Even on the verge of entering, Standing Bull thought of all these things, and hesitated. But something had to be done. The rain beat like hammers on the surface of the ground. It rattled on his own broad shoulders so loudly that he could have sworn that a whole tribe would have been alarmed by such a noise.
In through the door he went, and moved hastily to one side. The other two followed him. He could hear them breathing, and the faint creaking of a leather jacket as its wet folds were drawn tight at each inhalation.
He got to his feet, but, when he made a step, the water squelched and hissed in his moccasins. He had to pause again, listening with the rigidity of a statue, and then he sat down and dragged off the moccasins. In his naked feet he proceeded with greater ease.
First he went to the stove and from this took out a half-burned stick of wood. There was a glowing coal at one end, while the other end was cool enough to hold. The coal made a dim point of light that tarnished quickly in the open air, and then freshened to an amazing degree when blown upon.
Standing Bull was satisfied. It would have been very well if he could have guessed in what room the girl was sleeping, but, since he did not know, he would have to look.
All the doors stood open upon the big kitchen, in order that the fire might send its heat through all the chambers. This was partly an advantage and partly a great disaster. For though it meant that he would have no difficulty in opening the doors, every move that he made was now likely to strike upon the ears of all the sleepers.
The two helpers went behind him. He had told them beforehand what he wanted them to do. He dared not entrust the actual kidnapping to them. He felt that the body of this slender white girl was so fragile that it would have to be touched with the greatest care.
He stepped through the first doorway. It was like walking into the throat of a cannon. Then, blowing softly on the dying coal, he got from it the faintest of glows, yet enough to enable his straining eyes to distinguish the vast shoulders of the white hunter in the bed.
Instantly he veiled the coal with his hand, and, as he stepped back toward the door, he was startled to hear a woman’s voice exclaim: “Sam! Oh, Sam!”
“Aye?” growled big Samuel Brett.
“There’s something wrong!”
“What could be wrong?”
“I . . . don’t know . . . I just have a feeling. Sam, do get up and see if everything’s all right.”
“Now, what’s ailin’ you?” asked Samuel Brett. “What could be wrong?”
The Indian, in the darkness by the door, kept his hand on the haft of his knife. What the words meant, he could not understand. But his very blood was frozen with fear.
“I don’t know . . .”
“I do know. Nobody could get past that dog. It’s got eight legs and two heads. It can look both ways at once. I never seen such a dog. And if it found a man, it’d eat him.”
“Suppose that he was knocked senseless . . .”
“Supposin’ that the sky wasn’t blue, well, it might be green!”
“You can bully all you please. I tell you, I got a feelin’ that there’s somebody in this house.”
“Hey? What?” asked Samuel Brett in changed tones. “Well, I’ll get up and look around.”
The bed squeaked as he sat up. But then the cool of the night air made him shiver. “I’m darned if I get up and catch a cold for the sake of pleasin’ the whim of a silly old woman. You go to sleep and leave me be.” He settled back with a groan of comfort into the warmness of the bed.
Freed from the direct danger, Standing Bull drew once more into the kitchen. There were two other doorways. Into which one should he go next?
He chose the middle one. A gesture in the dark placed both the Cheyennes on guard at the door of the white man’s room. Then Standing Bull proceeded into the next chamber. At the first flare of the coal beneath his breath he found himself looking into the same face that he had seen in the kitchen of the house—the same pale face, the same pale hair. But the eyes were not dim. They were sparkling and wide with incalculable terror as the girl sat up in the bed and supported herself with both shaking arms.
How long had she been there, awake, listening, thinking that she heard a sound, denying that it could be so?
Standing Bull went straight toward her and she shrank back against the wall. Her lips parted and her throat worked, but no scream would come. Time was short with Standing Bull and every instant in that house was of infinite danger to him; yet he dared not take her out into such a night clad only in a thin nightgown of cheap cotton.
He pointed to the clothes that lay upon a chair and made a commanding gesture. She obeyed, her enchanted eyes of terror fixed on him, and her movements slow, like those of one whose body is numbed with deadly cold.
He had drawn a knife that the fear of it might stimulate her and keep her from screaming for help. Under the dull glow of the coal, the blade of that knife seemed to run again with blood, and he could see her like a shadow among shadows dressing with stumbling hands and numb fingers from which the clothes slipped away.
At last, at a sound in the next room, he could wait no longer. He caught up a heavy buffalo robe that covered the foot of the bed, and, throwing it around Nancy Brett, took her in his arms. Hers was like the weight of a child, thought Standing Bull. He strode to the door of the chamber.
Inside the next room, Samuel Brett was rumbling: “Darn me if I can go to sleep. Where did you leave the candle? Eh?” There was a noise of fumbling. The man of the house began to mutter beneath his breath, impatiently.
But Standing Bull with his burden went on toward the rear door, and, with Rushing Wind carefully opening it, he passed through and out into the night.
There had been only one sound from his captive, and that, as they reached the open air, was a faint sigh. She became limp in his arms and he knew that she had fainted. So much the better.
He began to run. Inside the house there was a sudden shout. The rear door was slammed shut with a great crash, as Red Shirt leaped through and swung the door to behind him. In another moment the whole settlement would be up.
XV
The shout of Samuel Brett was enough to have alarmed whole legions. And the ears to which that shout did not reach certainly were touched by the sound of rifle shots, as Brett ran from his house toward his horses. From every house men began to turn out, but for a time they were a little uncertain as to whether they should fly to the fort for protection, stand firm on the defense, or else act as aggressors.
By now Standing Bull had reached his horses. He mounted. It was unfortunate that the girl had to be carried. But perhaps it was better to have her senseless than that with her screams she should guide the whites as with a flaming torch.
The five galloped back to the main body of the horses at the edge of the wood—the whole body then rushed out across the plain beyond, and the thick curtain of the rain drew together instantly behind them.
The care with which Standing Bull had distributed his forces from the start now began to tell, for there was no sign of sudden pursuit. He did not follow the river, but cut back across the hill, hoping that the enemy would hunt for the Cheyennes along the riverbanks, for that was the easiest course. In that direction the greatest number of miles could be made.
Now, when the first rush of the flight was over, Nancy Brett recovered her senses with a groan. She was given no sympathy. They made the briefest of halts, during which she was clapped into a saddle and tied securely to it. A whip cracked on the haunches of the half-wild Indian pony. It pitched high into the air, and came down running, with the Indians rushing their own mounts beside it. So they dashed on into the night, and the cold whip of the rain in her face began to rouse Nancy Brett.