BY THE LIGHT OF A MATCH
A smudge was burning at the centre of the stockade. In its lee, to be
safe from the swarms of pestering mosquitoes, sat the hostage braves.
Their pipe-smoke blended with the smoke of the fire. Their loud
gibberish was broken only when shrieks of laughter followed a sally of
wit. Their black eyes sparkled. Their white teeth flashed.
Before them were their sons, now romping with the favoured dogs of the
pack; now gathering to watch a wrestling-match between a chosen couple;
again, lining the way while several raced down the enclosure.
The squaws and girls were also outside the lodges, the July night being
hot. They cackled together to the windward side of the lordly males, and
did not approach except to throw more wet sticks upon the smoulder.
The outcast watched the jollity from his dark corner, and marvelled at
it. For were there not two tragedies threatening, either of which
should, properly, lay hard upon the hearts of the village?
One was the nearing execution of the four condemned. Two sleeps ago, on
the arrival of a runner from the absent cavalry, a wood-wagon had hauled
several loads of lumber to the site of the pony corral. From that
lumber--it was said openly, and he had told it in sign-language to the
braves, was to be built--_a scaffold_!
The other tragedy hovered in the illness of Brown Mink. Since her lodge
had been placed against the upper curve of the pen, there had been much
singing, conjuring, dancing and beating of drums. But to no purpose.
Daily, she wasted. She was dying!
He was not allowed to see her, to tend her fire or clean her kettle.
When, on her removal, he had dared to stop at her tent-flap with a
string of pike, Afraid-of-a-Fawn swooped down upon him, her long tushes
clicking and frothing, snatched the wall-eyes from his hold and
belaboured him with them. He had not gone back. But, in secret, he
grieved over Brown Mink's suffering. And often he petitioned in her
behalf, and lifted his worshipping vine toward the Milky Way.
In his sorrow, his shoulders were bent lower than ever, his ebon eyes
were more doglike. Yet, he still dreamed of reinstatement, for he saw
(though he could not understand it) that the warriors were again
counting on escape!
They were unkempt no longer, but wore their hair neatly braided and
well-greased. They ate sparingly, and only twice a day. They almost
forswore water. And by covert exercise they trained away their flesh.
Standing Buffalo and his haughty comrades did not waddle now under a
weight of fat. As on the day of their capture, they were lank and
stately.
Rejoicing in their hopes, he, too, had not been without preparation. A
rusty knife found in a rubbish heap by the river had been polished by
thrusting it repeatedly into the dirt. In spare moments, he made himself
a sinew-backed bow, and practised many hours with it. He spent no time
in the lean-to--his guard there had ceased. The necessity for food did
not take him to the shack--his arrows brought down game which he cooked.
At any time, with a sharp stick, he could root up his fill of wild
turnips. He knew where ripe berries loaded the bushes, and where the
plums reddened in the thickets. And how could he chance staying out of
the stockade after midnight, when any dawn might find his brothers free?
Thoughts of Brown Mink alone took his mind from his dream. He yearned to
see her again, to mark how far disease had ravaged, to show her that
though all others were indifferent, he was not. And he had determined to
tell her farewell--to tell her that he would win back his lost rank. For
this, he would even break his vow of silence!
The end that he might gain her side hinged upon two things: His reaching
her wickie-up unseen, and the absence of the crone. These he hoped for
now, as he peered from his corner.
Despite the smudge he could see whatever went on in the stockade, for
the sky was clear, and the stars hung low. Before long his patience was
rewarded by a gradual quieting about the grouped wigwams. As the smoke
thinned for lack of fuel, the mosquitoes drove the braves, to their
beds. The squaws dispersed to attend them. The children, tired with
play, straggled after. The lengthening night brought a welcome coolness
with it. So a sentry soon roared a command from the board walk. Then the
only hostage that was left arose slowly, stretched himself, and
disappeared.
The dwindling pack were the last to lie down. Some wolves were
challenging saucily from the coulee mouth. The dogs answered them in
long-drawn wails. Finally the wolves took off up the river, and the
dogs scratched about to find a moist spot and nestled down. There was
silence now, except when a cur, dreaming of the chase, yapped in his
troubled sleep.
Squaw Charley crawled from under the roof and along the high wall, being
careful to mark the whereabouts of the brave that was always on the
watch. Above him paced the sentries. But these did not see him because
he kept in the shadow. Foot by foot he went, making toward Brown Mink's
tent.
At last he was so near to it that, reaching out an arm, he could touch
the base of a supporting pole. He drew back then, and squatted, his eyes
on the entrance. Thus, upwards of an hour went by. The time passed
quickly, for it was good to be near the beloved!
Crouched within the shelter of skins was another who waited--the hag.
She was looking down the stockade through a narrow slit. When she judged
that the sentries were growing less vigilant, she stood up. The outcast
heard the crack of her old joints. A moment, and she stepped out
stealthily and scanned the rim of the pen. Against the sky, the figure
of each sentry was plainly outlined. None was near. Softly, she padded
for the lodge of Standing Buffalo.
The pariah leaped up now, and took a swift step. But as his fingers
closed upon the edge of the tent-flap, a whispered summons made him
pause and glance around. There was a whispered reply, followed by steps
as swift as his own. He sank, rolling himself into a ball. He was not a
second too quick. Afraid-of-a-Fawn returned, with the chief at her
heel.
Again the outcast waited, and jealously. Those within also waited, for a
sentry was passing just above. Presently he was gone, and Charley leaned
forward and put his ear against the tent, when he heard the scratch of a
match.
It did not light, and there was a teasing laugh. The outcast sat up like
a startled gopher, one hand to his breast, one out before him. Again, a
scratch. A tiny flame flickered. Too amazed for fear, Charley put his
eye to the slit.
Both hands came up to drive back a cry. At the rear of the wickie-up,
the skins were pulled aside to reveal the stockade wall. Of this two
logs showed--hollowed out so completely at the base that they were mere
shells!
Before these logs, all kneeling, were the hag, Standing Buffalo and
Brown Mink. The chief held the match; the old woman, a knife; the girl
was empty-handed. But she was not ill--not wasted--not dying! She was
full-figured. Her face was round. Her cheeks and lips were as bright as
the dab of paint at the part in her hair--as crimson with health as a
gorgeous cactus-flower!
The match went out. Squaw Charley dropped back to the wall's shadow. His
heart was pounding madly with a twofold joy: The hacked logs assured
freedom for his brothers, for himself, fighting and rank. And she was
still to be won!
"The work is over," said a man's voice.
"And when comes the call of a dove?" asked a maid's.
"Perhaps when the moon dies."
"Who can tell?" It was the growl of the crone. "The Double-Tongue has
run to hole like a fox."
Once more there was silence. A sentry, as he neared, was humming an
unconscious warning. When he was gone again, there was more talk. But it
was low-toned, and Charley could not hear. He did not wait longer.
Slipping away a rod, he dropped on all fours.
When Standing Buffalo emerged and looked to see if he might safely
return, he observed that in the enclosure nothing moved but a dog, which
was going toward the shingle roof. So, composedly drawing his sheet of
cow's hide about him, he strode to his lodge.
* * * * *
Until daybreak, two Indians did not join the others in their rest. The
one sat harking for the call of a mourning-dove. The other sat
cross-legged beside the smudge; and as a splinter new and then revived
the fire, he wafted prayers of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit on its
upward-rising smoke.