THE RESCUE OF STAR FLOWER
The note of the whistle was not repeated; but Featherfoot ran straight
toward the village of Little Heron. The last red light of the short
winter day was fading below the west, when he reached the valley that
he knew and loved so well. He descended among the lodges. All was
quiet. There was no light of cooking-fires, or sound of contented
voices. He glanced at the trampled snow under his feet, and beheld
a war-club with a splintered haft. And there, a step beyond, lay an
arrow, and there a dark stain melted into the snow. With a low cry of
consternation, he ran to the chief’s lodge and peered within. It was
empty, and even the furs were gone from the couches. He started to
run to the next lodge, but the dusk of night was deepening, and his
foot tripped in something and he fell heavily. He recovered himself
quickly, and found that the thing over which he had stumbled was the
lifeless body of Little Heron. Then he knew that it would be useless
to look in the other lodges. He arose on the magic feathers and circled
close about the village. He found the corpses of warriors and old
men and boys, and even of old women. He flew in a wider circle, and
yet a wider, swooping low to every open glade. Here and there lay
the cold bodies, now of a mountaineer, now of a villager whom he had
known, showing how in the unequal struggle they had scattered and how
the fugitives had been overtaken. Still he widened the circle of his
flight. At last, away to the westward, he caught the glint of fire at
the base of a dark hill, and even as he swerved in his course, the
little fire spark leaped to the flame of a comfortable fire. He swooped
nearer, and peered out upon the scene from the cover of the tree-tops.
There were more than a dozen mountaineers, a few busy preparing food at
the newly kindled fire, the others lolling nearby on out-spread furs.
In the background a group of women were huddled, and their half-stifled
sobbing came piteously to his ears. Featherfoot drew his club from his
belt, pulled the hood of the silver robe over his head, and soared
noiselessly from the tree-tops.
“Have no fear, Star Flower,” he cried, and descended, like a hawk upon
its prey. The first mountaineer to receive a blow of the club fell
across the fire, and lay there. Two more went down, with broken skulls,
before any of them realized the danger. Ten of them reached the cover
of the woods, which proved no protection at all. Six gained a distance
of several hundred yards from the fire, before the invisible death
overtook them. Three won half-way up the hill, but none reached the
top. Then Featherfoot returned to the camping-place, plucked the body
from the fire and threw it into the bushes, loosed the thongs that
bound the women and clasped Star Flower in his arms. She made frantic
efforts to free herself from his embrace, and the other women and girls
screamed and gazed wildly around.
“It is I, Featherfoot,” whispered the bewildered youth, still holding
her firmly.
“I cannot see you,” she cried. “It is the voice of Featherfoot, but--”
The youth dropped his arms from her slender body, tore the silver robe
from his head and shoulders and tossed it on the snow. Then he turned
back to Star Flower, smiling. The other women drew nearer, and ceased
their screaming.
“Yes, it is the young chief who drew the beautiful pictures,” said one.
“It is the great story-teller,” said another.
Star Flower stepped close to him, clasped her little hands behind his
neck and hid her face in the furs on his breast.
“Oh, I was not sure,” she whispered. “It was your voice; but I heard
the rushing of winged feet, and saw the savage warriors run and fall
before no visible danger. I thought the good magician had answered the
call of the whistle.”
Then Featherfoot laughed softly, and held her close, and in his heart
he pitied his friend and master, the greatest magician in the world.
And as for the good red feathers, he forgot all about them.
“Fear nothing,” he said, tenderly and joyfully. “Your lover answered
the call, and love winged his feet.”
Hail, Youth, speaking such truth through very inexactness and the
vagueness of dreams. Hail, Love, who sees so far and so clearly through
glory-blinded eyes.