It seemed to Red Hawk that two mighty spirits of the upper air were storming against each other high above his head, as he climbed. When he thought of the colossal bulk of Dull Hatchet and his fearless heart, he could not prefigure defeat for the Cheyenne. Yet when he thought of the charging form of Wind Walker, he could no more dream that that man was liable to fail.
With his loaded rifle under his arm, the climbing was slower for him than for Standing Bull, who had thrown down his empty gun and rushed like a hero straight for the battle, with only a knife for a weapon. Still he was not far behind. And he had no fear.
That was why the foot of Red Hawk was lightened as he climbed the rock. He was close to the top, with the naked, muscular legs of Standing Bull flashing above him, when he saw the huge bulk of Dull Hatchet forced back to the verge of the upper platform. There he and Wind Walker whirled for an instant, before the Cheyenne lurched suddenly outward, with a frightful yell. The shadow of his falling body rushed over Red Hawk. As he drew himself up onto the level of the rocks above, he heard the heavy fall below him, and the crunching sound of the breaking bones.
He had even time to wonder at the ability of Wind Walker—a walker of the wind, indeed, since he had been able to travel out of the draw and climb so quickly to take his enemies in the rear.
Then, as he got to his feet with his rifle, Red Hawk saw Standing Bull leap in with his knife at the enemy, regardless of the jagged fragment of stone that Wind Walker swayed in his hand. The stone moved as if for a blow; Standing Bull swerved to the side and ran in, and then the ruin descended fairly on his head. He went down without a cry, his great body flashing in the sun as he stretched out and lay still.
With some extra sense, though hardly with his eyes, Red Hawk saw this, for his real vision he was using to look down the sights of his rifle at the body of Wind Walker. The giant hesitated for an instant as though he knew that death was inescapable. Then, with a shout, although his hands were empty, he rushed straight forward to receive the bullet.
A red glory of admiration and wonder flowered in the brain of the younger man as he saw the veteran come in at him. He remembered, too, how he had once fallen before the gun of this hero—and had been spared. He could feel, in memory, the red-hot finger of the bullet that ripped the flesh along his head. He cast his rifle aside, and it fell with a loud clangor on the rocks.
For if Sweet Medicine was in fact his protector, what did Red Hawk need of rifles? His own hands would be enough. He gave a wild yell and sprang to meet the charge, even forgetting the great knife in his belt as he reached for the enemy. His hands grasped at a bulk that seemed to have ribs of rock. And as he dodged to the side, Wind Walker’s grasp ripped the deerskin shirt from his back and flung him headlong, half stunned.
All that he knew was that a hand had grasped his long hair, and that he had been half raised so that his neck was bent back over the knee of the giant. One effort of that tremendous arm would shatter his spine. Against the flaring sunlight of the sky he saw the terrible face of Marshall Sabin, and out of the distance he heard the failing voice of the Pawnee raised in the death chant.
“Here,” said Wind Walker. “Here, you damned white-skinned red-hearted murderer of a Cheyenne. Tell me where you got this, and perhaps you’ll have two minutes more to live, then you can sing your own death song. Do you hear? Where did you get it?” As he spoke he lifted the green amulet.
Red Hawk’s voice was strangled in his throat. Yet even now, in the whirling of his mind, he had time to wonder how even Sweet Medicine could save him. But he said: “It has always been around my neck, ever since I was a small boy.”
Red Hawk found himself lifted to his feet. One of Wind Walker’s vast hands still grasped him by the hair, and the other pointed over the edge of the rock.
“Dull Hatchet!” exclaimed the Wind Walker thickly. “That murdering devil of a Cheyenne butcher . . . he is with you today. Is it his section of the tribe that you’ve lived with ever since you can remember?”
“Yes,” said Red Hawk.
Wind Walker’s hands gripped him suddenly by the elbows, freezing every nerve in his arms to numbness.
“I’m going mad!” gasped Marshall Sabin. “God keep my brain clear. Lad, are you half Indian and half white? Was either your father or mother a Cheyenne?”
“No,” said Red Hawk. He looked into the working face of the Wind Walker, and suddenly shuddered from head to foot.
“How long have you been with them? How long have you been with the tribe? Do you know that?”
“Seventeen . . . eighteen years,” said Red Hawk.
Wind Walker’s terrible hands released him suddenly. Red Hawk could have snatched out the long knife at his belt and buried it in the body of the white man at that moment, but he heard the giant cry: “Remember exactly . . . for God’s sake! Was it eighteen years ago? Was it?”
“It was . . . exactly eighteen years.” Red Hawk nodded. “I have heard them name the year when I was brought to the tribe. Spotted Antelope . . .”
The pointing, rigid arm of Wind Walker stopped him, the wild eyes that searched his face. “You once sacrificed a horse on the grave of my dead wife, boy,” said Marshall Sabin. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I heard a voice come out of her grave, one day a long time ago.”
“What voice? In the name of God, are you going to give me your damned Indian nonsense and spirit chatter now? What did the voice out of the grave say to you?”
“Only one word. It was as if I had remembered it out of some dim past. ‘Rusty,’ it said. I do not know why.”
When a bullet drives straight through the heart, the flesh of the body quivers once and is quiet, and the breath may swell the throat and part the lips once without a sound coming. It seemed to Red Hawk that his last word had so struck through the body of Marshall Sabin and left him, in a moment, still and calm.
His man-slaying hand stretched toward Red Hawk with the palm turned up. “Rusty,” said such a voice as Red Hawk never had heard before, “can you see with my eyes? It was your mother’s name for you, and you are my son.”