to her lover.
“Why does the Singing Bird weep?” asked the “White Vulture,” in soft
tones, and speaking English plainly, and with a very slight Indian
accent.
“Because I am unhappy,” truthfully answered the maiden.
“Why? No harm shall come to the white squaw.”
Leona shook her head sorrowfully, as if in doubt.
“The wigwam of the ‘White Vulture’ is empty; will not the white bird
come and sing in the lodge of the Crow chief?”
“What, I?” For the first time Leona guessed the fate that was intended
for her, and her heart sunk within her at the very thought.
“Yes, you! The ‘White Vulture’ is a great chief of the Crow nation; he
loves the Singing Bird of the whites; he would take her to his wigwam;
she shall not work like the red squaws: she shall be the Singing Bird
of the greatest chief in the Crow nation. Will the white squaw come?”
“No! no! I can not!” cried Leona, looking pleadingly into the face of
the “White Vulture.”
“The Singing Bird loves another?” asked the “White Vulture,” in his
calm, clear tones.
“Yes,” replied Leona.
“Is the Singing Bird sure that she loves another?” continued the chief.
“Yes, I am sure,” said Leona, wonderingly.
“The white squaw loves the young guide who looks like the red chief,
and is a prisoner in the village of the Crows?”
“Yes,” answered Leona, mournfully but firmly.
“It is good; does the white hunter love the Singing Bird?” said the
chief.
“Yes, loves her as his life.”
“Does the white squaw know that the young hunter will die by the hands
of the Crows before the sun rises over the big river?”
Leona hid her face in her hands, sobbing.
“The Singing Bird says she loves the white hunter; if she loves him,
will she save him from death?”
Leona, through her tears, gazed in astonishment up at the stolid
features of the Indian.
“I save him? How?” she cried.
“The white hunter’s life belongs to the ‘White Vulture.’ If the ‘White
Vulture’ says ‘Go free,’ no warrior in the Crow nation will dare say
‘No.’ If the Singing Bird will promise to come and sing in the lodge of
the ‘White Vulture,’ the white hunter shall return to his people.” And
the Indian bent his full, dark eyes upon her as he spoke.
A few moments Leona hesitated; she could save her lover’s life by
sacrificing her own, for she knew full well that death would soon claim
her as his own should she remain in the wilderness. Her lover had
risked his life and was now to fall a sacrifice in endeavoring to save
her; she could save him, and as she loved him better than she did her
own life, she resolved upon her own sacrifice.
“Set him free and I promise to do whatever you will.”
“The Singing Bird is wise,” responded the “White Vulture,” in the same
calm tone as before; no trace of feeling could be discerned upon his
face. “Let the Singing Bird follow me.”
Then from the Indian lodge went the “White Vulture,” and Leona followed
him.
The chief led the way through the village, which seemed deserted, as
it really was--as all the braves, with the exception of the two who
watched the lodge wherein the whites were confined, were assembled at a
grand council at the upper end of the tillage.
The chief, passing the lodges, reached the little thicket where the
“Crow-Killer” and Dave had captured him a few hours before.
“The Singing Bird will wait for the chief’s return and not stir?”
questioned the “White Vulture.”
“Yes,” replied Leona, now passive in her agony.
“It is good--wait!” responded the chief.
Then the “White Vulture” left the girl, walked back through the
village and halted at the door of the lodge wherein were confined the
two guides. The two braves on watch at the entrance drew off to a
respectful distance as the chief entered the hut.
The two hunters, by the dim light thrown from the fire, could discern
who their visitor was, and they exchanged a glance of meaning as the
elder looked upon his son and the younger hunter upon his brother.
Noiselessly and without a word the “White Vulture” drew his keen-edged
scalping-knife, stepped across the lodge and slit the skins that
formed the back of the lodge so as to make a passage through them;
then passing through, he beckoned the hunters to follow. Their hands
alone were bound; they obeyed the gesture in wonder. The “White
Vulture” cautiously led the way back of the lodges to the outskirts of
the village to the little thicket; there he halted and brought Leona
forth from the wood; with a cry of joy she rushed to her lover’s side,
clinging to him in a passionate frenzy.
“The Singing Bird has saved the life of the white hunter by consenting
to sing in the lodge of the ‘White Vulture.’”
“Never!” cried Dave. “I will not accept life on such conditions!”
The “Crow-Killer” regarded the “White Vulture” with a puzzled look.
Without a word, the Indian chief removed the thongs that bound the arms
of the whites.
“The ‘White Vulture’ is the great fighting-man of the Crow nation; he
has heard the words of the ‘Thunder-Cloud’--his ears were open; father!
brother!” and as he spoke he clasped them by the hand. “‘Little Star’
looks down from the happy hunting-grounds upon her son. See!” and he
led the way, followed by all, to one side of the thicket where stood
three horses. “Mount and ride for the Big Fort. The ‘White Vulture’
will die a Crow, but he will never more shed the blood of the whites.
Will my father, my brother, think of the chief sometimes, and will the
Singing Bird, when she sings in the happy wigwam of my brother, think
of the ‘White Vulture’ who is desolate and alone? Away! Ride fast, for
the Crow braves must not know that I have saved my father, my brother,
and the Singing Bird.”
Soon all were mounted, and walking their horses at first, till they got
beyond ear-shot of the village, they then pushed the animals to their
utmost speed, taking the hiding-place of the “Crow-Killer’s” roan mare
and Dave’s horse on their way.
The “White Vulture” watched them until they disappeared in the
distance; then he turned and retraced his steps through the village,
entered the lodge by the slit he had cut in the rear, and then went out
through the door, passing the two braves, who still kept watch.
When the “Thunder-Cloud” entered the lodge to execute his vengeance
upon the hunters, he found, to his astonishment, that they had
disappeared!
A terrible commotion was the result of this, and hot chase was given,
but it was a useless chase, and the Crows believe to this day that the
“Crow-Killer” was aided by some evil power in his escape.
Abe, Dave and Leona reached Fort Benton in safety, and then proceeded
to Spur City, where young Dick Hickman was made to disgorge the
property that he had taken possession of as his father’s heir.
Leona and Dave were married; true love met its reward.
The “Crow-Killer” still continues to act as guide, but his account with
the Crow nation is closed, and he no longer fights Indians, except in
self-defense.
The “White Vulture” became the chief of all the Crow nation, and
the terror of all the surrounding tribes. All recognized him as the
greatest fighting-man of the north-west. He died as became a great
chief, during a raid into the Blackfoot country, at the close of a
bloody fight, in which, as usual, he had seemed to bear a charmed life.
The victory was with the Crows, and the Blackfeet were scattering,
routed, through the timber, when the “White Vulture” suddenly fell
from his saddle. Examination showed a bullet, shot from the rear,
passing through the head: the chief had been shot by one of his own
nation--a relative, doubtless, of the “Black Dog” chief, that had died
by the hand of the “White Vulture” on the banks of the Yellowstone.
Sorrowfully the Crows bore home the body of the great fighting-man of
the Crow nation.
THE END.
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