“Ho! Hi! Hi-o!”
It was the morning after Sergeant Pryor had hurt his shoulder, and
the Northwest Company traders had been talked to by Captain Lewis; a
bitterly cold morning, too, with a stinging north wind blowing across
the snow and ice. The shrill call drifted flatly.
“Hi! Hi-o!”
“Sergeant of the guard,” summoned William Bratton, who in beaver-fur
cap, buffalo-fur coat and overshoes and mittens was walking sentry
outside the opening of the two lines of cabins.
Sergeant John Ordway came running. All the men stopped their
after-breakfast tasks at the barge and in the street and in the timber,
to gaze and listen. On the opposite bank of the river an Indian stood,
wrapped in his buffalo-robe, with his hands to his mouth, calling. The
river, frozen from shore to shore, was only 400 yards wide, and the
voice carried clearly.
“I dunno what he wants, but he wants something,” informed Sentry
Bratton.
“Hi! Hi-o!” And then signs and a jangle of Indian words.
“He wants to talk with us,” explained Peter, who read the signs, to
George Shannon.
“Where’s Chaboneau?” demanded Sergeant Ordway. “Here, Toussaint! What’s
he saying?”
“Hi!” called back Chaboneau, with lifted hand. And listened to the
answer. “He say he have somet’ing ver’ important to tell to ze Long
Knife an’ ze Red Head. He want to come over.”
The Indian crossed on the ice. The sergeant and Chaboneau accompanied
him to the headquarters cabin at the head of the street. The Indian
was not closeted there very long. Out from the cabin bustled Sergeant
Ordway again, and hastened down to the barge.
“Oh, Gass! Here――you’re to take twenty men, Pat, and go with Captain
Clark. See that they’re well armed, and in marching order. The captain
means business.”
“That I will,” replied Pat, dropping his armful of supplies. “B’gorry,
I hope it’s a bit of a fight.”
“What’s up, John?” queried half a dozen voices.
“The Sioux have tried to wipe out a party of Mandans, down to the
southwest, and Big White’s afraid the village is going to be attacked.
So now’s the time for us to help Big White and show these Mandans our
hearts are good.”
“Hooray!” cheered Pat. “All right.”
Out from the headquarters cabin strode Captain Clark, in his furs, and
buckling his sword about his waist outside of his buffalo overcoat.
Usually he did not wear his sword. He was known as the Red Head.
Captain Lewis was known as the Long Knife, because he was rarely
without his sword.
Behind Captain Clark came Chaboneau, and York, agrin, carrying his
rifle, and looking indeed like a black buffalo.
Peter thrilled. He was wild to go, himself. He ran after Pat, and
clutched him by his skirt.
“I go, Pat.”
“By no orders o’ mine, bedad,” rebuked Pat. “Ah, now,” he added. “Sure,
it’s the Irish blood in ye――an’ if ye snake after an’ the cap’n doesn’t
see ye, I’ll not send ye back. But ye can’t go furder’n the village.
Mind that.”
“York can go. I can go,” asserted Peter, for York was no soldier,
either, although sometimes he pretended to be. So Peter ran to York.
“You get out, boy,” rebuked York, strutting about while the men were
being formed at Sergeant Pat’s sharp orders. “Dis am wah! Dis am berry
seryus bus’ness when Cap’n Will done buckle on his sword. Yessuh.
’Tain’t no place foh chillun.”
“Did Captain Clark say you could go?” challenged Peter.
“’Twa’n’t necessitous, chile,” retorted York. “Marse Will gwine to take
keer ob his soldiers; I go to take keer ob Marse Will. He cain’t get
along wiffout Yawk. I raise him from a baby.”
But when the little column pressed forward, Captain Clark and
Chaboneau, the interpreter, in the lead, Sergeant Pat conducting the
double file of men, and York toiling behind, Peter trotted at the heels
of York.
York glanced over his shoulder, and grunted.
“Huh! ’Spec’ you think you gwine to help carry Marse Will’s scalps.”
The ice was firm and snow-covered. Captain Clark led straight across.
No sounds except the barking of dogs issued from the site of the Big
White village, above. The Sioux had not yet attacked. Not an Indian
was to be seen; in the distance before, the smoke from the lodges
streamed in the wind. The captain made a half circuit of the village,
and entered it on a sudden, from the land side. At the approach of the
little company the Mandan dogs barked furiously――women screamed――the
village seemed to be alarmed; but Chief Big White, and Chief O-hee-naw,
a captive Cheyenne, and Chief Sho-ta-haw-ro-ra or Coal, issued to see
what was the matter.
“We have come to protect our friends the Mandans,” announced Captain
Clark.
“The Red Head chief is welcome,” bade Big White, breathless――for he was
rather fat. His hair, pure white, bushed out all around his head. “Let
my brothers come to the council lodge.”
Peter had done well to stick by York; for York was Great Medicine, and
of course was gladly admitted into a council. Peter sidled in beside
him. If he had tried to get in alone, the chiefs would have ordered him
out. Councils were no places for boys.
Captain Clark made a speech.
“We have heard that the Sioux have not kept our peace talk in their
hearts,” he said, “but have attacked our friends, the Mandans, and have
stained the prairie with blood. So we armed at once and are here to
lead the Mandan warriors against the Sioux and punish them for their
treachery.”
“Wah!” grunted the chiefs and warriors, approving. They spoke together,
in their half circle, a few minutes; and O-hee-naw, or Big Man, the
Cheyenne, arose and dropped his robe, to answer.
“We see now,” said Big Man, “that what you have told us before is true.
When our enemies attack us, you are ready to protect us. But, father,
the snow is deep, the weather is very cold, and our horses cannot
travel far. The murderers have gone off. In the spring, when the snow
has disappeared, if you will conduct us we will follow you to the Sioux
and the ’Ricaras with all our warriors.”
When the council dispersed, the Mandans were in a very good humor.
Chief Big White accompanied Captain Clark back to the river, and hugged
him, at parting.
“We love our white fathers,” he declared. “My village has been weeping
night and day for the young man slain by the Sioux; but now my people
will wipe their eyes.”
Across the ice Captain Clark marched his men, to the fort again.
“Huh!” grumbled York. “Dose Mandans, dey ain’t gwine to fight when
’tain’t comf’table to fight.”
“Sure, I’m thinkin’ that was jest a Mandan trick, to try our mettle,”
asserted Patrick Gass.
“De Mandans now our heap frien’s,” assured Drouillard.
Colder grew the weather, until at the close of the first week in
December the mercury of the thermometer stood at 10 above zero. The
earth was freezing so rapidly that the men had hard work to set the
pickets of the fence which was to enclose the open end of the fort.
Now on the morning of December 7, Patrick Gass paused in his work of
aligning the fence stringers to which the pickets were being spiked,
and swung his arms and puffed. His breath floated white in the biting
wind. He had peeled his overcoat, and was working in his flannel shirt.
Sha-ha-ka the Mandan chief shuffled business-like through the opening
left for the gate. He was muffled from chin to ankles in a buffalo
robe; and above it protruded his bushy white hair framing his solemn
but good-humored wrinkled face.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Big White,” hailed Pat. “What’s the good
news, this fine day?”
“Ooh!” grunted Big White, scarcely checking his stride. “Where Red
Head? Long Knife? Heap buffs.” And he passed on.
“Hooray!” cheered Patrick Gass. “Buff’lo, does he say?”
Suddenly, through the thin air drifted a distant medley of shrill
shouts, across the river.
“Listen!” bade Cruzatte. “Dey hunt boof’lo! De boof’lo haf come out on
de prairie!”
The uproar increased. Sha-ha-ka had disappeared in headquarters; but
out burst York, and Chaboneau, and Jessaume, armed and running for
horses. Out issued Captain Clark and Sha-ha-ka, followed by Captain
Lewis. Baptiste Lepage, a new interpreter, yelled in French to
Jessaume, and Jessaume excitedly answered.
“Gran’ boof’lo hunt,” proclaimed Baptiste, running also. “Ever’body
hunt ze boof’lo.”
Tools were dropped, but Captain Clark’s voice rang clearly.
“Pryor!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a dozen men who aren’t otherwise engaged and join the Indians
across the river in that buffalo hunt. Get all the meat you can. Use
what horses you need, but don’t wait for me.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” And rejoiced, Sergeant Pryor, whose arm had
healed, called off the names as he bustled hither-thither.
“Arrah!” mourned Patrick Gass. “That laves us out, fellows. ‘Not
otherwise engaged,’ said the captain. An’ here we are with our fince
not finished.”
Captain Clark and Chief Big White were hurrying for the river, and the
village beyond.
“Don’t you want your rifle, Will?” called Captain Lewis, after.
“No, Merne. I’ll hunt as the Indians do. We’ll beat them at their own
game.”
Already the Sergeant Pryor detachment were mounting. There were
scarcely horses enough to go around, for only enough had been hired
from the Mandans to supply the regular hunters.
“There are more at the village, lads,” called Captain Lewis.
The men without mounts went running, plodding, laughing, across the
snowy ice, for the village. York was pressing after the captain and
the chief. He carried a rifle and had a large knife belted around his
soldier’s overcoat. Peter delayed not, but scurried, too.
“I stay by Marse Will,” was declaring York. “We show dem Injuns.”
In mid-river the sounds from the hunt were plainer. To thud of hoofs
the squad under Sergeant Pryor raced past with a cheer and flourish of
weapons. At the village the squad afoot were met by squaws, holding
ponies. A young squaw who had frequently smiled on York tendered him
the hide rope of a splendid black.
“Great Medicine heap kill ’um,” she urged.
“Huh! Dey all like Yawk,” chuckled York, scrambling aboard.
The other men were grabbing ropes and mounting. A very old and ugly
squaw with a spotted pony yelped at Peter (who knew better than to push
forward) and signed. She thrust the pony’s thong at him.
“Boy go,” she cackled, grinning toothless. She signed “Wait,” and
shuffled away, fast.
All the men except Peter and York left, hammering their ponies with
their overshoes, in haste to join the fray. Yonder, about a mile, a
snow dust hung in the wind, and under it black figures plunged and
darted. Reports of fire-arms boomed dully.
Captain Clark and Chief Sha-ha-ka had disappeared in the chief’s
lodge, before which stood a squaw holding two horses. Peter’s squaw
came trotting back, with a bow and quiver of arrows. Grinning, she
extended them to Peter, and signed: “Go! Shoot!” Peter thankfully
accepted――slung the quiver at his waist, strung the bow. He never had
killed a buffalo, but he had shot rabbits; now he would kill a buffalo.
The bow was a strong little bow, but after these weeks of work he had a
strong little arm.
“Golly!” chuckled York. “Cap’n Clark done got a bow, too.”
For the captain and Sha-ha-ka had emerged from the chief’s lodge.
Sha-ha-ka was muffled in a buffalo robe; so was the captain. He had
shed his overcoat, and his cap, had bound about his brow a scarlet
handkerchief, Indian fashion, and his red hair flowed loose to his
shoulders. He carried a bow; doubtless underneath his robe was the
quiver.
As quick as the chief he snatched the hide rope from the squaw’s
willing fingers, and vaulted upon the pony’s back, and he and Big White
pounded off together.
“Come on, boy,” bade York; and he and Peter launched in pursuit.
“Never mind me, York,” yelled the captain, over his shoulder. “I’ll
take care of myself. This gray is the best buffalo horse in the
village.”
“Marse Will done been brung up by Dan’l Boone,” explained York, to
Peter. “Yessuh; done shot wif bow’n arrer, too, back in ol’ Kaintuck.
Reg’lar Injun, Marse Will is.”
The Indian ponies were saddled only with a buffalo-hide pad, from which
hung thong loops into which the rider might thrust his feet, if he
wished. Peter could not reach the loops. And the ponies were bridled
only with a single thong which looped around the lower jaw. But Peter
had ridden in this fashion many a time before.
York clung like a huge ape. To ride bareback was nothing new to him.
Before, the captain sat as if glued fast. Sha-ha-ka could sit no firmer
than the Red Head.
The breeze was keen, whistling past one’s ears and stinging one’s
cheeks. But see! The buffalo! There were hundreds, in a writhing,
surging, scampering, bewildered mass. They had come out of the
sheltered bottoms to feed in the open, and the Indians had espied them.
Now around and around them sped the Indians, yelling, volleying arrows,
stabbing with lances, working at the mass, cutting out animals and
pursuing them to the death. The hunters from the fort were at work,
also. Guns puffed little clouds, which mingled with the greater cloud
of snow.
Here and there were lying buffalo carcasses, reddening the snow. The
captain and Sha-ha-ka, and then Peter and York, began to pass some, and
the blood-stains were frequent. Before, other buffalo were staggering,
or whirling and charging. Indians on their ponies dodged, and plied
their arrows. Peter glimpsed One-eyed Cruzatte, and Chaboneau――they
could hardly be told from the Indians, so cleverly they managed their
ponies. Sergeant Pryor had been thrown, and was running afoot, a great
bull after him. Ah!
Chief Sha-ha-ka whooped shrilly, and dropped his buffalo-robe about his
thighs. Captain Clark dropped his, and laid arrow on bow. Their ponies
quickened, as if understanding.
“Gwan, you hoss! Gwan!” implored York, hammering his black mount. The
spotted pony also leaped eagerly.
With a loud shout Captain Clark charged straight at Sergeant Pryor’s
bull. The gray horse bore him close alongside, on the right――the proper
place. When even with the bull the captain drew bow, clear from hand
to shoulder, loosed string――and the arrow, swifter than sight, buried
to the feathers just back of the bull’s foreleg. The stung bull jumped
and whirled; on raced the gray horse, and wheeled; the bull, his head
down, lunged for him――and the gray horse sprang aside――the bull forged
past, the captain was ready with another arrow――twang! thud!――the gray
horse leaped again, to follow up――but the great bull halted, faltered,
drooped his head, his tail twitched and lashed, still his head slowly
drooped, he straddled, and began to sink.
“Catch your horse, Pryor. Quick!” ordered the captain. “You can’t hunt
afoot.” And before the bull’s body had touched the snow he was away
again, in the wake of the frantic herd, his red hair flaming on the
wind.
“Fust kill foh Marse Will,” jubilated York. He and Peter scarcely had
had time to check their horses. “He done beat Big White. Come on, boy!”
In a twinkling all was confusion, of buffalo bellowing, fleeing,
charging; of horsemen shouting, pursuing, dodging, shooting; of flying
snow and blood and steaming breaths and reek of perspiring bodies.
Peter speedily lost York; he lost Sha-ha-ka and Captain Clark――but
occasionally he sighted them, now separated, now near together, as
if they were rivals. He lost everything but himself and pony and the
buffalo. He shot, too; he saw his arrows land, he left wounded buffalo
behind and chased others; and ever and again he saw the red hair of the
captain.
The captain was in his buckskin shirt; Sha-ha-ka was in buckskin; many
of the Indians rode half naked――excitement kept them warm. Peter felt
no cold, through his buckskin and his flannel shirt. He had been more
thinly clad in the Oto village and was used to weather. But bitter was
the wind, nevertheless, and the wounds of the prone buffalo almost
instantly froze.
The chase had proceeded for a mile――and on a sudden Chief Big White,
from a little rise in a clear space, shouted high and waved his
robe. It was the signal for the hunt to cease. The turmoil died, the
frightened herd rushed on, and the horsemen dropped behind, to turn
back. The squaws from the village already had been at work with their
knives, cutting up the dead buffalo. They must work fast, on account of
the cold. They carefully pulled out the arrows and laid them aside, so
that it might be told to whom that buffalo belonged. The arrows of each
hunter bore his mark, in paint on the shaft or the feathers.
Captain Clark rode in, panting and laughing, with Sha-ha-ka. His quiver
was empty, his buffalo-horse frost-covered from eye-brows to tail.
Sha-ha-ka treated him with great respect; and so did the other Indians.
“Dey say de Red Head one great chief. He ride an’ shoot like Injun,”
explained Chaboneau, as the company from the fore assembled.
“Marse Will kill more buff’los dan all the rest ob dem put togedder,”
prated York. “Only he done run out ob arrers. Den he try to choke ’em
wif his hands!”
Five buffalo were credited to the captain――his arrows were in them.
Five more were credited to the soldiers, who had been hampered by their
unsaddled horses and by the big overcoats. York claimed three of the
five――but nobody could believe York. The interpreters――Chaboneau and
Lepage and Jessaume――had made their own kills, for their families.
“How many do you claim, Peter?” inquired the captain, with a smile.
“The old squaw who gave me the horse and bow, she owns what I kill,”
answered Peter, carefully.
For there she was, cutting up a fat cow, from which one of Peter’s
arrows protruded. Peter rode over to her.
“Mine,” he signed, proudly.
But she only grinned and shook her head, and pointed to his pony and
his bow. Then she handed one of his arrows to him.
“Keep,” she said. “Keep bow. Make big hunter.”
Understanding, Peter rode away. There seemed to be plenty of meat, but
a good bow and quiver was a prize. So he was willing to trade.