“But you, White Thunder, stay with me a long time and listen to me. When I go back to my people, I am going to make a scalp shirt, and then I shall be a chief. The young men will follow me on the warpath. You shall follow me, also. Now you are a wise white man. I shall make you a wise Indian. And when you are that, then who will be so wise and so great in the world as White Thunder?”
He paused and made a little gesture, palm up. It was as though he had offered to Torridon his own soul in the palm of his hand.
V
There was only one thing that seriously overclouded their relations, and that was when Torridon told the Cheyenne that he could not remain with him very long, but, as soon as the warrior’s strength had come back, Torridon must make the best of his way across the plains to find Fort Kendry.
When he first asked after Fort Kendry, the Cheyenne had let him understand that he himself knew the way to it perfectly and could direct him so clearly that a child traveling by night could have found the place. But when he understood his companion’s fixed determination of going there, Standing Bull grew sullen and even angry.
“Why should you go to the fort?” he asked. “What is there for you except what they have taken from the poor Indians? But when you go there, you will have to pay for the things that are there.” He added bitterly: “White men do not give away for nothing. They want money and many robes.” He added, by way of coating this bitter comment with sugar: “No one is so clever as a white man. You will not gain when you trade with them, White Thunder.”
“I don’t want guns or robes,” said Torridon patiently. “I only want to find a girl there.”
“Ha!” cried the Cheyenne. “A woman!”
“She is promised to me as my wife,” said Torridon.
“A woman. A woman,” repeated the Indian, and then closed his eyes as though to check a torrent of scorn that was ready to burst forth from his lips. “Tell me, my brother,” he said at last, “is this woman young? Or is she an old squaw with many robes and horses?”
“She is young,” said Torridon. He smiled a little, and then added: “She has no robes or horses. None at all, I suppose.”
“She is strong, then?” said the warrior. “She knows how to flesh skins and how to make soft moccasins and how to bead and do quill work?”
“I don’t think she understands any of those things,” said the white man. “Certainly she isn’t big or strong. She’s very small.”
Again the Cheyenne was forced to close his eyes. “Her father promised her to you? Then he was lucky to find a brave who would take such a . . . woman.” Obviously he had left out the word “worthless” in his pause. He added: “Is she plain, or pretty?”
“She?” said Torridon. Then his breast heaved and his heart swelled. He was talking to a wild Indian, but he had been silent for a long time. “She is the most beautiful creature that ever was made.”
“So?” said the warrior. “Then long before this, some other brave has come and taken her. If you offered five horses for her, he has offered ten. She is gone to his teepee. Think no more about her. A woman cannot make the heart of a great brave sore for many days. Very soon he takes another squaw. If you want wives, you shall have them. When you come home with me to my people, I shall find you the daughters of great chiefs. I shall pay the horses to buy them for you. I shall fill your teepee with everything that you need. Then you will be happy?”
He smiled expectantly, and Torridon was forced to answer slowly: “There is no other who can take her place.” He added: “Any other woman would be horrible to me.”
“Look at me while I speak the truth with a straight tongue,” said the Cheyenne. “One woman has strong hands and fleshes many robes. Another knows how to do bead work swiftly and well. Yes, there is a difference between women. But take two wives in the place of this single one.”
Torridon hunted through his mind. He saw that it was useless to delve into the mysteries of love with this man. “You have many horses?” he asked at last.
“Many . . . many . . .” said the warrior, smiling with pride.
“Are they all the same?”
“No. There is a bay stallion that is worth all the rest.”
“Look at me,” echoed Torridon. “I speak with a straight tongue, too. Your stallion, I think, is worth all the rest. Perhaps, however, he is not worth as much as that gray mare?” He pointed to Comanche, grazing nearby. And as though she knew that she was under discussion, she lifted her lovely head and looked toward them with confidence and affection.
The Cheyenne regarded her with a burning glance. “It is true, it is true,” he muttered, as one who had had that thought often in his mind before.
Torridon whistled. Black Ashur came bounding and stood before them. “But,” said Torridon, “though this mare is very fast, Ashur leaves her standing behind him. Though she is very strong, he will run twice as far as she can run. Though she has a great heart, he will die for me.”
“Is it true?” asked the Cheyenne, the same greedy fire in his eyes. “Yes, it is true,” he answered himself with conviction, “because he has the eye of a chief. Like a chief in council he holds his head. And he runs on the wind. My brother is a great chief among the white men, or he would not have two such horses.”
“Now,” went on Torridon, “if there is such a difference between horses, can there not be such a difference between women?”
“Certainly not,” replied Standing Bull with warmth. “Does a woman carry a brave to battle? Is his life depending on her? Does she give him the speed to run away from danger? Does she give him the speed to overtake his enemy and strike him down? No, no, White Thunder, you are very wise. All white men are wise. But this is a thing about which you will know when you grow older.”
Torridon gave up the debate with a shrug of his shoulders, for he saw that he was facing a wall of rock.
They talked of many other things in the days that followed.
Finally he began to support Standing Bull from the shelter and out under the open sky, and lead him to a blanket where he could sit for hours, drinking up the strength-giving sun and breathing deeply of the pure air.
He was a huge man, standing. He was two or three inches over six feet, with great, spreading shoulders, and arms of an almost unnatural length, set off with huge hands that Torridon could hardly look upon without a shudder of fear. In the old days he had known only two men who impressed him so much. One was Roger Lincoln. But that hero was like Achilles, formidable rather in skill and speed, and graceful surety of all his ways. He was strong, also, but not a giant of power. A giant of power was Jack Brett. He had shoulders as massive as those of the Cheyenne. Perhaps hard labor and the carrying of packs through the woods had given him even a greater force than that of the Indian warrior, but Standing Bull had something of the speed and grace of Roger Lincoln united with the massive might of hand of Jack Brett.
Rarely could an uglier face than the Indian’s have been found, with its great, predatory nose, its wide, thin, cruel lips, the eyes, buried, small, terribly bright and restless, and the chin curving well out. He looked like a very god of battle, and as such Torridon looked upon him.
Lying prone in the shelter of the house of leaves, he could care for and pity Standing Bull, but once the giant was erect and walking, in spite of himself Torridon was daily more and more afraid. He remembered, with increasing frequency and force, the warnings that he had received from Roger Lincoln—an Indian never must be trusted to the hilt. Give him hope, watch him, use him when you can, but recall that always he is as treacherous as a snake.