TE-O-KUN-KO
After supper had been eaten and rations distributed for the next day, it
was nearly sunset, and Al and Wallace sat down on the ground near
General Sully's tent to clean their weapons and enjoy a few minutes of
welcome rest.
"I never saw anything like that canyon we were in to-day," said Wallace.
"More than once I thought we were going to be cleaned out there, and we
would have been if we'd had civilized troops to deal with."
"Why, of course," Al answered. "Civilized troops one-tenth as strong as
we could have held it against us for a year. Yet we've lost only eight
or ten men wounded all day. The Indians haven't enough staying
qualities, though they have plenty of dash and are magnificent
horsemen."
"Yes, that's true," agreed Wallace. Then suddenly he dropped his
ram-rod and sprang to his feet. "Look there!" he exclaimed. "Are they
going to try some more of their dash this evening, after all they've
done to-day?"
The dry expanse of prairie where the camp lay, sloped gradually up to
the eastward, terminating in a ridge at a distance of about a mile from
the camp. Over the crest of this ridge a throng of Sioux warriors was
now galloping, much as they had come over that other ridge at the
opening of the battle of Tahkahokuty. The emigrant camp lay nearest to
them, and here a great confusion and panic immediately arose, and women
and children began to emerge from the corral and run toward the military
camp, shrieking and calling piteously for help. Without waiting for
orders scores of soldiers seized their weapons and rushed out across the
prairie toward the fugitives, many of whom, as soon as they were within
the lines, fell to the ground exhausted or weeping hysterically. The
soldiers, once started, continued their advance on the enemy, the
swiftest runners distancing the rest. The Indians halted and fired, then
seeing that their antagonists were not checked, began sullenly to
retire, not even hastening much from the shells of the cannon, which had
opened along the eastern edge of the camp. So the retreat and pursuit
continued to the crest of the ridge, where the Indians went out of sight
into the Bad Lands just beyond.
Al and Wallace, who had run out at the first alarm, presently found
themselves, in company with one of the Sioux guides and a couple of
soldiers of the Sixth Iowa, on the edge of the ridge with a deep, narrow
valley before them, bounded on its farther side by four hillocks, or
small buttes, shaped like sugar loaves and each separated from the next
by crooked gullies, washed deep by rains. At the left end of this series
of buttes lay a long, open space, entirely bare of vegetation,
apparently extending around behind them. Not an Indian was in sight, but
Wallace suggested,
"I believe some of the redskins are hiding behind those buttes. Let's
surprise them. I'll tell you what we can do. You fellows," he addressed
the two cavalrymen, "stay here and the rest of us will go back a little
way and then sneak around and down across that open space and get in
behind the flank of the buttes. If there are any Indians there, we can
shoot them before they can get away."
"But there may be a lot of them," objected one of the troopers, "and
they'll clean you out."
"No," declared Wallace, with conviction. "It's only a little way across,
and if there are too many of them we can run back while you cover us
with your fire. Besides, lots of the boys are near by."
This was true; a number of soldiers were still a short distance back on
the plateau.
"What do you think of it?" asked Al, turning to the Sioux guide, who
happened to be one who could speak English, as well as his own tongue.
"Good," said the Indian. "I go."
"Come on, then," urged Wallace, who seemed determined to have an
adventure if possible.
Followed by Al and the guide he walked back across the prairie until the
ridge hid them from view of any watchers who might be on the buttes. The
two troopers, meanwhile, lay down on the edge of the ridge to wait
developments. As soon as they were out of sight of the buttes, the boys
turned north and ran for some distance, then swinging east again
regained the edge of the ridge opposite the open ground below. Here they
could not be seen from any except the northernmost butte and, hastening
down the slope, they ran across to the base of this butte and around to
its farther side. Looking up, they saw two Indians lying behind the top
of the next adjoining eminence, peeping over at the two soldiers across
the valley. Simultaneously the three adventurers fired. The head of one
of the warriors dropped between his outstretched arms and he lay still
without a struggle. His companion sprang to his feet, cast one terrified
glance at the unexpected assailants below him and leaped with a few long
bounds down the steep slope into the ravine at its base and around the
third butte, where he disappeared. Al and Wallace gave a shout, in which
the Indian scout joined, and Al ran on in the direction taken by the
warrior, followed by Wallace. But the scout hesitated.
"Maybe better go back now, eh?" he called.
"Oh, no; come on!" Al shouted back. "We can get out anywhere and we've
got him on the run."
The scout said no more, but followed. They passed the ravine and the
base of the next butte, and came to the gully between that and the
fourth and last eminence to the south. From this eminence a little ridge
ran eastward out across the open ground. As they came toward it an
Indian rose half his height behind it, then, seeing them, dropped down
again. Al ran to the left to get around behind him, and, as he did so,
Wallace and the scout both saw another warrior, farther up on the fourth
butte, stand erect and aim at him.
"Look out, Al!" shouted Wallace.
"Drop, Briscoe!" cried the guide at the same instant, and Al
instinctively flung himself full length upon the ground just as the
Indian fired. The bullet passed over him; but at this moment Wallace
noticed still another hostile raise his head above the ridge and look
eagerly toward Al. He had no time to interpret the glance, but the
thought came to him that more Indians were showing themselves than he
had expected, and he cried,
"Come on out, boys! They're getting too thick."
Followed by his companions, he sprang into the gully close at hand,
expecting to see the valley beyond and the prairie ridge where the two
Iowa soldiers were lying. But, instead, a few yards up the trench-like
gulch he came to a sharp turn. As he rounded it, he caught a glimpse of
several Indians crouching down a little farther on, their guns cocked
and ready, and he dodged back again, almost colliding with Al and the
scout, behind him.
"I guess we're goners," he exclaimed, as he heard the swift patter of
moccasined feet behind and on the edges of the gully above them. "Oh,
what an idiot I was to get you fellows and myself into this. It's my
fault."
"No, it isn't, Wallace," declared Al. "It's mine. If I'd minded this
scout, we'd have gotten back all right."
But at this moment, which it seemed evident must be their last, they
heard a deep, commanding voice speak a few rapid words in the Sioux
tongue, and the sound of footsteps ceased.
"They're going to rush us," whispered Al, his voice shaking but his
eyes still courageous. "Let's give them all the shots we can and then
kill ourselves. Good-bye, Wallace, old man,--and good-bye, mother, and
Annie, and Tommy," he added, to himself.
Thoroughly expecting death within a few seconds, he could hardly believe
his ears when he heard the same deep, masterful voice which had halted
their pursuers, say, loudly,
"Al Briscoe! Al Briscoe!"
Al, shaking and pale, looked at his companions, too amazed and
bewildered even to hear the Sioux words, unintelligible to him, which
followed his name. The mere utterance of the latter, in such a place and
under such circumstances, was of itself ominous and terrifying enough to
chill his blood, for it seemed to single him out from his companions for
some special and horrible fate. But the Sioux scout looked at him
solemnly.
"You understand?" he asked.
"No," answered Al, shuddering.
"He say, 'Al Briscoe, I, Te-o-kun-ko, want talk with you.'"
"Te-o-kun-ko?" exclaimed Al, his strength coming back to him at that
familiar name. "Indeed, yes. If he does kill me, I shall at least find
out first."
He prepared to scramble up the side of the gully, but the scout
restrained him.
"No go till he say he not kill," said he.
"Ask him," Al replied.
The scout called out the question in Sioux and Te-o-kun-ko answered, a
note of surprise and satisfaction in his voice. The scout himself looked
relieved.
"He say, 'you got interpreter. Good!'" he repeated. "He say, 'come up
and bring him. We no kill.'"
There was nothing else to do, so the three scrambled to the top of the
gully, Wallace bringing up the rear. When he had regained his feet, Al
saw confronting him the superbly handsome figure of his brother's
captor, the muscles of his arms, the curve of his deep chest, his
proudly poised head, and eagle-like features, all mellowed and
harmonized in the soft glow of early twilight, until he looked more like
a bronze statue than a human being. The Indian was leaning on a long
rifle and he wore a short tunic, buckskin leggings, and moccasins, all
heavily embroidered with brilliant bead work, while a splendid war
bonnet of brightly colored feathers hung from his head nearly to the
ground. A handsome necklace of bears' claws, fastened around his neck
and depending over his massive chest, completed a costume of savage
magnificence strikingly becoming to this lord of the prairies. A few
feet behind him stood a dozen or more warriors, their guns lying across
their arms. They were as silent and motionless as Te-o-kun-ko, but the
glances of sullen animosity which they flashed at Al and his companions
showed clearly enough that it was only the strong hand of their leader
which restrained them from instantly slaying the white boys and their
Indian comrade.
Te-o-kun-ko did not move as his three involuntary guests came up before
him but, leaning on his rifle, he regarded Al with a gaze so keen and
steadfast that the latter's eyes wavered, and to break the silence he
said,
"How."
"How, Al Briscoe," replied the Indian, still without moving.
A rush of indignation suddenly swept over Al as he remembered who this
man was.
"Ask him," said he, sharply, to the scout, "where my brother is."
He was determined to learn at least this much before anything could
happen to prevent.
The question was repeated, but Te-o-kun-ko did not reply immediately. At
length he said, through the interpreter,
"You are bold for a boy, Al Briscoe. Do you hold your life of no value
that you demand your brother now, when you are in my power?"
"I hold his life of more value than my own, Te-o-kun-ko," replied Al,
stoutly. "Would you not feel the same for your brother?"
The Indian flashed a look at him which seemed almost one of sympathy.
"Yes," said he, and paused. Presently he went on, "If you were not brave
you would not be worthy of such a brother. But I knew that you were
brave the day I took him from you beyond the Yellow Medicine, and I
knew it better eleven suns ago when you came after me like a hungry wolf
under the shadow of Tahkahokuty. So I will tell you."
He paused again, as if reflecting, then continued in the following
words, uttering them deliberately, and they were interpreted, phrase
after phrase, by the Sioux scout:
"Your brother was such a one as should have been an Indian, and so I
thought to make him. He fears neither the darkness nor the flood nor the
lightning, the buffalo stampede nor the rush and shouting of armed men.
No lad of my tribe can shoot straighter than he and he rides a horse as
the gray goose rides the north wind. He learned our speech more quickly
than a Cheyenne, of our own race, could have learned it, and he came to
love our life; I know, for he told me so, often. And he loved me, who
sought to be as his father, and my squaw, Techon-su-mons-ka (The
Sandbar), and his foster brothers and sisters, Mah-to-che-ga (The Little
Bear), Ka-pes-ka-da (The Shell), and Mong-shong-sha (The Bending
Willow). Your brother himself I called Pah-ta-ustah (Fire Eyes), and so
the tribe will ever know him.
"But even after I came to be chief of my band, twelve moons ago, when
the old chief was killed in battle with the Crows beyond the river where
the elks drink (the Yellowstone), he would talk to me of his own people.
He would talk of his father and mother and you, Al Briscoe, and of a
girl papoose he called Annie, and of the place where he once lived, far
in the South, where there is more forest than prairie, and where many
trees bear upon their branches red and yellow fruit larger than the
largest plums we know. Many and many a time I have talked with him of
those things in the hours when the sun has gone to sleep and the tepee
fires wink back at the stars. And since he grieved always for those who
had been his family, and since I knew that I had been one to stand by
while his father was killed (which was a bad deed and hurt my heart) it
came to me at last that I must put him in the way to go back to his own
people. It is true, too, that the life of the Indian is not now, and
never will be any more, what it was in the past. Our days are numbered
in the land of our fathers, and those who are young among us have little
to look forward to."
Te-o-kun-ko spoke the last sentences sadly, looking far off into the
yellow western sky as if he saw there visions of the last refuge of his
race. Then he threw back his head and concluded, abruptly,
"So I took him southward and one moon ago I left him at the trading post
above the mouth of the Wak-pah-shika (Bad River), which is called Fort
La Framboise. Then I sped back to bear my part in the battle against
your army."
"What?" exclaimed Al, in great excitement, stepping close to Te-o-kun-ko
as the scout interpreted his last sentences, "You took him to Fort La
Framboise? He is there now?"
The Indian inclined his head slowly.
"Yes," he replied, "if he has not already gone to the southward."
Al pressed his hand to his brow. His mind was in a whirl of
bewilderment.
"Tommy at Fort La Framboise, and I here!" he exclaimed aloud, but
speaking only to himself. "What shall I do now?" Then another idea
occurred to him. "How do I know this is true?" he demanded, bold beyond
discretion in his anxiety and satisfied, anyway, that he and his
companions would be killed at the end of the interview. "Perhaps you
still have him; perhaps he is dead."
But the Indian ignored the reflection upon his honesty.
"I tell you the truth, Al Briscoe," he asserted, solemnly.
He spoke Al's full name always, as if it were one word, as he doubtless
thought it was. Then he lifted the necklace of bear's claws hanging
around his neck and held it toward Al. At the bottom of it, between the
two largest claws, was fastened a small ring of chased gold, its surface
much worn, which Al instantly recognized as Tommy's.
"This he gave to me when I left him at Fort La Framboise," said he, "as
a keepsake and a promise. And the promise was that he would come back
some day, either to stay or to visit us, who are his Sioux kindred."
"So?" replied Al. He was beginning to realize dimly that Tommy must
have had some very good reasons for his attachment to this magnificent
warrior and his family, for he could hardly doubt longer the truth of
what Te-o-kun-ko was telling him. The circumstances under which they
were speaking together were not such as to tempt the Indian to deceit or
apologies; for he was certainly master of the situation, and could
either seize or kill Al and those with him whenever he wished. There was
a moment's silence. Then Te-o-kun-ko stepped back and laid his rifle
across his arm.
"You may go now, Al Briscoe," he said; "you and those with you."
"What?" cried Al, who had dared expect nothing but death. "You are going
to spare our lives?"
"You may go in peace," responded the Sioux. "I do it for the sake of
Pah-ta-ustah. Tell him so when you see him."
He stopped a moment, as if seeking words in which to express some
oppressive thought. Then he went on,
"Your brother, Al Briscoe, knows not that his father is dead. I lacked
ever the heart to tell him. But when you do so, tell him, likewise,
that I, Te-o-kun-ko, have none of his blood on my hands. I fired no shot
on that day at the place where you lived, though I did enough in all the
time we were killing and burning along the Minnesota. My thoughts were
on fire with the madness of slaughter, as were those of all who were
there. Since then my mind has cleared and I know that the things which
we did to the whites in Minnesota were bad; bad clear through. But we
have been paying for them ever since; we are paying now, and is not the
price even yet great enough? You have killed two, yes, four, of our men
and women and children, for every one that we slew over there. You have
burned our lodges and our robes and our winter meat; we shall starve and
freeze in the time of snows which is soon to come. But it is the price,
and we are paying."
A sudden impulse, mingled of admiration, gratitude and pity, seized Al
toward this strange savage, so proud and yet so humble; so cold and yet
so generous. He stepped forward and held out his hand.
"Will you not come in with us, Te-o-kun-ko?" he asked, "and make your
peace with the Great Father? Why fight any longer? Can you not see that
it is hopeless; that the red men can never prevail against the power and
the numbers of the whites?"
The chief ignored the friendly, outstretched hand, but he looked at Al
frankly, even though defiantly. "No, Al Briscoe," he made answer,
firmly. "You and I are enemies. And while my people have strength left
to fight the white men, we will be enemies. I know that what you say is
true, though many of my people will not yet believe it. The whites will
conquer in the end and take from us the last of this, our great, free,
beautiful land to which they have no right except the right of being
strong enough. But at least the Indian can fight to the end and die as a
warrior should, with his face toward his foes, while his soul goes up in
the battle smoke to the Happy Hunting Grounds of Wakon Tonka (the Great
Spirit). No, Al Briscoe, I have no friend among the white men save only
Pah-ta-ustah, your brother. Go quickly, for when you are on the prairie
once more, I shall hold back my braves no longer, and you will be
killed if you delay or come back. Go!"
"Come on," said Al in a low tone to his companions. They turned and
walked rapidly along the base of the butte toward the narrow valley west
of it. As they passed its farther side, Al looked back. Te-o-kun-ko
still stood as they had left him, a shadowy figure in the gathering
dusk, regarding them with haughty attention, his rifle across his left
arm. Only now his right hand was raised in a restraining gesture against
his followers, who were crowding up behind him, cocking their guns and
cursing in tones which grew rapidly louder and more threatening as they
looked after their escaping victims.
Passing behind an angle of rock, Al exclaimed,
"Run! He can't hold them much longer!"
The three dashed across the narrow valley at top speed and almost as
rapidly scrambled up the steep slope to the prairie, where they
encountered the two cavalrymen, pale and excited.
"Good God, where have you been?" ejaculated one of the soldiers. "We
thought you were killed or captured. There hasn't been a shot for
twenty minutes."
"No, but there will be in about twenty seconds," Al responded. "Come,
come! Keep running."
Away they went toward the camp, hastened by a chorus of fierce war
whoops from the valley and then by the patter of shots as a number of
Te-o-kun-ko's warriors came over the edge of the prairie a hundred yards
behind and raced after them. The bullets, however, sang harmlessly by
and in a moment half a hundred of their own men, hearing the firing,
came running to their rescue; whereupon the Sioux gave up the chase and
fell back into the Bad Lands as night descended.
The three self-appointed raiders returned to camp, Wallace and the
Indian scout with feelings of unmixed delight and thanksgiving over
their escape, Al with several new problems to perplex him. He had been
greatly relieved by Te-o-kun-ko's statements concerning Tommy's devotion
to the memory of his family, which showed that the little boy's strength
of affection had prevailed over what must have been a very great liking
for the life of the Indians. But, though the persistence of this
affection on Tommy's part had finally induced his captor to give him his
liberty, Al could by no means feel sure that such liberty might not be
more dangerous for his brother than captivity had been. Had he been
surrendered to the army, or at an army post, Al would have felt no
anxiety, for he would have known that the boy would receive the best of
care and be sent to his home safe and as promptly as possible. But what
would such a mere child do among the hardened trappers and frontiersmen
of Fort La Framboise, which Al knew was nothing more than a small
trading-post of La Barge, Harkness and Company, fur traders of St.
Louis? Tommy could have no idea of where his relatives were now and
would be more likely to try to reach Minnesota than any other place.
Moreover, if started off by the traders in that direction or even on a
steamboat toward St. Louis, he knew nothing of travelling and might
easily go astray or fall into dangerous company.
Al lay awake for a long time that night thinking over these problems and
decided that next day he would talk them over with General Sully and ask
his advice. But at daylight the movement of the army into column
brought on an immediate renewal of the enemy's resistance; and for many
hours, until the middle of the afternoon, the battle continued as hotly
contested as on the previous day. Neither the General nor Al himself had
a moment to think of anything except the gigantic task of repelling the
Indian attacks.
Just before noon, Wallace was riding in from the left flank, where he
had delivered a message to Major Brackett, when he was struck in the
left arm, between shoulder and elbow, by a stray bullet. The wound soon
became very painful and Wallace was obliged to dismount and go into an
ambulance, where a surgeon extracted the bullet and made him as
comfortable as possible. But Al, much as he was grieved over his
friend's misfortune, could barely find time to spend a moment with him
before hurrying back to his own pressing duties.
About mid-afternoon the country began to grow more level and the
marching easier. The Indians, apparently discouraged, gradually ceased
their attacks and at length the advance guard, mounting a rise from
which a wide extent of country was visible in front, saw the last of the
hostile army, several miles away to the southward, disappearing in a
cloud of dust.
Hearty cheers arose from the whole army as the good news spread, for it
was clear the final victory was won. A short halt was ordered and while
it lasted the two bands with the Minnesota Brigade, one silver and the
other brass, vied with each other in playing triumphant and patriotic
airs, to the great delight of the men, who fully believed that the worst
of their hardships were now over. But, unfortunately, experiences were
yet in store for them not less distressing than those they had already
passed through, though somewhat different in character.