Except for my own, our horses were prairie-bred mustangs and they held the pace easily. My horse was of better breed but lacked the staying quality of the once wild horses, and was accustomed to better feed.
It was obvious that my horse must adjust to the change in diet and traveling conditions or I must find another one. In time, if allowed to run free, he might fit himself to the country ... as I must do also.
Physically my condition had never been bad, and my muscles and skin were hardening to the work. Mentally it was another story. I had fought when attacked, acquitting myself well, and I believe those with whom I traveled believed me adequate for the journey before us. Such was not the case.
As a matter of fact, I had no stomach for killing. I considered myself a reasonably civilized man, and killing was wrong. Nor did I decide this by simple biblical standards, for the Bible, Hebrew scholars had assured me, did not say, "Thou shalt not kill," but strictly interpreted it says, "Thou shalt not commit murder," which is quite another thing.
Yet it was not the Mosaic law that guided me, but my own intelligence. I had no right to deprive another human being of his life, nor had I the intention of adding to the violence that was around me. On the other hand, the Indians I had killed would surely have killed me had I not been more fortunate than they.
Nevertheless, the destruction of the Indians did not please me, and I hoped to avoid it in the future.
The problem was that I was a civilized man, but I now existed in an uncivilized world. The standards by which I thought were standards of the ordered world I had left behind. Much had been said in both England and our own eastern states about how we treated the "poor" Indian.
The few I had seen on the plains did not look poor. They were strong, able men.
warriors.
Warriors.
That was the key word. These men did not consider themselves poor. They were proud men, carrying their heads high, walking tall, the equal of any man. What they demanded was not pity, but respect.
The problem was that two kinds of men had now come face-to-face, two kinds of men with two kinds of standards, different scruples, different responses.
Being a civilized, cultured human being was all very well, but I must hedge my bets a little or I would be a dead civilized, cultured human being.
It needs two to make a peace, but only one to make an attack.
Humanity, I decided, must be tempered with reason, and reason with reality.
I said as much to Solomon Talley. He glanced at me and I am afraid he was amused.
"I'm no scholar, Chantry, and I've done no reasoning on the question. The first time an Indian notched an arrow at me, I shot him, and I'm almighty pleased that I hit him." And so it was they began calling me by the name that was to stick through many years. I was no longer Ronan Chantry except at intervals. I became known as Scholar.
Part of it was gentle derision, but another part was, I think, respect.
One thing I learned quickly, in those following weeks. The university of the wilderness that I now attended had simple tests but they came often.
One lived if one passed the tests, but to get a failing grade was to leave one's scalp on some brave's belt.
On Talley's advice we deviated from our planned course and angled off to the north, taking us farther from the disputed territory, and we held to low ground, trying to keep our route unknown to the enemy. For we had no doubt that Captain Fernandez and his Indian allies would be observing us and planning another attack. Nor could we hope to be so successful again. The captain, although our enemy, was no fool. Any officer in his situation might easily have overrated his strength and our cunning. Both he and his Indian friends now knew us better.
Where.were the mountains? They lay somewhere to the westward, but not one of us had seen them, and the endlessness of the plains was beyond belief. The land was higher now, and much drier. We had come into the shortgrass country, and the prickly pear we had originally come upon from time to time now were frequent.
Water was scarce. Many of the streams were dry, the waterholes only trampled mud. Then suddenly we saw the buffalo.
First there was the sound of them, a low, shuffling sound that we thought was the wind, yet a strange, muffled muttering as well. We topped the rise, and they were before us, thousands upon thousands of them, grazing and moving.
"Hold your fire," I suggested to the others.
"I can reload and we'll kill just two." "What about the hides? Ain't they worth something?" "A buffalo hide, at least the hide of a bull, will weigh nigh to fifty pounds. We're in no shape to pack them." While the others held their fire in the event our enemies were near, I rode forward, dismounted near a rock, and using a shoulder of it for a rest, killed two buffalo.
The others seemed not to notice, yet when we rode down to cut up our kill, they moved off.
And then I saw the Indians.
They were several hundred yards off and had been approaching the buffalo from the other flank, the wind, light as it was, being due out of the north.
I saw an Indian rise suddenly from the ground and throw off a buffalo robe. Using it as cover, he had been slowly creeping up to the herd to make a kill, and our moving up had caused him to lose his chance. His disgust was obvious.
Heath and Sandy were on the ground, making the cuts to skin the buffalo and cut out the meat.
"Somethin' odd here," Talley muttered.
"There's ten to twelve women there, and a bunch of kids, but there don't seem to be more than one or two braves... and no ponies." "They've been raided," Shanagan said.
"Bet my shirt on it. Somebody drove off their stock and either killed the menfolk or the braves are off tryin' to get back their horses." "What are they? Can you make them out?" "Cheyennes," Davy said positively.
"I'd swear they were Cheyennes, some of the bravest and best fighters on the plains." "Talley," I said, "if we're going to live in this country, we'll need friends, and if we're going to have friends, now's a chance to meet them." "I can talk a little sign language," Shanagan said. "What's your idea?" "Give them the hides," I said, "and half the meat." "We can take our cuts," Talley said.
"They'll eat everything but the horns." Hand high, palm outward, I rode toward them, with Davy beside me. The hunter had returned to the others, and as we drew near, they waited.
There was only one warrior among them able to stand.
Two young boys and an old man were all that was left aside from the women and children.
"I come as a friend," I said, and Davy translated, using sign talk. "We are strong in war, and we have hunted. We would share our meat with our friends." Now that we were closer we could see the hunger among them. Another brave, whom we had not seen, was stretched on a travois, obviously badly wounded.
Talley came riding up. "We've taken our meat," he said. "Let 'em have what's left." They followed us to the two buffalo and at once began butchering their remains. The one strong brave remained near us, watching but still wary.
"Ask him what happened," I suggested.
Davy went to work, and the warrior told the story swiftly and in sign talk. I marveled at the gracefulness of the gestures, the ease and poetry of the hand movements.
"During the last full moon, some Utes hit them. Killed four braves and three women, drove off their horses, and would have killed them all, but they fought them to a standstill.