I knew in a trice everything about her, except her name. I knew that she was brave, that she was gay, that she was full of wit and laughter, and that at heart she was as honest as she was gentle. I knew more than this - that here was the girl who had swept Chuck Morris out of his old life and into a new one. There could not be two like her - not at a small trading post or even in a great city - no more than two horses like White Smoke have ever trod the earth.
They pressed straight up to me, she still full of excitement, chattering to her father while he smiled and nodded. With every step of their horses her beauty grew out on me as though I were watching the unfolding of a great rose from bud to fall flower in a single moment.
Her father said, as he came closer and reined his horse: “My man, I wish to buy that horse for my daughter. What is your price? My name,” he added, “is John Kearney.”
To the end he had always a lofty manner and a proud habit of speech. But to me, accustomed to Three Buck Elk and Standing Bear and other chiefs with their natural dignity, the pride of white men, even the greatest of them, has always seemed an affectation. I prefer a downright, plain, frank man who doesn’t wear his name as if it were a tide.
“My name,” I said, “is Lewis Dorset.”
Before I could go any further he broke in: “Dorset? Dorset? My dear boy, are you one of the Rhode Island Dorsets? I heard that young Harry Dorset came west….”
I said: “I am not a Rhode Island Dorset, Mister Kearney. I come from Virginia.”
I saw the nose of the girl go up in the air a bit, and I said to myself: Young filly, for all your pride, perhaps I could teach you
your paces. The face of Kearney had turned cold at once as he went on: “Very well, Dorset. Now, the price of your horse. I’m in a trifling hurry and cannot wait.”
“This horse,” I said, “no woman can ride.”
There was a faint exclamation of injured pride from the girl. “Give me time, Dad,” she hastened to assure him, “and I’ll ride anything that calls itself a horse. You know that I can.”
“Certainly. Certainly,” said Kearney, and he brushed my objection into the thinnest air. He continued: “Now, Dorset, let me have your price, if you please. I suppose it will be high enough. But I am not here to strike a bargain. I must have that horse.”
“Very well,” I said, “then we have to find a basis for working out the price. What would you say the lives of six men are worth?”
He stared at me for a moment, and then he said with a bit of acid in his voice: “You come from a slave state, Dorset. I abhor slavery. Therefore, I presume you can answer that question better than I?”
There was a flare of red across my eyes. He was only about forty-five, fit as a fiddle, not a whit too old for a fight. I wanted to smash him to bits. But the very sense of my greater strength held me back, as such a sense will hold any man of decency.
“I am speaking of free men,” I said.
“The price of freedom,” said Kearney with a ring in his voice, “is ten hundredweight of diamonds.”
He had been in politics, and he couldn’t help turning out these stump-speech phrases every now and then. No more than he could help running his eyes over the little crowd that had gathered around us, harvesting the murmur of their applause and smiling as they nodded.
“Well, pay down sixty hundredweight of diamonds, and you get my horse, but not before.”
It was his turn to grow hot then. He glared at me and surveyed my rough deerskins. I have said before that I never was famous even among the Indians for a good appearance. I wore now the same ragged suit that had been on me when I finished the hunt for White Smoke. It was a mass of tatters, held together with rough patching.
“I am not a professional jester,” said Kearney stiffly. “Now, Dorset, I shall pay real money. That is a fine animal. I’ll give you four hundred dollars.”
He reached for his purse. It was as big as a provision bag, and it clinked with the gold in it. It was too good an opening for me to miss. I hit back as straight as I could.
“If your own horse was gold, and the saddle on its back was gold, and the man in the saddle was gold, you could not trade yourself and your horse for White Smoke.”
I had not meant to bring out that famous name - it simply slipped out of my lips naturally, and I could have cursed, afterward, because I knew that if men wanted to buy that horse before, they would want to murder me for the stallion now. At least that name did one good thing - it covered up the insulting manner of my remark to Kearney and brought a gasp from him and from the crowd while Mary was simply turned speechless. Kearney jerked back his horse to get a better view of the big animal.
“Great heavens, man,” he said, “is that the horse of the fable? Is that White Smoke?”
“It is.,,
Here a big voice from a big man sounded. “That’s a lie and a loud lie! I’ve hunted White Smoke for a month and seen him a dozen times. Why, this here hoss ain’t white at all…he’s gray.”
What kept me from putting a bullet through his head I have never understood. My good angel must have laid a hand on my arm. I merely turned on him while he was still blustering.
“Among the people where I have been living,” I said, “the rule is to kill a fool while he’s still talking. But white men give fools a second chance and a warning. I give you that warning and that second chance now. But if I put eyes on you again, I’ll skin you alive, you sneaking coyote. Get out of my sight!”
The greatest miracle was that there was not a killing on the spot. The fellow hesitated half an instant, but then he saw certain death in my eyes, and he turned and waded through the crowd.
I was in the true killing humor now, and, from the way men shrank from me, they must have seen the humor in my face. I looked around at them and said: “As for you, Kearney, and any of the rest of you abolitionists, all I want from you is news of where I can find Chuck Morris.”
I heard an oath from Kearney and saw him move a hand to his gun, as I watched him from the corner of my eye. I was not too far gone with madness. I only intended to put a bullet through his shoulder. But Mary caught his hand. “Dad, Dad,” she gasped out. “Are you thinking of fighting with a common ruffian?”
“Oh Lord,” groaned Kearney, “to put up with such a speech from even such a man.”
He let his daughter take him through the crowd. And that was my introduction to Mary Kearney.
LEW PLEADS FOR THE INDIAN GIRL
I suppose that a dozen hands were working at a dozen gunbutts during that moment. I might have killed one or two, but the third or the fourth would surely have nailed me when someone sang out: “Here’s Chuck Morris himself. Maybe he has first call on this man.”
At that I saw Chuck moving down the street, and at the same instant he saw me. He threw up both hands with a shout like the roar of a buffalo bull, and then he came for me. He was at me before I could get out of the saddle, and he lifted me down as though I were a child. What a giant’s power was in those hands of his. There he held me in one great bear arm and brandished the other in the air.
“Lew! Lew!” he cried. “Have you come back from the dead, boy? Have you come back from the dead?”
“Back from the Pawnees,” I said, “which to some is the same thing.”