Among the Cheyennes a man was judged by acts, not words.
That was why the tribe felt that the grief of Red Hawk for the death of his foster father was greater than anything that had ever been known before, because when he gave away the possessions in the lodge of Spotted Antelope, down to the skins of the lodge itself, what with the cases of knives, the little barrels of gunpowder, the rolls of bullet lead, the bullet molds, the guns, the beads, the hatchets, the axes, there was at least a small pouring of powder or a small handful of the best of bright beads for every man, woman, or child in the camp.
At night, he sat by and watched Dull Hatchet and Standing Bull in war paint lead the dance with every eye in the camp looking on. A war party against the Pawnees would start soon. As for Red Hawk, it was sufficient if he smoked and watched, for he had at last achieved his place in the tribe. For the first time in these many years, Red Hawk was content, for he had found his people and his people had found him.
White Wolf took the two dead Bailey brothers into the town of Witherell. He was equipped with a letter to Richard Lester in which Red Hawk had written, briefly, that the two white men had quarreled with one another and that they were both dead. All their goods were being sent back so that the white men could see that the hands of Red Hawk were clean.
The important thing for Red Hawk to decide, at this time, was whether or not he would accompany the war party that was to strike the Pawnees. He was not sure what he ought to do. There was a rumor that Wind Walker was even now among the Pawnees, and the great goal of Red Hawk’s actions must be, now, to come to grips with the famous white man. But he was by no means sure that Wind Walker was in fact among the Pawnees. Therefore he waited from day to day until he might receive a sign from Sweet Medicine.
So he came to the last evening before Dull Hatchet and the rest were to start on the trail—forty braves chosen from the best. The camp had fallen asleep peacefully. But a moment after Red Hawk had closed his eyes, there was a murmur and then a sudden outbreak of howling and barking from the dogs. Through this cut the sound of rifles. Red Hawk came out of his teepee with a loaded gun in his hand.
The moon was westering. It shone through a thin haze. Rifles glinted here and there, but what Red Hawk noticed first of all was that White Horse was not in front of the lodge. He was gone—like a part of Red Hawk’s body—and yonder, in the press of the stampeding horses, there was the gleam of the great white crest that tossed like the foam of a wave above the rest of the tumult. A man sat on the back of the monster. That was what staggered Red Hawk so that he stood helplessly staring. It could not be that White Horse had submitted to the rule of any other hand than his own, and yet the convincing picture was there before his eyes.
A great cry was rising from the Cheyennes.
“Wind Walker! Wind Walker!” they were shouting.
That name made Red Hawk groan. What other men were unable to do, Wind Walker could easily accomplish, even to the mastering of White Horse.
Red Hawk borrowed the first pony at hand, without asking for the owner. He clipped a saddle over the back of the little horse and, rifle in hand, was carried out of the camp on the heels of a cloud of avengers that had blown from among the teepees.
He could not get full speed out of his mount. He was accustomed to White Horse, as to a great river of wind that carried a man easily over plains or mountains. And the little mustang that bobbed in its stride seemed to be moving no more swiftly than a rocking-horse. Yet something more than the horse was carrying him along. He hardly knew why there was such a feeling of fate upon him. He only knew that he never would turn back from this trail until he had White Horse between his knees again.
He heard the rapid thunder of the hoofs, speeding away with half the wealth of the Cheyenne camp. From voices that yelled in rage and hate, now and again, he knew that the raid had been made by Pawnees, headed by Wind Walker.
Red Hawk began to laugh, for it seemed plain to him now that fate was working again, and that the hand of Sweet Medicine was driving him on. Had not all of this been devised in order to include him, with or without his will, in the raid against Wind Walker?