What Red Hawk said to his friend he could never remember, though he would not forget to his death the sound of the hoofs of Standing Bull’s horse as it went back through the pass.
Then he saw that the last of the sunset had died out to a muddy yellow, while the night, like a shadow cast upward from the ground, rose and closed over him in a cold flood. Each light before him meant a lodge, he supposed, and to one of them he would have to go for shelter. As for the choice among them, it must be left to his medicine. So he made medicine, simply by picking up a small portion of dust from the trail and blowing on it until only the little pebbles remained in the palm of his hand. With the cautious tips of his fingers he counted four grains of rock, therefore he would pass four lights, and at the fifth he would try to enter.
He rode on down the trail until he came to an opening that clove straight through the camp of the white men. The lights, he now observed, shone very clearly out of the sides of the lodges and out of their faces, but he could not see the dancing, wavering glow of flames. He counted one light on the left and three on the right, and straightway turned toward the next light on the left. A wooden fence stopped him, so that he was forced to dismount. He started to explore the place on foot, leaving the gray stallion tethered to the fence.
All was strange. Apparently there were no scouts abroad. Though a dog barked now and again, there was no prowling crowd of them, such as continually washed across an Indian camp. There were innumerable new scents. Even the odors of cooking foods were a strange mixture of unknown sweets, sours, and pungencies, awakening appetite and killing it in the same breath. The sounds were also novel. Sometimes he heard dim choruses of laughter that came not out of the throat, but high from the nose. He heard the jingling of pots and pans; he heard speaking voices, near and far. But all of these noises were separated by pauses, and the effect of it all was unlike the continuous uproar of an Indian camp.
Against the stars, he studied the outlines of the lodge that was before him. It was peaked at the top, spread out to great, square shoulders, and dropped down straight at the sides. In compass, he calculated, it might be large enough to accommodate a hundred or more men around the sides, yet out of its immensity came only a small and drifting current of noises from the rear—chiefly the voices of talking women, with the deeper tones of a man sounding through at intervals.
He leaped the fence and landed on soft cultivated ground. He found a hard path to the right, covered with masses of small stones, the sharp edges of which he could feel through his moccasins. To walk silently over such a surface was almost impossible.
Out of the dullness of star shine before him rose steps that the touch of his hand proved to be of wood leveled wonderfully smooth, and with that it began to be more apparent to him that the medicine of the white man was indeed strong. These wooden steps were inclined to make groaning noises, so that it required all of five minutes for him to mount them in the necessary silence.
To his left the light shone through a square hole in the wall, and, as he stood before the opening, he looked into a mystery indeed. What he saw was a chamber of about the size, say, of an eight-skin lodge—but the place was not rounded, it was square! At one side stood a solid mass of black iron, as high as his breastbone, with a tube of black rising from the top and vanishing through the roof.
Around the walls were what appeared to be books, for they were very like the volume owned by Lazy Wolf. The brain of Red Hawk ached when he considered the incalculable swarms of words that must be required to fill them—more than all the buffalo that ever he had seen blackening the plains as far as the eye could reach. There might be, he estimated, as many as twenty twenties of these books.
The floor, strange to say, was not of beaten earth, but of wood smoothed over, and polished with brown paint. How long would it take a man to hew down logs to such a level, and then polish them, one by one? But in the center of the room, on a small, raised floor of wood that was supported by four legs, stood the chief miracle of all—a small flame that burned inside a gleaming transparent cylinder, larger at the bottom than at the top. Most mysterious of all was the nature of the flame itself. It neither leaped nor shrank. It seemed at first sight as solid as though it were a bit of incredibly luminous paint, though narrowed eyes revealed that it was constantly trembling with life and slight motion. It seemed to spring, moreover, out of nothingness.
When Red Hawk had considered this mighty marvel for a time, he moved forward to lean through the hole in the wall of the lodge and observe what was still hidden from him. But his nose, his chin, and his mouth struck in the invisible air something as cold as ice, and as hard.
He lurched back. Then, with the tips of his fingers, very cautiously, he examined the surface of this marvel that was something and yet was nothing. It was, in fact, a sort of dry ice, and it permitted the eye to glance unimpeded into the interior of the lodge. Awe came upon Red Hawk. He felt that he was staring at a temple, and that this was a sacred fire that, through the dreadful magic of the white man, fed upon the thin air instead of any substance.
When his mind had tasted these immensities for some time, he left the front of this great, square, wooden lodge, and went to the rear. He was now closer to the voices, and, again advancing with infinite caution up the wooden steps, he came closer to the white magicians.
Again the light streamed upon him, through another partition of the dry ice, emanating from just such a flame, enclosed in a similar crystal tube. What manner of people were these who could keep in a single lodge two marvels, each of which was enough to make the fame of a great medicine man? He could not look into their faces at once. Instead, he glanced toward a corner where stood another mass of black iron. Out of this iron came flickerings of yellow fire and the noise of shuddering flames.
Now he was able to see that two women and a man sat about the four-legged structure that supported the steady flame in the crystal tube. They were not worshiping. No, they were talking and laughing, their pale faces wrinkling and opening with mirth as though their bellies had been filled after long fasting. For this there was small cause of wonder, since it was apparently a mighty feast. Not out of wooden bowls with horn spoons did they feed, nor upon stewed meat and boiled corn; they ate from rounded, flat stones, very white and shining.
What seemed the ham of a small deer appeared on that altar, in some places whittled down to the bone with slices lying at random beside it. Strangest of all, these mighty white magicians ate grass of the fields, like so many buffalo. Yes, at this very moment the man lifted a small quantity of entangled greens to his lips, engulfed them, chewed them, and, instead of spitting them out as one might do after performing such a disgusting ceremonial act, he could be seen to swallow what was in his mouth.
Other marvels appeared on that lighted altar, and not the least were seven knives. To be sure the handles of them were absurdly small, yet they were apparently steel of good quality.
Then it could be noted that these people sat on stools that had backs to them, against which they leaned like mighty enchanters, secure in the presence of their magic fire. And last of all, Red Hawk observed their faces, and he felt the difference between the whites and the Cheyennes more than ever he had when he looked at the sun-browned traders who he had seen in the camp.
The face of the man was sharp below the eyes; the eyes themselves were large, well-opened, calm, with the shadow of thought constantly on them. But the forehead rose lofty, wide, and shining. The face was, in fact, triangular, and the beard and moustaches only disguised its outline.
The squaw was not very different. In spite of the fact that they seemed now to be carelessly feasting upon at least six kinds of food, it was apparent that the man and the older woman fasted often, for she was as lean of feature as the master of the lodge. Her hair was gray; her eyes were misty blue; from the thinness of her shoulders it was plain that she would be of small use in shifting camp or carrying water or fleshing hides. Yet she looked about with the calm demeanor of the young and favorite squaw of a mighty chief.
Last of all Red Hawk looked at the girl, though he had been aware of her from the first, as one is aware of distant music, no matter where the eyes and mind may be. She fitted into the days of his life like a blue lake among the iron mountains. The light remained in her hair, and he could not tell whether he wished to follow the motion of her hands or the brown beauty of her face. Unlike the others, it was plain that the sun loved her and dwelt much on her.
She put back her head in laughter, at this moment, and her mirth tilted her from side to side a little. Then her eyes suddenly rested on the window where Red Hawk stood. The laughter vanished. She sprang up with a scream, pointing.
The two other heads turned. The other woman cried out, also. As Red Hawk stepped back, he heard a trampling of hasty feet, and the older woman’s voice crying: “Don’t go out, Richard!”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said the man, and cast the door open. The shaft of light flashed along the barrel of the rifle that the man held, and then struck fully on his form.
Red Hawk drew himself up slowly. One should always move gently when guns are pointed. Lifting his hand he gathered his dignity into his voice, saying: “Hau.”
“It’s a friendly redskin,” said the bearded white man.
“There’s no such thing!” cried his squaw from the inside of the lodge.
“Do you speak English? What you want?” asked the man.
“I speak English,” said Red Hawk. “I come from the Black Hills to live among the white men, because my skin is also white.”
“The devil it is,” said the other. “Come inside.” He stood back, making a gesture of invitation that Red Hawk accepted, stepping lightly over the threshold. The two women were in a corner—the mother with a hand thrown up across her face, ready to shield her eyes from the sight of a monstrosity, and the girl, all eyes with fear, but with her chin thrusting out in a determined way. She held a big revolver in both hands.
Red Hawk, having printed their faces on his mind, looked down at the floor.
“He can’t stay here,” said the squaw. “I won’t have him under the same roof with us. We’d wake up to find the place in flames. I don’t know what you’re thinking of, Richard Lester.”
“I haven’t said that I’m thinking of it,” said Lester. “He speaks English, my dear, so ask him to sit down. Take this chair, my friend. Maisry, set a new place at the table. Put the meat and the beans back into the oven to heat, and make some more coffee.”
It was a hospitable speech, and the voice was warm and kindly, with more delicacy of inflection than Red Hawk ever had heard from a human throat before, except when some ancient chief told stories of the days of his childhood, or the ancient legends of the race.
The older woman suddenly cried out: “Merciful heaven, Richard! It’s true! His skin is white . . . or almost white. Make him sit down. He must have been stolen away from his family by the red devils! Ah, Dick, think of his mother! What is your name, young man? Who were your people? Were the members of your family murdered?”
“Hush, Martha,” said Richard Lester. “Let him take his breath.”
The eye of Red Hawk swung to the side to watch the girl open a door in the hot iron monster and put meat and a platter of beans inside it. Then he answered: “My father is Spotted Antelope, a brave man who has taken five scalps, two of them from white men. He has counted coup of three living men, and on twelve dead ones. My mother is Bitter Root. She has been a medicine lodge woman . . . her hands are never still all day long, and . . .”
“Murder!” cried the white squaw. “Five scalps! And two from white men. . . .”
“Martha,” said Richard Lester, “if your tongue must keep joggling along, I’ll have to ask you to leave the room. This man is our guest, and he understands every word you speak. My friend, will you sit down?” Again, he pushed forward one of the stools with the high backs, but Red Hawk, unfamiliar with this medicine, threw back from his naked shoulders his buffalo robe and squatted cross-legged on the floor.
“Your father is a white man who joined the Indians?” said Lester. “Is that it?”
“My father is red. He is Cheyenne, and his name is Spotted Antelope.”
“Ah,” said Lester, his voice hard. “And he has a white squaw, then?”
“My mother is also red,” said Red Hawk. “Her name is Bitter Root, and . . .”
“But if both your parents are red, how does it come that your skin is white?” asked Lester.
Red Hawk answered: “My father is Spotted Antelope. My mother is Bitter Root. That is all I know.”
“He was taken as a child. He doesn’t remember,” said the girl. “And all of these questions will embarrass him. Offer him something to smoke. That’s the best way.”
“It is,” said Lester. “Well . . . are you comfortable on that cold floor, my friend? And what is your name?”
“My name is Red Hawk. The floor is as warm to me as piled buffalo robes, because the voice of my white friend is kind.”
“Thank you,” said Lester. “My name is Richard Lester.”
Red Hawk stood up.
“This is my wife . . . this is my daughter, Maisry,” Lester continued.
Red Hawk looked at them both, and then sat down again on the floor. Lester took a chair opposite him. Mrs. Lester began to clear the table, keeping enchanted eyes on the visitor and seeming afraid lest the dishes should make a noise.
“So you’ve left the Cheyennes and you’ve come to live with the whites?” said Richard Lester. “And what will you do? What work will you undertake?”
“I shall join some chief,” said Red Hawk, “and follow him on the warpath and take scalps wherever I can.”
“Good heavens!” cried Martha Lester.
“Hush, my dear,” said the husband. “But listen to me, Red Hawk. The people of this town don’t have chiefs, and they don’t ride on the warpath. They don’t take scalps . . . except for a few hardened fellows who fight the Indians with their own methods. All that we want is peace . . . and we work to make the town grow and the farm lands extend farther and farther through the hills. Do you understand?”
The mind of Red Hawk grasped vainly at this picture. “I have heard that white men work like squaws,” he said. “Do you use a hoe in the fields?”
“I work with books,” said Lester. “I am a lawyer. That is to say . . . when two men quarrel, I try to make peace between them . . . or else I try to prove that one is right and the other wrong. For that they give me money.”
“A peacemaker,” said Red Hawk, “is better in a camp than a great war chief on a man trail.”
“But all of us,” said Lester, “work in some way. What sort of work would you like to do?”
“What could he do?” asked Mrs. Lester. “Now there’s Sam Calkins, the blacksmith. He’s lacking an apprentice. That would be a place for him. He looks strong enough.”
“Sam Calkins,” said the girl, opening the oven door and taking out the platter that held the joint, “is a great, surly brute.”
“All the better taskmaster for a red-handed . . . ,” began Mrs. Lester.
“Hush, Martha,” said Richard Lester. “If there’s a place open with Calkins, it might serve to give Red Hawk his start. He wouldn’t have to stay with Calkins if he didn’t want to. In the meantime, I can look around and try to find something worthwhile for him to do. Put the platter down on the floor before our guest, Maisry.”
The girl, accordingly, placed the big dish in front of Red Hawk and with it a smaller plate, a knife, a fork, a spoon, a dish of baked beans, some bread on another plate, and a steaming cup of coffee.
“Sugar?” she asked, offering a bowl of it, with a spoon held tentatively above it.
“Good!” cried Red Hawk, his mouth watering.
Taking the bowl, he poured a large quantity of that precious sweet stuff into his mouth and began to champ it noisily. There was a gasping cry of disgust from Mrs. Lester, but, in the ecstasy of his pleasure, Red Hawk’s dim eyes were unable to discover the cause of her exclamation. In a few mouthfuls, he had finished the sugar, and began to clear his throat, which had been a little rasped. His mouth being wet to the chin, he dried it on his forearm.
“I’m leaving the room! I can’t stand it,” said Mrs. Lester. “A more disgusting . . .” Then she broke off to add: “Maisry, what in heaven’s name is the matter with you? Get up off that floor.”
For Maisry, at this point, had actually sat down cross-legged, opposite to Red Hawk. He smiled and nodded to her, grateful for this company of his own level, as it were. And the girl said: “You know, Mother, we want him to feel at home.”
“Richard Lester, order your child to get up off that floor!” cried the mother.
“I can’t do it, Martha,” said the lawyer. “Maisry is right. I ought to do the same thing, I suppose, but I’m afraid of rheumatism, and if . . .”
His voice died away as Red Hawk took the bone of the meat in both hands, by the joints, and commenced to rip away the flesh with his strong teeth. It was so tender that it came away in large fragments, which he gathered into his mouth with vigorous use of his lips and tongue. Presently the bone was stripped white and gleaming. The beans received his next attention, and, resting the edge of the bowl between his chin and his lower lip, he took the spoon in a comfortable grip and began to shovel. He closed his eyes, and presently the spoon scraped on the bottom of the bowl. At this, he put down the bowl and tried the coffee, but, since it was unsweetened and still very hot, he squirted out on the floor the half mouthful that he tried. After that, he fitted his pipe together and filled it for a smoke.
The girl set about mopping up the coffee spot with a wet rag, while her father sat by rubbing his chin. Mrs. Lester had left the room.
A spirit of peace came over Red Hawk as he inhaled the tobacco fumes deeply. Being moved to sing, he parted his lips, swayed a little from side to side to keep the rhythm, and began his song, drawling out the monotony of it, occasionally lifting his voice to a yelp, till in the strength of his pleasure he could see only the face of the girl, and this dimly—the blue stain of her eyes and the smiling of her lips. . . .
When he had finished, she said to him: “What is your song about, Red Hawk?”
“I am glad that you ask me,” he said. “This is what it says in white words, without singing . . . ‘Old winter, you are gone from me. The new grass is rising through the brown. There’s plenty of back-fat in the pot, stewing with buffalo tongues. My belly is full and my heart is comforted. Smoke fills me with happiness. Then why will not sleep come to me? Because, when I close my eyes, I see my love like a place of flowers in the middle of a great plain.’” He made a gesture toward the girl, palm out. “That is for you,” he said.
Her eyes were pleased, and perfectly calm. She smiled straight at him. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s growing late,” said Richard Lester suddenly. “I’ll show you a bed where you may sleep, Red Hawk. And in the morning I’ll see the blacksmith and try to get him to let you work for him . . . at least for a while.”
“Do you mean that I must work with my hands?” said Red Hawk. He looked down at his palms and moved his fingers.
“Either with your hands or with your wits,” said Richard Lester. “And until you’ve learned the ways of the whites, you’d better depend on your hands. It’s a painful medicine, but a good one.”
He stood up from the chair. Red Hawk arose, also. He was greatly contented, for the white chief had spoken to him with much kindness. If among the whites there were such men, if among the whites there were such girls as this, if the lodges were filled with such miracles of crystal and fire and comfort, was not life at least possible?
“Good night,” said the girl.
“May the night be good to you, also,” said Red Hawk. “May kind voices speak in your dreams.”
He followed his host down a narrow hall and into a small chamber that contained, in one corner, a bed raised on four legs and covered with blankets in many thicknesses. On the wooden floor of the room there was more shining paint. On a small stand stood a pitcher of the white glistening stone in a vast bowl. The pitcher was filled with water.
“Sleep well,” said Richard Lester, “and good night, Red Hawk.”
“May all the white tribes honor you,” said Red Hawk with emotion.
But when he was left alone it seemed to him that the muffled voices that spoke in other parts of the place were stealing toward him, and, when he laid himself on the bed, there was a stirring and a thin creaking of metal under it. Moreover, when he turned his body, the bed seemed to be turning with it.
Then he remembered his horse. He got up, took his buffalo robe, and spent many long minutes before he could get out of the place without bringing a creak from a single board underfoot. When he leaped the fence, the gray stallion began to whinny, but he caught it by the nostrils and held on until the tremor of effort ceased.
Afterward he found a bit of grass not far from the lodge of Richard Lester, so he stripped off the saddle, hobbled the horse, gave the blanket a single twist around his body, and lay down, as it were, in the middle of a camp of enemies. But before sleep came he grasped in his right hand the little green beetle of stone, with the hawk engraved upon it, which hung from about his neck.
“Beetle,” he said softly, “you have opened your wings and carried me a great distance. You have taken me into a good land. My belly is full. The same stars shine on me as on the Cheyennes. So why does my heart ache so?”
Then he slept. . . .