At last, Torridon took up the rifle that was his prize. He examined it with care.
“Rushing Wind,” he said to the young man who had given up the gun, “how many times have you fired this?”
“Three times.”
“And what did it do?”
“It killed three buffalo,” said Rushing Wind, his breast heaving just once with mingled pride in the weapon and grief because of its loss.
Torridon handed it back to its first owner. “Take it again,” he said. “It is good medicine in your hands. I already have many guns in my lodge. I do not want to empty yours. Besides,” he added shamelessly, “as you have seen, I have other things than guns with which to do what I wish.”
The latter part of this speech was accepted by the young men with nodding heads. But Rushing Wind hesitated about the return.
“My brother is rich,” he said. “Nevertheless, even a rich man wants something with which to remember a great day.”
“That is true,” agreed Torridon. He reached out and took the knife from the belt of Rushing Wind. He replaced it with his own rich knife and waved his hand. “By that exchange,” he said, “we can remember one another.”
Rushing Wind returned no answer. He had seen himself, a moment before, compelled to fall back upon the war bow and arrow. Now, not only was the rifle his once more, but, in addition, he wore at his belt such a jewel as would make even the great war chiefs look on him with envious eyes. His heart was too full for utterance, so that he was forced to scowl bitterly.
Torridon, understanding perfectly, arose to cover the confusion of the warrior and led the way back to the camp. At the door of the lodge he invited them to enter; they perfunctorily perfunctorily refused, so as to remain lounging outside, while he entered the cool shadow of the teepee. He was still amused, still inclined to laugh to himself so that Young Willow, at her beading, glanced keenly at him.
She was a little afraid of this youth, though as the daughter of one great war chief and the wife of another, she despised this counter of no coups, this taker of no scalps. He was an outlander. The joys and the sorrows of the tribe did not affect him; he pretended no interest. Their victories were things at which he shrugged his shoulders; their dances and celebrations left him cold and unstirred. Therefore, she both hated and despised him, but also she was afraid. She, with her own eyes, while all the tribe was witness, had seen him call up the rain clouds. At his bidding, the lightning had flashed and the thunder had roared. He had disappeared in the middle of the confusion. Some said that he simply had ridden off through the darkness of the storm, but it was whispered everywhere that no mortal could have ridden through the assembled Cheyennes at that time. Had he not been wrapped in a storm cloud and snatched away?
For her own part, she knew that she was honored to have been selected as the keeper of this lodge, and, as such, all that she said was now listened to, and the chief men of the nation stopped her when she was abroad and asked after the latest doing of White Thunder. If there were little to tell of interest, fortunately Young Willow had a sufficient imagination; no audience that asked wonders of her should go away with empty ears.
Now the youth sat smiling to himself. “White Thunder,” she said, “where is the knife that you wore at your belt?”
“I have given it to Rushing Wind.”
She raised her head. “Do you know that that is a medicine knife, worth five horses if it is worth a handful of dried meat?”
“So I was told.”
She muttered angrily: “One spendthrift makes a naked lodge. You gave away the white saddle yesterday?”
“The young man had nothing but a buffalo robe to ride on.”
“It is not the seat that makes the horseman,” said this quoter of proverbs, “neither is the horse judged by the saddle.”
“Saddle and mane make a horse sell,” he retorted, having picked up some of the same sort of language from this ancient gossip.
Fairly stopped by this, she returned to her beading. It was true that the goods in this teepee were not hers, and it was also true that the generosity of the Cheyennes was flooding the lodge constantly with more than the master of it could use. Nevertheless, she was old enough to be parsimonious. The aged ask for a full house and larder.
Torridon lounged against a supple backrest and raised his eyes to the top of the teepee with a great sigh. Time, time, time! How slowly it goes.
“Aye,” said Young Willow, spiteful after her last silencing, “you may well sigh. For in a hundred winters we shall all be bald.”
“That is true,” he answered, “and it is also true that even a little time will hatch a great mischief.”
She looked askance at him, rather suspecting that there was a sting in this speech, but not quite confident of the point. So she pursed her withered lips and consulted her profound heart to find something more to say.
He, in the meantime, began to finger some of the articles that hung beside the backrest, taking down a great war bow of the horn of mountain sheep, tough and elastic, able to send an arrow four hundred yards in battle, or, in the hunt, drive a shaft to the three feathers into the tough side of a buffalo bull.
“A strong bow for a strong hand . . . for the weak hand it is a walking staff,” said the venomous old woman.
“Yes,” said Torridon, “or it would do as a whip.”
She caught her breath and mumbled, but the reply was too apt not to silence her again.
He laid aside the bow and picked up the favorite solace of his quiet hours. It was a flute of the juniper wood, from which one could draw plaintive sounds, and by much practice upon it, he was able to perform with a good deal of skill. He tried it now, very softly. And he half closed his eyes in sad enjoyment of the harmony he made, for the sorrowful love sorrow.
As for Young Willow, she would have admitted at another time that it was excellent music, and she would tomorrow attribute the skill of the youth with the instrument to the direct intervention and assistance of the Sky People. Now, however, she was looking for trouble.
“Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow,” she muttered. “A sorrowing child is never fat.”
He lowered the flute from his lips and looked vaguely upon her, as though he had only half heard what she said.
So she, glad of a quiet audience, went on sharply: “And sorrow and love are brother and sister. They go hand in hand. Who is the girl that you make music for, White Thunder?”
At this, he actually dropped the flute and sat bolt upright, staring at her, and very wide awake indeed.
Young Willow pretended to go on with her beading, but her grin was very broad, so that it exposed her toothless, dark gums. She had stung him at last.
IV
Busy at her work, or apparently busy, Young Willow said: “There are many beautiful maidens among the Cheyennes. Even the Sky People draw down from the clouds, and wonder at them.”
“That is true,” he agreed absently.
He had been too amazed by her remark to pay much heed to what followed.
“So,” said Young Willow, “it is no wonder that you, White Thunder, should have come down to us. Tell me, therefore, the name of the girl.”
“Of what use would it be if I should tell you?” he asked.
“Of what use? I would myself go to High Wolf, and he would go to the father of the girl. Presently all would be arranged with the father.”
“And she would be brought home to this lodge?”