The progressive spirit and the business aggressiveness of Jeremy Bailey and his brother Joe were building Witherell into a trading post that promised to be a great success. Joe Bailey had gone out onto the plains and induced the chiefs of the Pawnees to bring in a camp of several hundred lodges, and they now whitened the pass leading down to the town.
Jeremy Bailey, on the other hand, had brought down the creek to the town several big scows loaded down with articles for the Indian trade. Every brave among those Pawnees had his share of skins and furs and buffalo robes that he was prepared to trade for knives, guns, ammunition, colored calico, the blankets that were lighter than buffalo robes could ever be, bright beads, sugar, coffee, tea, iron pots, and the sail canvas that more and more was coming to be used in place of the heavy lodges made of skins.
All of these essentials in the trade were piled along the counters behind the various booths of the Bailey store. There had been three days of entertaining the chiefs and distributing presents to those greedy fellows. Now for two days the market had been opened, and the price had been agreed on at half a pint of sugar for a buffalo robe in good condition, with other things going in about the same proportion. If a white man could not make a profit of several thousand percent, it was hardly considered worthwhile to be in the Indian trade.
So far, there was no firewater on tap. On the last day of the trading, a barrel or two of that would be carted out to the Indian camp, and then the braves could get as tipsy as they pleased, but no drunken Indians were wanted reeling around the streets of Witherell. That was why the trading had gone off so smoothly.
On this day, as Jeremy Bailey looked over the proceedings and saw the ponderous heaps of robes unpacked from the backs of the Indian ponies, it seemed to him that the malodorous skins in fact gave off a delicious perfume, and that the opportunities of this kind world were opening before his eyes. A big Pawnee warrior had just made a trade of a magnificent painted robe, a veritable museum piece, in exchange for a small bag of lump sugar, which was a novelty in the market. Now the robe was being folded away with care, while the brave sat down on his heels on the spot and proceeded to eat his sugar, piece by piece, with a great and solemn satisfaction.
Such happiness came over Jeremy Bailey’s mind that he looked across the room, through the air that was dust-clouded from the handling of the robes, and even smiled when his glance rested on the face of his brother. They did not love one another; they never had. But today Jeremy could forgive the world that had harnessed him to a twin. They were necessary to one another; Joe because he was the tactful one who brought in new business, and Jeremy because he had the calculating eye and mind that drives good bargains.
The trading was going on at a fine rate when a little murmur ran among the Pawnees, and in one instant every booth under the big, sprawling awning was deserted. What the whisper had been Jeremy could not tell, but instantly he was ready for a fight. If another trader had showed up to tempt away the Pawnees, there was blood in the eye of Jeremy.
He shrugged his shoulders and strode out of the trading store in time to see a rider come around the next corner and into the central square of the town. He was mounted on a white horse, and behind him streamed out a fan-shaped tail of small boys, all yelling and whooping. The rider himself sat in the usual Indian saddle, his feet very high, his back humped forward a good deal, his head bobbing up and down a little with every step of the horse. However, Jeremy Bailey was accustomed to the sight of Indian braves on ponies.
It was the horse itself that caught the eye of Jeremy, and his face flushed until the scar on it stood out like white paint. Then, as he saw the glint of the sun on the dark red hair of the man, he realized that he knew all about him. That was the famous stallion, and the rider was the white Cheyenne called Red Hawk.
Jeremy Bailey sighed with relief. The grimness went out of his eye, but the greed remained in it as he stared at the horse. That horse would be the extra touch, the little garnishing, that would smooth his way with Maisry Lester. Perhaps it would quicken her affection. It was not that he objected to buying a wife either by cash or influence, for he felt that one must always pay for things worthwhile, and that affection was only an ornament. Yet if he were to appear astride White Horse, he was sure that the sight would move something in the heart of the girl. It would even stir her father, whose cold, suspicious eyes seemed always to be hunting for the truth, and coming near to the fact that his daughter was marrying in order to provide for her parents.
Jeremy thought of these things, and then permitted himself to admire the way this white Cheyenne rode heedlessly through a crowd of the roach-headed Pawnees, the ancient enemies of his tribe. To be sure, for the moment they were too overcome with astonishment and pleasure at the sight of the horse to be capable of action. Moreover, they were bound to leave their weapons behind them when they entered the town. Nevertheless, it seemed to the trader that Red Hawk was most perilously placed.
Yet the White Indian rode straight on, never turning eye to right or left, until he dismounted suddenly before Jeremy. White Horse began to rub his head against the shoulder of his master, keeping a wary eye on the Indians, who stole closer and closer around them.
“You are Jeremy Bailey,” said the newcomer. “My name is Red Hawk, and I have come to make a trade with you.”
Jeremy Bailey considered that sun-darkened face and the deep blue stain of the eyes in it. He had the look of one who had suffered, of one who has escaped from a long illness and achieved out of it some sort of spiritual happiness. For a man who had built up such a name, he was small; he was not above middle height, and rather slenderly made. Bulk of thews and sinews always seemed a necessity to big Jeremy Bailey.
“You’ve got no robes with you that I can see,” said Jeremy. “But if you want to trade in the horse, we might talk business.”
“Trade in the horse?” asked the white Cheyenne. He turned his head and smiled at the great stallion. He put out his hand and twisted his fingers into the forelock of the big horse while he answered absently: “I have something else to trade with you.”
He took a pouch that was slung from his shoulder, opened the mouth of it, and took out something that Bailey could not see until the cold, small weight of it was laid in his hand. Then he saw the sheen of gold, and his fingers furled instantly over the nugget. “In the name of God,” said Jeremy.
“True,” said the white Cheyenne calmly. “I have brought you your god. There is a great deal more of him. This bag is full, and that is why I want to trade.”
“More of this? You know a place where you can get more of this?” asked Bailey.
“I know a place where the sands of a creek are yellow with it,” said Red Hawk. “But you could not go there. No white man . . . no red man can go there. None except Red Hawk.”
“Why not?” asked Bailey.
“Because there is bad medicine there for other men.”
“Medicine be damned! Where . . . ?” He checked himself and swallowed. He looked down at the ground and hoped that the lust had not burned too brightly in his eyes. “Come with me!” said Jeremy Bailey. “We’ll go inside.”
“Outside,” answered Red Hawk. “The horse must stay with me. If we went inside, he would beat down the wall to come after me.”
So Bailey took him around to the rear of the store, where no wind stirred, and where the heat brought out the sweat instantly, covering the face with ten thousand small, shining beads.
“Is that bag full of the stuff?” Jeremy Bailey demanded sharply.
“Yes.”
“How long did it take you to wash it out?”
“Most of it I picked out of the riffles on the face of the rock,” said Red Hawk. “The rest I washed out of the gravel with my hands. It took me half a day.”
Jeremy Bailey lifted the bag. This man, with his ignorant hands, had taken out of the ground five or six thousand dollars in half a day. At last Jeremy Bailey looked up. His voice came out with a surprising roundness and evenness, so that he rejoiced in the strength of his mind. “And what do you want me to give you for this? How much calico and how many knives do you want?” asked Jeremy.
“Calico and knives?” repeated Red Hawk contemptuously. “I bring you the body of your god. I give it into your hands. And you want to trade me knives and dyed cloth!”
Bailey flushed. “Well, then?” he asked.
“I want your woman,” said Red Hawk simply.
Bailey stared at him, shaking his head without comprehension.
“The woman who is to be your squaw in a little time,” Red Hawk continued. “I will give you the body of your god for your woman.”
“You damned . . . ,” began Jeremy Bailey. Then it occurred to him that this was no time to be righteously indignant, when he was standing with his hand on the very Wishing Gate itself. Besides, they were alone. No eyes could see them. Above all, Indians think it no shame to buy and sell their women. Jeremy’s own shame thereupon leaked swiftly out of his soul. At once he was freed from the heat and the weight of it. “Well,” he said, “the girl I’m to marry is what you mean? Maisry Lester?”
“I give you all the god that is in this sack,” answered Red Hawk.
Bailey shook his head. “Not for this. But if you’ll take me to the place where the gold is . . . that’s another matter, Red Hawk. We might arrange something then. We could do business together there, my friend.”
“Very well,” answered Red Hawk, smiling. “I knew that you would be willing. Let us go to the woman, at once . . . then you can tell her that I am buying her away from you.”
“Hold on,” said the trader. “I can’t give her away, perhaps. I can’t deliver her to you, I don’t suppose. I don’t know. I’ll have to have a chance to think over what can be arranged. Don’t hurry me, Red Hawk. Let me think. I’ll satisfy you, one way or another. But I can’t simply walk up to her and tell her that she’s been traded to another man.”
“Can you not tell her that you take your hands from her and make her free?”
“Yes,” said Bailey. “Of course I could do that. But what . . . ?”
“That is all I ask,” said Red Hawk. “Come . . . and we’ll go quickly to her.”