He looked farther off at the prairie, wide as the sea and more level, no bush, no tree breaking its monotonous outline, and he wondered whether, when he returned to his own kind—if that ever was to be—he could accomplish among them work half so successful as that which he had managed among these red children. Among them he was a great man, he was a great spirit walking the earth by special permission of the Sky People. Among his white cousins he would be insignificant Paul Torridon once more.
So he wondered, half sadly and half with resignation. He could see that his affairs were now involved in so great a tangle that his own volition was not sufficient to straighten matters out. Nancy Brett was in his hands. That situation could not continue. Vaguely he hoped that a priest might be found, somewhere, who would be brought to the camp to perform a marriage ceremony. Until then, he passed the days in constant dread of the future, and of himself.
That long silence on the bank of the river continued the rest of the day. About evening, the sleeper wakened. He remained restless from that point until midnight. Torridon managed to give him a little more broth, but, after eating, Black Beaver became more restless still. His fever seemed higher. Throughout the night he groaned continually, and sometimes he broke out into frightful peals of laughter.
After midnight it was plain that he was weakening. The squaws, with desperate, drawn faces, sat by the bed, and their eyes wandered continually from their lord and master to the face of Torridon. He felt the burden of their trust, but he knew nothing that he could do.
Some hours after midnight, there was a convulsive movement of the sick man. Torridon ran to look at him and found that Black Beaver had twisted over and lay face downward. He did not stir. This time Torridon made sure that death was there.
He touched the back of Black Beaver. To his astonishment, it was drenched with perspiration. He leaned lower, and he could hear the deep faint breathing of the Cheyenne.
Once more the power had been granted to Torridon. One more life was saved. He looked up reverently to the black of the trees, to the fainter blue-black of the sky beyond, dappled with great stars.
“He will live,” said Torridon. And then he added, with irresistible charlatanry: “The underwater spirits have heard me calling to them. They have come and taken the evil spirit away.”
VI
When Torridon and Rushing Wind had left the lodge, Standing Bull showed no inclination to depart from it. As a matter of fact, it was rather a breach of etiquette for him to remain there after the man of the lodge had departed—particularly since the squaw, Young Willow, was gone out, also. Nancy Brett was perfectly aware of this; however, she made light of the matter and began to talk cheerfully, in her broken Cheyenne, about the illness of Black Beaver.
The war chief listened to this talk without comment, fixing a grave eye upon her.
However, he finally said, as though to end the subject: “White Thunder will cure Black Beaver.”
“He is very ill,” said the girl.
“White Thunder,” the chief said, “has power from the Sky People . . . over such matters as this.” He added the last words with a certain significance.
And Nancy Brett, canting her head like a bird to one side, asked him gravely what he meant.
“Heammawihio,” the warrior explained, “is jealous of men on earth. He does not give double power to one man. The great warriors are not the great medicine men.”
“White Thunder,” said the girl readily, “has led the Cheyennes against the Sioux and beaten them badly. Is not that true?”
“He was with the war party,” said the chief in answer. “He saw signals from the Sky People, which they had sent down because they love the Cheyennes. All that he needed to do was to read those signs. He has power to read them. Just as certain of the old men are able to read the pictures that are painted on a lodge. That is all. The eye of White Thunder is clear to read dreams. He has read my own dreams.”
The girl suppressed a smile. She had listened to many absurd interpretations that her lover had put upon the dreams of the Indians. However, now she maintained a straight face. Apparently there was more to come, and it was not long before the chief spoke.
“But as for battle,” said Standing Bull, “he never is great. He never has counted a coup. In the fight against the Dakotas, he was not in the front rank. He ran weakly behind the others.”
“He killed two men. I thought,” said Nancy Brett.
“The Dakotas,” explained the Cheyenne, “were herded together like buffalo that do not know which way to run. A child could not have missed them with a headless arrow. But White Thunder did not count a single coup. He did not take a single scalp. When the warriors returned home, White Thunder was not seen at the war dance. He did not come to the feasts to boast.”
“He never talks about what he has done,” the girl said readily.
“Of course, he does not,” answered Standing Bull. “And the reason is that he knows he does nothing of himself.”
“Who has made rain for the Cheyennes and saved them when their corn was dying?” she asked.
“Heammawihio,” Standing Bull answered with perfect satisfaction in his face.
The girl was silent, wondering at these speeches. Standing Bull appeared in the camp as the greatest friend to Torridon. Certainly, however, he was attacking him now.
“Then,” she said at last, “everything that White Thunder has seemed to do really was done by Heammawihio?”
“Everything,” said the warrior. “And since he has done nothing in battle, is it not plain that Heammawihio does not wish to strike through his hand at the enemy of the Cheyennes?”
There was a certain childishness in this species of reasoning that she saw could not be answered. Therefore, she was silent. Another thought was entering her mind. She fairly held her breath.
“In war he is weak,” went on the chief. “And that is a sad thing. We have spent many days together. I have waited to see White Thunder strike down a single enemy, or count a single coup, or take a single scalp. He never will do that. His spirit turns to water. I have seen his knees shake and his face turn pale.” His lip curled as he spoke.
“I don’t think that you understand him,” she ventured at last. “He always has been very high-strung and nervous. He’s not like other men. But I’ve seen him ride a wild horse that even Roger Lincoln could not ride. And I’ve seen him stand up to a bully three times his size. He may tremble and turn pale, but he’s not afraid to attempt all sorts of things.”
Standing Bull merely shook his head. “You,” he said, “are a woman, and you know nothing about battle. But I know about battle. I understand such things. You should believe what I tell you.”
To this blunt speech, no rejoinder was possible.
“You, just now,” went on the chief, “think that he is a very great man. You look on him kindly. You love White Thunder. Is that true?”
She answered frankly: “That is true.”
“Women,” said the warrior after a moment of gloomy reflection, “are like children. They see the thing that is not and they believe it to be true.”
“Perhaps,” she said, rather afraid to contradict him.
“Yes, it is true. All wise men know that this is true. So you look like a child at White Thunder. You see that the children follow him, expecting marvels, and the young men talk about him, and the old men ask for his voice in the council. You would say, therefore, that the Cheyennes have no chief greater than White Thunder.”