CARSON’s powder-burned eyes were clearing at last. The ache in the head was gone; the rip in the skin had closed. Whitman nipped out the stitches, promising that the bandage would be off in another day or two. So would he and the other missioner, for the rendezvous was about to break up.
The Hudson’s Bay brigade were getting ready to strike their lodges. By all report Shunan and his daughter had taken to safe hiding, and it was well they had. The Arapahoes were in ugly mood, searching vainly for him, and their old hatred against the Blackfeet was intensified by what had happened.
Thus far, no word had come from the bale of beaver pelts. But to Carson, still lodged with Jim Bridger, the usual patience had returned, the calm poise that matched him so well with these older and grizzled veterans.
Early morning: Bridger was up and about, growling like a bear with a sore head. He stepped out of the lodge. The camp lay in silence. Then he came in again with a splutter of wrath.
“By the tarnal, Kit! Looks like your pack’s been opened. Here’s sign.”
“What?” Carson started up.
“A red-painted arrer—Blackfoot, with eagle feathers. It was planted in front of the lodge.”
“A defi,” said Carson despondently. “Takes no eyes to read that sign.”
“Yep. War-point and war-paint. Feathered, as sign of Plenty Eagle himself. He’s got holt of that medicine pelt; now it’ll be passed around. He sends notice we’re to be rubbed out. That’s how I read it.”
“Maybe right, maybe-not,” said Carson, perplexity tugging at him. “My bale wasn't to be touched. McKay’s word always holds good. I’ll ride over and ask him, Jim. I can see well enough to ride straight and talk straight.”
“After breakfast, then,” agreed Bridger. “I’ll tell the boys about this; we’ll hold council ’fore we take the trail.”
They were eating buffalo stew when quick hoofs came to a halt before the lodge entrance. Then came the thud of lightly descending moccasins. Carson sensed a figure at the open flap, and heard Bridger’s grunt of inquiry, then reply.
“M’sieur Keet Carson is here?”
“Aye. What is it?”
“M’sieur, I am from the camp of Capt. McKay. I bring the bale of beaver which you seek, with the captain’s compliments. He regrets that he was so long getting it for you. He is about to march; the lodges are struck. He wishes to know, shall I leave the bale here, and when may he expect you to join him?”
Carson spoke with the messenger, asked him to wait outside until he had consulted with his friend. The breed complied.
Bridger came stamping in, lugging the bale of pelts. He dropped the bale, closed the lodge flap, then began to work at the lashings.
Carson, blinking with eyes and heart on fire, thrust his bandage higher to give him some vision. Bridger was slipping off the lashings. Now he unpeeled the hide wrappings of the bale, and dug at the layers of pelts.
“Where is it?” he growled. “Where to find it?”
“Plumb in the middle,” said Carson excitedly. “Folded away to cache there out o' sight.”
A moment of star suspense. Then Bridger caught his breath.
“Scalp me if it ain't—”
It came free—white of skin and furry edges, glamorous with its suggestion here in the dimmed light of the closed lodge. Carson’s gasp of relief was answered by an astonished and incredulous grunt from Bridger, who unfolded the thing. There was the fur, spread and matted, white as the wool of a sheep.
Both of them forgot all else—Carson, in thus seeing once more the wondrous thing destiny had flung into his hand; Bridger, in his first sight of a marvel whose very existence he would have derided. Not the thing alone, but all it stood for—the far-reaching events hanging upon this scrap of fur.
“It’s real!”
Bridger rubbed the fur, still incredulous. A slow grin stole into his tanned leather face. “Ho! And him sending it back to you, unbeknowing! And Plenty Eagle having it and never guessing.”
Stupefaction closed their senses to caution. Bridger’s head came up of a sudden; his hand shot out to pull the white pelt out of sight. Too late!
For without ceremony the entrance flap was flung aside, and a panting figure stood framed there. Not that of the Hudson’s Bay ’breed, but of a Brave Elk. the young Arapahoe warrior.
The eyes in the smooth round face caught the white pelt ere it was whisked from sight. Then the warrior spoke, from dry heaving throat.
“Little Chief! She is gone.”
“Who?” Carson strained to see. “Who is gone?”
“Singing Bird. She is gone to Plenty Eagle of the Blackfeet!”
Carson leaped up. “What? To marry him?”
“For his lodge, yes; but she was taken away, carried off through the brush at first daylight.”
Bridger exploded: “That’s the arrer sign. Kit!”
Carson, rising, jerked the bandage loose and flung it away. With it he flung restraint, all thought of half-healed wound, or of bale or pelt. He snatched his rifle, mended now, and his “fixin’s.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said to Brave Elk. “You have a horse? Mine’s close.”
“Hey, Kit!” cried Bridger hastily. “Here’s your bale. What say to McKay?”
“Tell the ’breed to wait,” flung Carson over his shoulder, and then was gone, running beside the stripped warrior.
A vault to horse, a twist of rope, and he was away, galloping on beside the Arapahoe. He flung a sharp question at the young brave.
“She went for water while the morning star was bright. She did not come back. We found sign in the woods, moccasin sign and horses, a piece of Blackfoot rope. The trail ran away from us. Shunan and that girl of his brought the Blackfeet thieves. You are to blame.”
“I?” Carson started at the accusation. “How so?”
“You shoot crooked. You should have killed him. They say he has gone to the Snake, to hide in the fort there. His daughter gone too. You made her jealous; she was angry. You had no business sitting under a blanket with Singing Bird. She was not for you. She is not for Shunan. She is mine. I go to find Shunan and take his scalp.”
“You’d better start in with a few Blackfeet braids.”
Brave Elk snarled: “I do what you did not do. Your talk is big; your heart is small. I saw White Beaver medicine in the lodge where you live. When Sights the Enemy hears about that, he’ll take it. and Plenty Eagle will listen to him.”
And with this Parthian shaft, Brave Elk sent his pony racing ahead. The fat was in the fire now, and no mistake!
THE Arapahoe camp was in wild confusion. Imprecations and black looks greeted Carson on every side. When he dismounted at Sights the Enemy’s lodge, he found Brave Elk before him, story told. Warriors were gathering with mutters to right and left, stern faces, piercing eyes. The air was electric, surcharged, tense.
“You dirtied my pistol for no good!” spoke out Sights the Enemy angrily. “What will you do now to get my daughter back? Shunan is far away; he must not have her. She is not for that dog Plenty Eagle. You have what he wants more than any woman. Give it up! Little Chief has the White Beaver medicine. Brave Elk saw it in his lodge. Give it up!”
Carson said coolly: “Once the Arapahoe men were warriors. Are they women now, to let the Blackfeet steal away their girls? Or will they go to Plenty Eagle’s lodge themselves?”
Sights the Enemy was quick. That taunt drove deep and far. Carson found himself caught and held in a sinewy grip, while a circling press of Arapahoes bore in around him.
It was serious now. He fought for words; he strained against the hard arms.
“You stay here until she is brought back. If she is harmed, the Americans will get you in little pieces.”
Carson relaxed.
“Loose me. Do it quickly.”
“Then send for the white beaver skin.”
His answer was vigorous, unexpected. A sharp writhe, quick thrust with knee and palm, and he tore himself free.
Now he was bursting through the circle, receiving blows and curses, returning them full measure. Impetus carried him on and through. He broke clear, ran for his horse, and with one leap was mounted. His rifle was unloaded as yet, but they did not know it. He half turned, sweeping the arc of yapping pursuit.
A gun exploded, then another; but those following him desisted. A few-balls whistled past him, and then peril was behind.
He rode for the main camp of the rendezvous again, and found it all astir. The messenger from McKay was waiting, seated in the shade a short distance from the lodge. Carson dismounted, aware that his own close call had passed unobserved. Bridger was in high good humor.
“Guns, hey? So Plenty Eagle has your gal. Whose work?”
“Don't know; Shunan’s, most like, or his daughter’s. The ’Rapahoe blame me. I was grabbed and had to fight clear. Left ’em buzzing.”
“So? That’s bad,” said Bridger. “Spark in tinder. Now what? Join McKay to the Snake, fetch back Shunan’s hair as peace offering? Your bale is tied up again. What’s the sign?''
Carson’s thoughts raced. To keep the bargain with McKay and take the vengeance trail westward? Brave Elk, and other Arapahoes, would be on that trail; but with McKay he could beat them all. But meantime, Singing Bird was held by the Blackfeet, no doubt held for Shunan.
Confusion beat at him. But the white beaver pelt—what was the answer to that? Might be better to give it up after all, trade it for Singing Bird. Plenty Eagle would give her and a hundred more to get his hands on it. After all, the Blackfeet could be no more hostile than they were already. The Arapahoe pronounced the white pelt bad medicine. Indian reasoning, that might spread far.
“Your arrer’s gone.”
“Eh?” Carson turned to Bridger. “My arrow?”
“Yep. You can bet on that. Arrer wasn't meant for me. Plenty Eagle has got the gal; the arrer says for you to come in war and look for her. That’s the plain reading of it, clear as moccasin track in the sun.”
“What d'you mean, it’s gone?'“
Bridger chuckled delightedly. “I sent it back to him by a runner, with a gift.”
“Not the pelt?”
“No. Just a snip from it, tied to the arrer. I’ll pay you for the rest of it. We held council whilst you was gone.”
“Yes?” Carson tensed.
“Fill powder horns and bullet pouches, march north’ard at noon, set traps in Blackfoot country. I pack the medicine along with my possibles. If them imps want it, they know where to find it. We’re nigh 100 of us, and we’ll make their hearts weak.”
North! Challenge! A hundred of them, straight into the Blackfoot country, to trap the streams there!
Carson swung around to the Hudson’s Bay ’breed.
“Here!” He pointed to the wrapped bale. “You can take this back to Captain McKay. Tell him it will wipe out my account with him; it is his, with my thanks. I'm trapping with Captain Bridger.”
“Hurray!” blared Bridger. “What do you need for outfit?”
“Everything. Traps, powder and lead and Plenty Eagle in line with my sights.”
Bridger clapped him on the back.
“Might git you that!”
The Iroquois ’breed came padding up, grinning widely.
“How, Kit! You not go with Hudson’s Bay?”
“No. And you?”
“No! Me and Herring, we follow the medicine. A dream show me red sky again, heap fight; but everything turn out good. Hey, remember? I dream true. I see you once with scalp bloody, Kit!”
A yell sounded. Other men were coming on the run. Bridger whirled around. Arapahoes, a group of them, were coming on the gallop.
“Look out for trouble!” Bridger grabbed for his rifle. Other trappers were streaming along, weapons ready. The Arapahoe warriors held Straight in. They were armed and painted for war. Bridger strode out and fronted them
“Well? What do you want here?”
Sights the Enemy made blunt answer.
“We have come for the medicine-beaver pelt. With it we will buy from the Blackfeet the girl your man lost us.”
Bridger glanced at Carson in swift consternation.
“That’s their dicker,” Carson explained. “Brave Elk saw it. They wanted to keep me as hostage. I cut clear.”
Bridger swung around again to the Arapahoe group.
“Go home. The medicine is ours. We take it to the Blackfeet ourselves.”
“Maybe you lie; we shall see,” came the bold response. “Singing Bird comes back, or it is war. You pay for what your man did. Let him answer quick!”
Carson stepped out.
“Your hearts have turned to water. You come to us like whining puppies. We go to the Blackfeet with rifles. Plenty Eagle’s scalp pays.”
“You speak crooked like you shoot,” yapped a warrior; and with defiant yells the Arapahoe turned and hammered away.
At noon the Bridger brigade marched forth, with the medicine pelt stowed among Bridger’s odds and ends, his “possibles” of camp and trail. And powder-horns were crammed full.