SUDDENLY into the open before he Saw it, Carson threw the horse upon its haunches.
Camp, eh? Two-score peaked lodges clustered on a feeder to the lake, scarce beyond hailing distance. Other lodges beyond, the murmurs of a big Indian village borne to him. Blackfeet lodges!
“This is the camp I promised!” Her exultant words sounded at his ear. “You’ll find the Arapahoe girl here if you Wait. Plenty Eagle’s village—”
His arm swept out, thrust her away, sent her rolling on the ground. Her voice came with shrill fury:
“Now I’ll see you killed, you fool!”
Riders were behind him, sweeping out and around. Blackfeet were racing from either side; warriors a-horse were bursting from the trees. Only the narrowing way to the lake itself was open.
One warrior swerved in to front him in his very course. Carson dropped rein and brought up his rifle. He fired. The warrior lurched from his horse to sprawl on the ground. Carson sent his horse springing across the man’s body. Hammering on down the narrowing path to the lake, through angry yells and the bark of guns, he put the animal into the water. They gained swimming depth, while around them bullet and shaft flicked and sprayed the surface.
Carson slid off the horse. Animal’s tail in one hand, rifle held high in the other, he followed in the wake of his mount.
The horse at length found footing, and Carson scrambled into the saddle and rode splashing through the fringe of ooze and rushes, shaking not so much with a chill as with a hearty laugh. Man, horse and rifle—here he was, and not dead yet!
Firmer ground now. He was tilting the powder-horn for a reload, when he froze with a chill indeed. He heard the warning hiss. He looked into the black levelled rifles and the blacker eyes behind them. Three warriors, waiting here like snakes at the water’s edge. A tired mount and gun unprimed; three rifles covering him.
The waiting Blackfeet grinned as Carson signed surrender.
They took his reins, took his rifle and all else, and rode with him around the lake shore. Hardest to bear was the sight of the woman standing there, poised, intent, watching him with eyes aflame, utter vindictive hatred in every line of her.
He was hustled along, pulled off the horse, shoved into a lodge. Outside came bursts of voices, a scuffle; then the flap was thrown aside. A figure was pitched in to land sprawling.
A white man, begrimed, half stripped of his buckskins, buffeted and bleeding, but whole. He scrambled to his feet.
Carson stared into the pallid face, the dilated eyes, of young Stephens.
The vision of Bridger riding the rescue trail was snuffed like a doused ember.
“You, Kit!” panted the boy. “They got both of us!”
“Who brought you in?” Carson asked.
“It was a chief. Plenty Eagle.”
Carson drew a deep breath.
“How about that big red Frenchman of the Hudson’s Bay—Shunan? And a ’Rapahoe girl? Were they in the party?”
“I don't know the difference between Injun women, but there was no white man. You mean the one you had a fight with at rendezvous? No. He wasn't there at all.”
Had Shunan set off with Singing Bird, then? The trail had forked, in such case. There went Shunan with Singing Bird; here stayed Plenty Eagle. And here sat Kit Carson, powerless as a trapped beaver.
Outside sounded a quick hard step. The entrance flap was thrown aside, and an Indian stooped through. It was Plenty Eagle. He stood for a moment, straight and silent, with eyes gripped on Carson and no heed for the boy.
“So! You thought to run away with Go Everywhere Woman, but she was too smart for you. My young men were too smart for you. It is a pity you killed one of them; now they are very angry. You see how strong my medicine is. What have you to say?”
Carson made a careless gesture.
“I? But you have come here to do the talking. Do it.”
“Not now; you shall live a little while.” Plenty Eagle looked at Stephens and uttered a grunt. “If Little Chief dies, it is as a man; but this man whose heart is like water shall amuse the women. Tomorrow.”
He turned and went out.
THE lodge interior was dark now. The flickering beams of a large fire played upon the hide walls. A drum began to beat with hollow, measured notes.
“Going to have a dance, Stephens.”
“A dance? Is that all?”
Yells and whoops resounded, thud of moccasined feet, a chorused chant, the thumps of knobbed drumstick upon hide drumhead. The dance was in progress. A swift hand flung the lodge-flap aside. By this mute invitation they could view the scene through the triangle of the lodge’s entrance—a dubious favor, intended not to please but to intimidate.
Carson felt young Stephens trembling at his elbow, heard the quick breathing that fanned his cheek. The sight was enough to daunt any heart. An inner circle of painted figures was cavorting around the fire; the outer circle of massed squatting figures, intent of gaze, swayed in unison with the chant and the pounding feet. Carson had not guessed that the village was so large. The assemblage, fantastically shadowed, was beyond his count.
By the paint, the gestures, the tense excitement, this was a war dance of selected young warriors. Carson glimpsed Plenty Eagle, seated a little in the clear. He searched in vain for the red visage of Shunan.
After a time the ever-quickening circle broke in a final flourish of knife, gun, bow and tomahawk. There was a single closing volley of yells. Streaming with sweat, the warrior dancers darted about. An instant of suspense, and then she came—Go Everywhere Woman, Shunan’s daughter. She came once more as White Beaver woman, springing through the seated circle, the old medicine man at her heels.
“Kit, look!” gasped Stephens. “A woman; a girl—what a lovely thing she is! She must be the one I heard Laforay talk about.”
The medicine drum struck up. The withered ancient pranced and intoned, stooping, rising, eyes shut and headgear bobbing. As in the lodge outside Bent’s Fort, the girl tinkled her moccasin bells in a dance, slow, graceful, undulating.
As she danced, she sang. The drumbeats, the intonation, merged into the lilting chant with the White Beaver refrain: “When the White Beaver crosses the mountains!” The words took on a savage, frenzied tempo, and swept the rapt audience until all the surrounding night rocked to the wild rhythm. The girl was moving faster; the chant surged into a barbaric crescendo.
Carson abruptly reached out and jerked the flap over the entrance again.
“Seen enough, heard enough,” he said. “We’ll sleep and let ’em yell.
Morning came at last, announcing fortune and death at balance. Stephens roused from a sleep of exhaustion; he had dreamed of the stake and torture, he muttered.
The mounting sun had warmed the lodge when Plenty Eagle suddenly appeared, stood for searching survey, then gave the order as he turned.
“We will talk outside, where the sky will hear us.”
Beckoning to Stephens, Carson followed the chief outside. They sat in the sun before the lodge entrance.
Carson’s eyes flickered about. The village was fully astir.
“I want you to listen well, Little Chief.” Plenty Eagle was speaking, direct and brusque, as one who forbade argument. “You look behind, you see death. You look before and around, you see death. There is one little thing that will hide you from death as a shield hides from the arrow. It is the medicine skin.”
“What?” Carson made gesture.
“Your captain, the Blanket Chief, has the medicine skin. You will send to him, tell him to bring the medicine skin. Tell him that when he puts it in my hands, you shall go out to him free. You will take the Arapahoe girl when you go. Tell the Blanket Chief that if he does as I say, he can hunt here until winter comes. It will be the last hunt for him and for all Americans. If he does not do as I say, you will die here, and the Blackfeet will kill him and all his men,”
“The Arapahoe girl? Singing Bird? You have her here?”
“Yes. I give her to you.”
“But she is with Shunan,” said Carson. “Sun Buffalo.”
“That red dog with a loud bark?” The lips of the chief curved in disdain and amusement. “You think she is for him? So did he. He has gone to the fort on the Snake; he expects to get her. He is a fool.”
One thought volleyed through Carson’s brain: Shunan had gone to Fort Hall on the Snake—as good as dead, then! Brave Elk of the Arapahoes would surely find him.
Carson answered: “You tell me to send word to the Blanket Chief. I cannot do that. I do not know where to find him.”
“I do. I know everything.” With boasting word, Plenty Eagle touched the beaded sack hanging at his throat. “My medicine tells me. He is camped on the Yellowstone. I will show the trail for your words to follow.”
“A man will take the message?”
“No, you will put sign on paper for the Blanket Chief to read. It will be taken to him. It will be true sign; I will ask Go Everywhere Woman to read it before it leaves here.”
Carson grunted. “If I refuse, you would kill the two of us, eh?”
Plenty Eagle’s gaze touched on Stephens with contempt.
“Not that one; weasel heart. But you—that will be good to watch. The death-song of Little Chief will make my warriors strong to die when their turn comes. Now answer me.”
“Kill me, and the Blanket Chief will burn you up. Your village will have only women crying in the ashes.”
“Little Chief talks big, like a thorn under a finger nail. What does that cow calf say?”
“Asking what you’re talking about.”
“Tell him.”
“I will not. Your words are nothing. I have forgotten them.”
Plenty Eagle grunted, then lifted a shout.
Carson flung a swift warning at young Stephens.
“Keep your head. Pay no attention to anything they say to you.”
He saw the boy turn, startled and intent; he looked too, and saw Marie coming across the open. Plenty Eagle shot swift words at her.
“This man whom the Cheyennes call Little Chief forgets what I say. The other one wants to know. You will tell him. These are the words he must take to the Blanket Chief.”
Stephens to Bridger, eh? So that was it. Plenty Eagle repeated the terms; the girl was passing the words on, Carson interrupted furiously:
“Don't you carry such a message. I’ve refused to send it.”
“They mean I'm to go and leave you here?” queried Stephens, wide-eyed.
“That’s not the question. They want a certain beaver pelt. They want Bridger to fetch it here. No! Then the terror would cut loose.”
Stephens looked at the stony-faced chief, faltered, looked up at the girl, and took heart.
“I’ll not go without Carson. We’re together, and I’ll stay with him.”
He still missed the main argument, but his words had come doggedly.
“Good lad!” Carson approved. “Leave the game to Bridger. He won't get any say-so from us—and no Blackfeet will risk hair there.”
Marie laughed a little, looking down at him. Her eyes were flaming with hate of him. She spoke softly.
“I might take the message myself, Kit.”
“Bridger would want better sign than your say-so,” he retorted.
Swift of eye and instinct, the chieftain seemed to know already how things drifted. He spoke sharply, grimly:
“The cow calf will not go? Very well. Tell him they shall go together before the sun is higher by a palm, but they shall go in fire. If he wants to live and wants Little Chief to live, he has just one thing to do.”
“Don't you believe their lies, Stephens,” Carson warned.
Marie laughed again, repeated the words, and added: “The warriors who took you are eager to burn you. They’re making ready a stake now, and a long chain so that you can run around the stake while the first fires roast you. You would be very foolish not to trust Plenty Eagle. He is the head chief. You can help your friend by going; you can save his life. Never mind if he is angry. He will be glad later.”
Young Stephens whitened and broke into convulsive grimaces.
“I’ll go,” he cried out, and turned. “Kit, you understand? It’s for both of us. I’ll do anything. I can't stand it! You’ll get free too. Why should we stand the torture for the sake of a beaver pelt? It’s insane! I’ll go, yes.”
Plenty Eagle grinned briefly.
“Tell the Blanket Chief these words. I give him one sunrise. If he does not hand me the medicine skin by the time the sun is highest, Little Chief dies. Then we come and take the White Beaver medicine from him.” He leaned forward to Stephens with ferocious glare and pointed finger. The finger stabbed, described a rapid circle around his feather crown. Stephens shrank back, comprehending the gesture.
Marie was translating to the boy; but careless of her ears, Carson made one last desperate try.
“Save your own life, then, and welcome. But tell Bridger to keep away from here. Tell him this village is too big for him! Remember, he’s got only 25 men. Don't let him—”
Plenty Eagle’s arm swept out. His hand slapped Carson across the lips.
“Shut up! Your words are crooked. Go inside. You reek in the sun like a rotten dog. Go!”
Carson rose and went into the lodge. The woman’s level voice struck him in the back with words of hatred.
“I hope Bridger does keep away. The medicine skin will wait for us on the Yellowstone, and I hope to see you killed. The girl will see, too. And my father will laugh when your scalp is danced and she is in his lodge!”
Carson let the flap fall behind him.
He sat down, his lips stinging. This composure, this self-control, was a thing of the hardest.
A blow, with eyes to see it! He could picture Jim Bridger in such case, knife out, fist out, foot out, at any cost … but he, Kit Carson, had controlled himself. Wrong, perhaps. Now he was branded in all redskin eyes, branded for life, until such time as the scalp of Plenty Eagle swung at his belt. Better to have lashed out hotly and forced death to take him and Stephens both in that moment. Better a dozen things, perhaps … Or perhaps not.
From outside, Carson heard commands from Plenty Eagle, the sound of horses brought up, voices. Carson knew that a warrior had ridden away with Stephens, a guide to take him to Bridger’s camp. Let the game rest with old Jim, then.
Overhead, the day dragged, as marked by shifting of the sun upon the lodge hides. Carson slept, woke, dozed again. Afternoon, sunset, evening, and dusky night.
Morning again. The sun rose higher, and the village lazed. Mid-morning — and suddenly Carson started up. The village routine was shattered. Signals from the horse guards, shrill cries and drumming hoofs; the herds were being driven in. Dogs barked madly; warriors shouted.
The voice of Plenty Eagle, deep and sonorous, took command. His lieutenants seconded him. The village stilled again, as in suspense. Bridger had come.
Now what?
Carson heard the distant hails, in query and response, preliminary to the appointed conference. He could guess at the signs, which carried farther than words, and he waited upon the result of the palaver. The flap was suddenly opened. Two braves beckoned him out and ushered him away, through the staring and excited village, and to the open ground beyond.
Carson stared. They were there, well beyond the village outskirts; but not a scant 25. Instead, a full 50 men, Bridger heading them — the 50 ranged well back against the wooded course of the feeder stream, all of them mounted. And here advanced, alone, afoot. Jim Bridger. He was holding a white object aloft, and Carson’s pulses jumped at the sight of it.
A sub chief had gone forward to talk with Bridger, and now was returning to where Plenty Eagle stood. Carson was urged to the same point. He heard the report made a surge of wrath turned his brain giddy. Stephens had done his work too well.
“The Blanket Chief will lay the medicine on that rock,” reported the sub chief. “He will stand back and wait for the white man to be sent out.”
“Good,” said Plenty Eagle. “Take out the man. Get the medicine from the rock, and let the man go. First, give him his rifle and other belongings.”
The bronzed chief showed no trace of the wild exultation that must have thrilled his whole spirit at sight of the white beaver pelt there, awaiting him. There was all the future for the taking, a future of war and blood and conquest such as few Indian leaders had ever glimpsed, or would ever glimpse again.
Carson felt his rifle and trappings thrust upon him. Then his brain cleared. It was a long rifle-shot to Bridger, but his voice rose in a shout that carried.
“Keep that pelt! I’ll not come.”
Reply came prompt:
“Shut your trap and come. This here is hoss and hoss.”
Bridger’s lean form and sparsely whiskered visage wore an earnest, penetrating expression. Something in his bluff voice, in his words, rang a warning bell in Carson’s brain. Jim was up to mischief, somehow. Instantly, his heart rose. He could see Laforay in the ranks, with Herring, bending forward in the saddle, squinting expectantly. Stephens was there, too, gesturing impatiently as though to him.
Bridger advanced with long strides and elaborately laid the pelt on the rock. It was a dun boulder half embedded in the short-cropped grasses. Then Bridger stepped back again toward his own men.