WANAHA THE INDIAN
The moon at its full shone down upon a scene of profound silence. Its
silvery rays overpowered the milder starry sheen of the heavens. The woods
upon the banks of the White River were tipped with a hard, cold burnish,
but their black depths remained unyielding. All was still--so still.
Thousands of Indians are awaiting in silent, stubborn hatred the morrow's
sentence of their white shepherds. A deep passion of hatred and revenge
lies heavy on their tempestuous hearts; and upon the heart of their
warlike chieftain most of all.
The heart that beats within the Indian bosom is invincible. It is beyond
the reach of sympathy, as it is beyond the reach of fear. It stands alone
in its devotion to warlike brutality. Hatred is its supreme passion, just
as fearlessness is its supreme virtue. And hatred and revenge are moving
to-night--moving under the calm covering of apparent peace; moving now
lest the morrow should put it beyond the power of the red man to mete out
the full measure of his lust for native savagery. And so at last there
comes a breaking of the perfect peace of night.
A dark figure moves out of the depths of the woods. It moves slowly
toward the log hut of Nevil Steyne. It pauses at a distance and surveys
the dim outline against the woodland backing.
Another figure moves out from the woods, and a moment later another and
yet another; and each figure follows in the track of the foremost, and
they stand talking in low murmurs. Thus twenty-five blanketed figures are
gathered before the hut of the white renegade. They are Indians,
hoary-headed patriarchs of their race, but glowing with the fierce spirit
of youth in their sluggish hearts.
Presently they file away one by one, and it becomes apparent that each old
man is well armed. They spread out and form themselves into a wide circle,
which slowly closes in upon the hut. Then each decrepit figure huddles
itself down upon its haunches, like some bald-headed vulture settling with
heavily flapping wings upon its prey.
Sleep has not visited the eyes of those within the hut. When things go
awry with those who live by double-dealing, sleep does not come easily.
Nevil Steyne is awake, and his faithful wife keeps him company.
The interior of the hut is dismantled. Bundles of furnishings lie
scattered about on the floor. It is plain that this is to be the last
night which these two intend to spend in the log hut which has sheltered
them so long.
The squaw is lying fully dressed upon the bed, and the man is sitting
beside her smoking. They are talking, discussing eagerly that which has
held the man's feverish interest the whole night.
There is no kindness in the man's tone as he speaks to the woman. He is
beset with a fear he cannot conceal. It is in his tone, it is in his eyes,
it is in his very restlessness.
The woman is calm. She is an Indian, and in her veins runs the blood of
generations of great chiefs. Fear has no place in her heart, but her
devotion to her man makes her anxious for him. Her slow, labored use of
his language is meant to encourage him, but he takes no comfort from it.
His utter selfishness, his cowardice, place him beyond mere verbal
encouragement.
"It still wants two hours to dawn," Nevil exclaimed, referring to his
watch for about the twentieth time in the last hour. "God, how the time
hangs!"
The woman's dark eyes were upon his nervous face. She noted the anxious
straining of his shifty eyes. Their whites were bloodshot, and his brows
were drawn together in the painful concentration of a mind fixed upon one
thought.
"It will pass," she said, with all the hopefulness she could express.
"Of course it will. Do you suppose I don't know?" The man spoke with harsh
irritation. "You--you don't seem to understand."
"Wanaha understands." The squaw nodded. Then she, too, gave way to a
slight irritation. "Why you not sleep, my Nevil? Wanaha watch. It a long
journey. Sleep, my husband. You fear foolish. So."
The man turned scornful eyes in her direction, and for a moment did not
speak. Then presently he said--
"Sometimes I think it's unnecessary for us to go. I can't make up my mind.
I never had such difficulty in seeing clearly before. Your brother was so
quiet and calm. He spoke so generously. I told him the whole story. How I
was forced by that damned Seth to go into the fort. And how I was forced
to fight. Pshaw! what's the use of talking? I've told you all this
already. Yet he listened to all I had to say, and as I made each point he
nodded in that quiet, assured way of his--you know. I think he understood
and was satisfied. I think so--and yet--it's no use, I can't be sure. I
wish he'd lost his temper in his usual headstrong way. I understand him
when he is like that. But he didn't. He was very calm.
"Do you know, my Wana, it seemed to me that he'd heard my story before,
told by some one else, probably told with variations to suit themselves.
It seemed to me that--well, he was only listening to me because he had to.
I swear I'd give ten years of my life to know what he really thinks. Yes,
I think I'm right. Once away from here we are safe. Neither he nor any of
the braves can follow us. The soldiers will see that none leave the
Reservations. Yes, I'm sure it's best to get away. It can do no harm, and
it's best to be sure. Still an hour and three-quarters," he finished up,
again referring to his watch.
"Yes, it best so," the woman said in reply. She understood the condition
of her husband's mind. She saw clearly that she must humor him.
Whatever her innermost thoughts may have been she made her replies
subservient to his humor. She had listened closely to his account of his
interview with her brother, and there is little doubt that she had formed
her own opinion, and, being of the blood of the chief, she probably
understood him better than this white man did. But whatever she really
thought no word of it escaped her.
Another silence fell. Again it was the man who broke it.
"That Jim Crow is very active. He comes and goes all day. He interviews
Little Black Fox whenever he pleases. He's a two-faced rascal. Do you
know, it was he who brought the news of relief to the farm. And what's
more, he came in with the soldiers. I always seem to see him about. Once I
thought he was watching my movements. I wonder why?"
The man drooped dejectedly as he tried to unravel this fresh tangle. Why
was Jim Crow shadowing him? In the interests of the Indians? Again he
pulled out his watch. And the woman beside him saw that his hand was
shaking as he held it out to the light of the stove.
It was time to hitch up his horses, he said. Yet they were not starting
until dawn, and it still wanted a full hour to the time.
Wanaha sat up, and Nevil moved about amongst the litter of their
belongings. There was coffee on the stove and food on the table. He helped
himself to both, bolting meat and drink in a nervous, hasty manner. Wanaha
joined him. She ate sparingly, and then began to gather their goods
together.
Nevil turned to her. He was preparing to fetch the horses which were
picketed out on the prairie. He was in better mood now. Action restored in
him a certain amount of confidence.
"It will be good to get away, my Wana," he said, for a moment laying one
hand upon her shoulder.
The woman looked up into his mean face with a world of love in her
profound eyes.
"It good to be with you--anywhere, my Nevil," she said, in her quiet way.
The man turned to the door.
He raised the latch and threw it open. He stood speechless. A panic was
upon him; he could not move, he could not think. Little Black Fox was
standing in the doorway, and, behind him, two of his war-councilors
leaning on their long, old-fashioned rifles.
Without a word, the chief, followed by his two attendants, stepped within.
The door was closed again. Then Little Black Fox signed to Wanaha for a
light. The squaw took the oil-lamp from a shelf and lit it, and the dull,
yellow rays revealed the disorder of the place.
The chief gazed about him. His handsome face was unmoved. Finally he
looked into the face of the terror-stricken renegade. Nevil was tall, but
he was dwarfed by the magnificent carriage and superb figure of the
savage.
It was the chief who was the first to speak. The flowing tongue of the
Sioux sounded melodious in the rich tones of the speaker's voice. He spoke
without a touch of the fiery eloquence which had been his when he was yet
the untried leader of his race. The man seemed to have suddenly matured.
He was no longer the headstrong boy that had conceived an overwhelming
passion for a white girl, but a warrior of his race, a warrior and a
leader.
"My brother would go from his friends? So?" he said in feigned surprise.
"And my sister, Wanaha?"
"Wanaha obeys her lord. Whither he goes she goes. It is good."
The squaw was alive to the position, but, unlike her white husband, she
rose to the occasion. The haughty manner of the chief was no more haughty
than hers. She was blood of this man, and no less royal than he. Her deep
eyes were alert and shining now. The savage was dominant in her again. She
was, indeed, a princess of her race.
"And whither would they go, this white brother and his squaw?" There was
a slight irony in the Indian's voice.
Again the squaw answered.
"We go where white men and Indians live in peace."
"No white man or Indian lives in peace where he goes."
Little Black Fox pointed scornfully at the cowering white man. The squaw
had no answer ready. But the renegade himself found his tongue and
answered.
"We go until the white man's anger is passed," he said. "Then we return to
the great chief's camp."
For a while the young chieftain's eyes seemed to burn into those of the
man before him, so intense was the angry fire of his gaze.
"You go," he said at last, "because you fear to stay. It is not the white
man you fear, but the Indian you have betrayed. Your tongue lies, your
heart lies. You are neither brave nor squaw-man. Your heart is the heart
of a snake that is filled with venom. Your brain is like the mire of the
muskeg which sucks, sucks its victims down to destruction. Your blood is
like the water of a mosquito swamp, poisonous even to the air. I have
eyes; I have ears. I learn all these things, and I say nothing. The hunter
uses a poisoned weapon. It matters not so that he brings down his quarry.
But his weapon is for his quarry, and not for himself. He destroys it
when there is danger that he shall get hurt by it. You are a poisoned
weapon, and you have sought to hurt me. So."
Wanaha suddenly stepped forward. Her great eyes blazed up into her
brother's.
"The great chief wrongs my man. All he has done he was forced to do. His
has been the heart to help you. His has been the hand to help you. His has
been the brain to plan for you. So. The others come. They take him
prisoner. He must fight for them or die."
"Then if he fights he is traitor. So he must die."
Nevil had no word for himself. He was beyond words. Even in his extremity
he remembered what Seth had said to him. And he knew now that Seth's
knowledge of the Indians was greater, far deeper, than his. This was his
"dog's chance," but he had not even the privilege of a run.
The irony of his lot did not strike him. Crimes which he had been guilty
of had nothing to do with his present position. Instead, he stood
arraigned for a treachery which had not been his, toward the one man to
whom he had ever been faithful.
But while his craven heart wilted before his savage judge; while his mind
was racked with tortures of suspense, and his scheming brain had lost its
power of concentration; while his limbs shook at the presentiment of his
doom, his woman stood fearless at his side, ready to serve him to the
bitter end, ready to sacrifice herself if need be that his wretched life
might be saved.
Now she replied to her brother's charge, with her beautiful head erect and
her bosom heaving.
"No man is coward who serves you as he has served you," she cried, her
eyes confronting her brother's with all the fearless pride of her race.
"The coward is the other. The one who turns upon his friend and helper
when misfortune drives."
The words stung as they were meant to sting. And something of the old
headstrong passion leapt into the young chief's heart. He pointed at his
sister.
"Enough!" he cried; and a movement of the head conveyed a command to his
attendants. They stepped forward. But Wanaha was quicker. She met them,
and, with upraised hand, waved them back in a manner so imperious that
they paused.
"Little Black Fox forgets!" she cried, addressing herself to her brother,
and ignoring the war-councilors. "No brave may lay hand upon the daughter
of my father. Little Black Fox is chief. My blood is his blood. By the
laws of our race his is the hand that must strike. The daughter of Big
Wolf awaits. Let my brother strike."
As she finished speaking Wanaha bowed her head in token of submission. But
for all his rage the chief was no slayer of his womenfolk. The
ready-witted woman understood the lofty Indian spirit of her brother. She
saw her advantage and meant to hold it. She did not know what she hoped.
She did not pause to think. She had a woman's desire to gain time only.
And as she saw her brother draw back she felt that, for the moment at
least, she was mistress of the situation.
"So," she went on, raising her head again and proudly confronting the
angry-eyed youth, "my brother, even in his wrath, remembers the law of our
race. Let him think further, and he will also remember other things. Let
him say to himself, 'I may not slay this man while my sister, Wanaha,
lives. She alone has power to strike. The council of chiefs may condemn,
but she must be the executioner.' So! And my brother will be in the right,
for Wanaha is the blood of Big Wolf, and the white man is her husband."
The headstrong chief was baffled. He knew that the woman was right. The
laws of the Sioux race were as she had said. And they were so stringent
that it would be dangerous to set them aside, even though this man's death
had been decided upon by the unanimous vote of the council. He stood
irresolute, and Wanaha added triumph to her tone as she went on.
"So, great chief, this man's life is mine. And I, Wanaha, your sister,
refuse to take it. For me he is free."
But Wanaha in her womanish enthusiasm had overshot her mark. The laws were
strong, but this wild savage's nature was as untamed and fearless as any
beast of the field. It was her tone of triumph that undid her.
Little Black Fox suddenly whipped out a long hunting-knife from his belt
and flung it upon the table with a great clatter. It lay there, its
vicious, gleaming blade shining dully in the yellow lamplight.
"See!" he cried, his voice thick with fury. "Have your rights! I go. With
the first streak of dawn I come again. Then I slay! Wanaha shall die by my
hand, and then she has no right to the life of the white man!"
* * * * *
The first streak of dawn lit the eastern sky. The horses were grazing,
tethered to their picket ropes within view of the log hut down by the
river. The wagon stood in its place at the side of the building. There was
no firelight to be seen within the building, no lamplight.
The circle of silent squatting figures still held their vigil.
As the daylight grew three figures emerged from the woods and moved
silently to the door of the hut. They paused, listening, but no sound came
from within. One, much taller than his companions, reached out and raised
the latch. The door swung open. He paused again. Then he stepped across
the threshold.
The new-born day cast a gray twilight over the interior. The man sniffed,
like a beast of prey scenting the trail of blood. And that which came to
his nostrils seemed to satisfy him, for he passed within and strode to the
bedside. He stood for a few moments gazing down at the figures of a man
and a woman locked in each other's arms.
He looked long and earnestly upon the calm features of the faces so
closely pressed together. There was no pity, no remorse in his heart, for
life and death were matters which touched him not at all. War was as the
breath of his nostrils.
Presently he moved away. There was nothing to keep him there. These two
had passed together to the shores of the Happy Hunting Ground. They had
lived and died together. They would--perhaps--awake together. But not on
the prairies of the West.