St. Louis by the middle of March,’ and then I thanked him extravagantly
for this last and greatest of favours. All the time I hated the man
more pitilessly than ever before because of his shallowness in hoping
to flatter me into getting myself frozen to death.
“I started the next day with 1700 miles of frozen prairie before me. I
felt a strange joy at the thought of my hardships. Once again I would
have the joy of seeing disappointment in the eyes of my enemy, and
my soul could laugh again. I say I was glad to go, even though I was
obliged to leave Pelagie behind at a time when the post was ravaged
with the smallpox.
“It was a trip to make one love hell by comparison. Nothing but my hate
sustained me. On March 10th I delivered the written message to the
official at St. Louis. He read it wonderingly.
“‘What!’ said he; ‘have you walked from Union to deliver _this_?’
“I stated that I had and he shook his head, frowned and dismissed me. I
never knew what was in that message. I surmise that it was nothing of
much importance.
“When the first boat started up the river for the North I went with
it and arrived at Fort Union in late June. Latour was at the landing
when the boat pulled in. He threw his arms about my neck and actually
kissed me upon the cheek. He then and there made me his private clerk
with my former salary doubled. He treated me as a brother.
“But I saw in the depth of his eyes the soul-fret of a wounded beast.
“When we reached his office walking arm in arm, he gently told me of
the serious sickness of Pelagie, and how he had looked after her like a
brother through the hard winter.
“I hurried to my home. I found Pelagie delirious with the fever of
smallpox. All that night I sat beside her, my heart aching, for I felt
that she would die.
“And for the time I forgot my hate for Latour, until, in her feverish
tossing about, she threw her bare arm over the side of the bed. Then
I saw that which made me shiver with a desire to kill. There was a
scratch on the arm, and the flesh about it was swollen and blue. It
came to me that Latour had caused her to be inoculated that she might
die before my return, and thus make my heart sore that he might see.
“I grasped the dirk and ran wildly out of the house in search of
Latour. I reached his door. Then I faltered. It was not fear that made
me falter. It was that I knew my revenge could not be completed in this
way. I wanted to see him suffer more than I had ever suffered. Also I
wished to come away with clean hands. I did not know how it could be
done then, but I trusted to some mysterious power that had seemed to be
with me all through my terrible winter tramp.
“I stole back to the bedside of Pelagie. She died at dawn.
“Latour mourned with me. He wept and spoke touchingly of his own wife.
I gritted my teeth and strained every nerve to keep from choking him.
“The summer passed. Latour was so kind that I often found it an effort
to keep alive my belief in his treachery. And at other times, I was
obliged to leave him abruptly, feeling a madness in my blood for
striking him down, trampling him, tearing him with my teeth and nails.
“Oh, all the great actors have not appeared upon the stage! I must
confess that Nature and Zephyr Recontre killed a great actor!
“The fall came, and our friendship did not abate. I began to fear that
my chance would never come, and I would be obliged to kill him as one
brute kills another. Many nights I lay awake shaping impossible schemes
of revenge that were rejected in the sanity of the morning.
“In the first week of October I had occasion for a great joy. Latour
called me to his office and stated that certain conditions of the trade
which had been wholly unforeseen, made it necessary that he should
be in St. Louis before the winter set in. Unfortunately, the last
steamboat had left Fort Union for the South, making it necessary that
the trip be made in a mackinaw boat. Would I, his dearest friend,
consent to accompany him on the trip?
“With a studied reluctance that hid my insane joy, I consented. Latour
left a clerk in charge of affairs, and we started. We made very slow
progress, as we depended almost entirely upon the current, having no
oars, and there being little wind to fill the square sail we carried.
“This was as I wished it to be. I kept longing for the ice to come down
and shut us in. Time and again I managed to run the boat aground on
bars in order to kill time. Latour seemed not to notice this. In fact,
he was unusually pleasant in his bearing toward me.
“We had a small hut built on the mackinaw, fitted with two bunks, and a
small box stove for cooking. When we tied up to the shore for the night
and turned in, I was often obliged to choke back laughter at the comedy
that we played—a grim comedy. Each of us would at once feign deep
slumber, ever now and then opening our eyes to see how the other slept.
Once our eyes chanced to meet in the dim candle light of the room, for
Latour insisted upon the candle. We both grinned and rolled over.
“Our understanding seemed perfect; and yet, owing to the devilish
refinement of our mutual hate, neither really feared any vulgar act of
violence from the other. We knew that the thing would not be done in
that way.
“We had made about five hundred miles down stream into the very heart
of the wilderness, when the ice began running. Within twenty-four hours
after that, we were frozen in. A heavy snow began falling and continued
for a week. It lay three feet deep upon the level, and was so light as
to make it impossible to take the trail.
“Latour and I merrily set about to chop wood, not knowing how long we
might be forced to live in the little cabin of the mackinaw.
“We had brought only about half enough provisions for the trip, having
depended upon hunting for much of our food, as there was a great deal
of game in those days. The deep snow made it impossible to get much
game, so that in less than two weeks our little supply of lyed corn was
almost exhausted.
“One morning Latour said that he was sick, and remained in his bunk. At
first I looked upon this with suspicion, thinking that he thus sought
to throw the duties of seeking game wholly upon me, who had proved
myself so capable and willing. But the next morning I knew it was no
sham, for he had a high fever, and was delirious at times. You see, he
had been used to luxury, and his feeble constitution had not been equal
to the thorough soaking we got while chopping wood in the deep snow.
“Often in his delirium he linked my name with bitter curses. At last
he had betrayed his hate, and I smiled, knowing that he would lose the
game at last, since he no longer had the cunning to continue it.
“Again it began to snow; it was a hard winter. Much as I might have
wished to seek game for my sick enemy, I could not even seek it for
myself. Nature had taken a hand in the game; I began to feel her
master-touch in the bitter scheme of things. She seemed determined to
starve us both; but I knew that I could last longer than Latour with
his constitution weakened by too much easy life.
“So I blessed the snow as it deepened. Latour would die before my eyes;
and then afterward I too would die, the winner of the game. It would
be a most sublime revenge, it seemed to me; for I think I was hardly
sane when I was near Jules Latour. It would be like Samson crushing his
enemies and himself together. No one could blame me, should our bodies
be found. I would have had my revenge and still none could blame me.
“There was a small quantity of lyed corn left. I ate sparingly of this,
carefully saving Latour’s share for him when he should wish to eat.
“One morning he awoke from his delirium; he asked for food.
“‘I have saved your share for you,’ said I. ‘I might have eaten it, for
I think we shall starve to death in a week or so. The snow is too deep
and soft for hunting. Still I have divided fair with you, remembering
your great kindness to Pelagie, remembering your great kindness in
allowing me to distinguish myself among the Blackfeet, remembering your
generosity in allowing me to take your message to St. Louis. Do you
remember?’
“He groaned, and his eyes became cold and savage, like a starved wolf’s.
“I gave him his lyed corn and he ate. His delirium returned. He cursed
Recontre bitterly. He clenched his feverish, white hands about the
imaginary neck of Zephyr Recontre; and I smiled.
“In two days more all the lyed corn had been eaten. In the meanwhile
the surface of the snow had hardened with the intense cold. I could
have hunted, for I was not yet too weak, and there was a gun and
plenty of ammunition. But I did not go hunting. I saw Latour weakening
rapidly. He might die during my absence, and I would thus lose the
sweetness of my revenge. It seemed to me that this would be like
selling my birthright for a mess of pottage.
“I could have taken the gun and gone south over the snow to Fort
Pierre, several hundred miles down the river. But I did not go. Latour
had not died yet After he died, if I could still walk, I might go.
“All day I sat beside the little box stove, gazing upon Latour. At
night I slept lightly, awakening often to see how fever and hunger
dealt with Latour. He might die while I slept.
“One day in December, I cannot remember just when, for I myself was
often delirious with hunger, Latour again awakened from delirium.
“‘Food, food!’ he gasped. ‘For God’s sake, Recontre, don’t let a man
starve like this! Let’s make it up between us; only give me something
to eat!’
“His voice was thin like a sick woman’s. His face was the face of a
damned man.
“‘Make what up?’ I said sweetly. My voice was also thin. I struggled
continuously with a terrible giddiness. I felt as one in a nightmare.
I, too, was starving.
“Latour stared upon me with tears in his faded eyes, and groaned. I,
too, fetched tears; it was easy to weep in my weakened condition.
“‘I have no food,’ said I; ‘neither can I go in search of any. I am
starving, and the snow is deep. Would I not go if I could? Would I not
go for _you?_ Can I forget Pelagie and the Blackfeet trip? Can I forget
the winter trip to St. Louis?’
“Latour fainted. I shouted feebly with an insane joy; I thought he had
died.
“In a few moments he revived, and again begged piteously for food. I
wept, and said there was none. Then he became delirious and cursed me
like a devil. I never heard such cursing before nor since.
“And the strange thing about it all was that I pitied Latour. But my
hate had become a mania; I could not relent.
“What passed after that hour I cannot remember with distinctness.
Dreams were real, and reality was a dream. I only remember in a vague
way, as though it had happened in a nightmare, that Latour died cursing
me; that I sang and shouted; that I crawled out of the hut on my hands
and knees, laughing and shouting, and that I saw a band of men coming
over the frozen snow from the direction of Fort Pierre. I remember
hearing them call my name as with the voices of a dream. I remember
that I cried out, ‘Latour has just died!’ And then I remember laughing
and crying, not knowing why I did.
“I remember that these men gave me food—warm food—and that after a long
sleep I awoke and saw a Jesuit missionary kneeling at my bedside.
“It was then that I tasted the full sweetness of my triumph. The priest
was _blessing me!_ He spoke of the Christlike kindness of Zephyr
Recontre, who had not deserted his sick master.
“I did not see Latour again. The Jesuit’s party had chopped a hole in
the ice and had given his body to the river.”
VII
THE SINGER OF THE ACHE
_The Old Omaha Speaks_
NOW this is the story of one who walked not with his people, but with a
dream.
To you I tell it, O White Brother, yet is it not for you, unless you
also have followed the long trail of hunger and thirst—the trail that
leads to no lodge upon the high places or the low places, by flowing
streams or where the sand wastes lie.
It shall be as the talking of a strange tribe to you, unless you also
have peered down the endless trail, with eyes that ached and dried up
as dust, and felt your pony growing leaner and shadow-thin beneath
you as you rode, until at last you sat upon a quiet heap of bones and
peered and peered ahead.
Moon-Walker was he called—he who walked for the moon. But that was
after he had called his pony from the grazing places and mounted for
the long ride. Yet was there a time when he ran about among the lodges
laughing very merrily with many boys and girls, who played with hoop
and spear, made little bloodless wars upon unseen peoples, and played
in little ways the big, sad games of men. And then he was called by
many names, and all of the names, though different, meant that he was
happy.
But once his mother and his father saw how that a man began to look out
of his eyes, began to hear a man talking in his throat; and so they
said: “It is the time for him to dream.”
So they sent him at nightfall to the hill of dreams—as is the custom of
our people.
_Wahoo!_ the bitter hill of dreams! Many have I seen go up there
laughing, but always they came down with halting feet and with sadness
in their faces. And among these many, lo! even I who speak—therefore
should my words be heard.
And he of the many names went up into the hill of dreams and dreamed.
And in through the mists that strange winds blow over the hills of
sleep burst a white light, as though the moon had grown so big that
all the sky was filled from rim to rim, leaving no place for sun and
stars. And upon the surface of the white light floated a face, an awful
face—whiter than the light upon which it floated; and so beautiful to
see that he of the many happy names ached through all his limbs, and
cried out and woke. Then leaping to his feet, he gazed about, and all
the stars had grown so small that he looked thrice and hard before he
saw them; and the world was shrunken.
And frightened at the strangeness of all things, he fled down the
hillside into the village. His mother and his father he wakened with
bitter crying.
“How came the dream?” they whispered; for upon the face of him who went
up a boy they saw that which only many years should bring; and in his
eyes there was a strange light.
“A face! a face!” he whispered. “I saw the face of the Woman of the
Moon! Whiter than snow, it was, and over it a pale flame went! Oh,
never have I seen so fair a face; and there was something hidden in it
swift as lightning; something that would be thunder if it spoke; and
also there was something kind as rain that falls upon a place of aching
heat. Into the north it looked, high up to where the lonesome star
hangs patient.
“And there was a dazzle of white breasts beneath, half-hidden in a
thin blanket of mist. And on her head, big drifts of yellow hair; not
hanging loose as does your hair, O mother, but heaped like clouds that
burn above the sunset. My breast aches for something I cannot name. And
now I think that I can never play again!”
And there was a shaking of heads in that lodge, and a wondering, for
this was not good. Not so had others, big in deeds, dreamed upon the
hill in former times. Always there had been a coming of bird, or beast,
or reptile, wrapped in the mystery of strange words; or there had been
the cries of fighting men, riding upon a hissing of hot breaths; or
there had been a stamping of ponies, or the thin, mad song of arrows.
But here it was not so, and the mother said:
“Many times the false dreams come at first, and then at last the true
one comes. May it not be so with him?”
And the father said: “It may be so with him.”
So once again up the hill of dreams went the boy. And because of the
words of his father and mother, he wept and smeared his face with dust;
his muddy hands he lifted to the stars. And he raised an earnest voice:
“O Wakunda! send me a man’s dream, for I wish to be a big man in my
village, strong to fight and hunt. The woman’s face is good to see,
but I cannot laugh for the memory of it. And there is an aching in my
breast. O Wakunda! send me the dream of a man!”
* * * * *
And he slept. And in the middle of the night, when shapeless things
come up out of the hills, and beasts and birds talk together with the
tongues of men, his dream came back.
Even as before the moon-face floated in a lake of cold white fire—a
lake that drowned the stars. And as he reached to push it from him, lo!
like a white stem growing downward from a flower, a body grew beneath
it! And there was a flashing of white lightning, and the Woman of the
Moon stood before him.
Then was there a burning in the blood of the boy, as she stooped with
arms held wide; and he was wrapped about as with a white fire, through
which the face grew down with lips that burned his lips as they
touched, and sent pale lightnings flashing through him.
And as the dream woman turned to run swiftly back up the star-trails he
who dreamed reached out his arms and clutched at the garments of light
that he might hold the thing that fled, for dearer than life it seemed
to him now.
And he woke. His face was in the dust. His clutching hands were full of
dust.
_Wahoo!_ the bitter hill of dreams! Have you climbed it, O White
Brother, even as I?
And in the morning he told the dream to his father, who frowned; to his
mother—and she wept. And they said: “This is not a warrior’s dream, nor
is it the dream of a Holy Man; nor yet is it the vision of a mighty
bison hunter. Some strange new trail this boy shall follow—a cloudy,
cloudy trail! Yet let him go a third time to the hill—may not the true
dream linger?”
And the boy went up again; his step was light; his heart sang wildly in
his breast. For once again he wished to see the Woman of the Moon.
But no dream came. And in the morning the pinch of grief was upon his
face and he shook his fists at the laughing Day. Then did he and a
great Ache walk down the hill together. All things were little and
nothing good to see. And in among his people he went, staring with eyes
that burned as with a fever, and lo! he was a stranger walking there!
Only the Dream walked with him.
And the sunlight burned the blue, much-beaded tepee of the sky, and
left it black; and as it burned and blackened, burned and blackened,
he who dreamed the strange dream found no pleasure in the ways of men.
Only in gazing upon the round moon did he find pleasure. And when even
this was hidden from him for many nights and days he went about with
drooping head, and an ache was in his eyes.
And in these days he made wild songs; for never do the happy ones make
songs—they only sing them. Songs that none had heard he made. Not such
as toilers make to shout about the camp fires when the meat goes round.
Yet was the thick, hot dust of weary trails blown through them, and
cries of dying warriors, and shrieks of widowed women, and whimpering
of sick _zhinga zhingas_; and also there was in them the pang of big
man-hearts, the ache of toiling women’s backs, the hunger, the thirst,
the wish to live, the fear to die!
So the people said: “Who is this _nu zhinga_ who sings of trails he
never followed, of battles he never fought? No father is he—and yet he
sings as one who has lost a son! Of the pain of love he sings—yet never
has he looked upon a girl!”
And it was the way of the boy to answer: “I seek what I do not find,
and so I sing!”
And the nights and days made summers and winters, and thus it was with
the Singer of the Ache. He grew tall even to the height of a man—yet
was he no man. For little did he care to hunt, and the love of battles
was not his. Nor his the laughter of the feast fires. Nor did he look
upon the face of any maiden with soft eyes.
And the father and mother, who felt the first frosts upon their heads,
said: “Our son is now a man; should he not build a lodge and fill it
with a woman? Should we not hear the laughter of _zhinga zhingas_ once
again before we take the black trail together?”
And because his father had many ponies, many maidens were brought
before him for his choosing. But he looked coldly upon them and he
said: “The stars are my sisters and my brothers, and the Moon is my
wife, giving me songs for children. Soon shall there be a long trail
for me.”
Thereat a cry went up against him and more and more he walked a
stranger. Only the Dream walked with him; and he sang the songs that
ache.
Harsh words the father spoke: “Does the tribe need songs? Can hungry
people eat a silly shout, or will enemies be conquered with a singing?”
But the mother wept and said: “Say not so of him. Do not his songs
bring tears, so strange and sweet they are at times? Does a man quarrel
with the vessel from which he drinks sweet waters, even if it be broken
and useless for the cooking?”
And the father frowned and said: “Give me many laughers, and I will
conquer all the enemies and fill all the kettles of the feasts! Let the
weepers and makers of tears drag wood with the women. Always have I
been a fighter of battles and a killer of bison. This is not my son!”
And it happened one night that the Singer stood alone in the midst of
his people, when the round Moon raised a shining forehead out of the
dark, and grew big and flooded all the hills with white light. And the
Singer raised his arms to it and sang as one who loves might sing to a
maiden coming forth flashing with many beads from her tepee.
And the people laughed and a mutter ran about: “To whom does the fool
sing thus?”
Soft, shining eyes he turned upon them, and he said: “Even to the Woman
of the Moon! See where she looks into the North with white face raised
to where the lonesome star hangs patient!”
And the people said: “This is the talk of a fool—no woman do we see!”
And then the Singer sang a new song through which these words ran
often: “Only he sees who can—only he sees who can!”
So now he walked a fool among his people, singing the songs that ache.
_Wahoo!_ bitter it is to be a fool! And yet, O White Brother, only they
who have been fools are wise at last!
And it happened one summer that the village was builded in the flat
lands by the Big Smoky Water. And there came snoring up the stream a
_monda geeung_, the magic fire-boat of the palefaces. Up to the shore
it swam, and they who guided it tied it to the sand, for its fires were
hungry and there was much wood in our lands.
And all the villagers gathered there to see the magic swimmer of the
palefaces; and among them came the lonesome singing fool.
And it happened that a woman of the palefaces came forth and stood high
up, and looked upon us, smiling. White as a snowfall in the late spring
was her face, and her hair was like the sun upon a cloud. And we all
stared wide-mouthed upon her, for never before had her kind come into
the prairies.
Also stared the fool. Even long after all the people had gone he
stared; even until the smoky breath of the fire-boat writhed like a big
black serpent out of the place where the stream runs out of the sky.
And then he laid his head upon his knees and wept; for a longing,
bigger than the wish to live, or the fear to die, had come upon him.
Very early in the morning, when the sleep of all things is deepest,
he arose from sleepless blankets. He called his pony from the grazing
places, and he mounted for a long ride. Into the North he rode, and
as he rode he talked to himself and to the silence that clung about
him: “It was the Woman of the Moon! Into the North she went, even unto
the quiet place where the lonesome star hangs patient. There shall I
ride—there shall I ride! For there do all my songs take wings and fly;
and there at last their meanings await me. There shall I ride—there
shall I ride!”
And the fires of the day burned out the stars and died; downward and
inward rushed the black, black ashes of the night. And still he rode
toward the North.
And like the flashing of a midnight torch through a hole in a tepee
flashed the days and passed. And still he rode.
Through many villages of strange peoples did he ride, and everywhere
strange tongues and strange eyes questioned him; and he answered: “Into
the North I ride to find the Woman of the Moon!”
And the people pitied him, because he seemed as one whose head was
filled with ghostly things; and they fed him.
Further and further into the waste places he pushed, making the empty
spaces sweet and sad with his singing; and the winter came. Thin and
lean he grew, and his pony grew lean and thin.
And the white, mad spirits of the snow beat about the two. And now and
then snow ghosts writhed up out of the ground and twisted and twirled
and moaned, until they took on the shape of her he sought. And ever he
followed them; and ever they fell back into the ground. And the world
was bitter cold.
_Wahoo!_ the snow ghosts that we follow, O White Brother!