CHAPTER XXIV
THE DEATH SONG OF THE SIOUX
That was a gruesome night at Frayne. Just at tattoo the door leading tothe little cell room had been thrown open, and the sergeant of the guardbade the prisoners come forth,--all warriors of the Ogalalla band andforemost of their number was Eagle Wing, the battle leader. Recapturedby Crabb and his men after a desperate flight and fight for liberty, hehad apparently been planning ever since a second essay even moredesperate. In sullen silence he had passed his days, showing no sign ofrecognition of any face among his guards until the morning Kennedyappeared--all malice forgotten now that his would-be slayer was ahelpless prisoner, and therefore did the Irishman greet him jovially."That man would knife you if he had half a chance," said the sergeant."Watch out for him!"
"You bet I'll watch out," said Kennedy, never dreaming that, despite allsearch and vigilance, Moreau had managed to obtain and hide a knife.
In silence they had shuffled forth into the corridor. The heavy portalswung behind them, confining the other two. Another door opened into theguardroom proper, where stood the big, red hot stove and where waitedtwo blacksmiths with the irons. Once in the guard room every window wasbarred, and members of the guard, three deep, blocked in eager curiositythe doorway leading to the outer air. In the corridor on one side stoodthree infantry soldiers, with fixed bayonets. On the other, facing them,three others of the guard. Between them shuffled the Sioux, "Wing"leading. One glance at the waiting blacksmiths was enough. With thespring of a tiger, he hurled himself, head foremost and bending low,straight at the open doorway, and split his way through the astonishedguards like center rush at foot ball, scattering them right and left;then darted round the corner of the guard-house, agile as a cat.
And there was Kennedy confronting him! One furious lunge he made withgleaming knife, then shot like an arrow, straight for the southwardbluff. It was bad judgment. He trusted to speed, to dim starlight, tobad aim, perhaps; but the little Irishman dropped on one knee and thefirst bullet tore through the muscles of a stalwart arm; the second,better aimed, pierced the vitals. Then they were on him, men by thedozen, in another instant, as he staggered and fell there, impotent andwrithing.
They bore him to the cell again,--the hospital was too far,--and Wallerand his aides came speedily to do all that surgery could accomplish, buthe cursed them back. He raved at Ray, who entered, leading poor, sobbinglittle Fawn Eyes, and demanded to be left alone with her. Waller wentout to minister to Kennedy, bleeding fast, and the others looked to Rayfor orders when the door was once more opened and Blake entered withNanette.
"By the general's order," said he, in brief explanation, and in aninstant she was on her knees beside the dying Sioux. There and thus theyleft them. Waller said there was nothing to be done. The junior surgeon,Tracy,--he whom she had so fascinated only those few weeks before,--bentand whispered: "Call me if you need. I shall remain within hearing." Butthere came no call. At taps the door was once more softly opened andTracy peered within. Fawn Eyes, rocking to and fro, was sobbing in anabandonment of grief. Nanette, face downward, lay prone upon a stilledand lifeless heart.
Flint and his escort duly went their way, and spread their story as theycamped at Laramie and "the Chug." The general tarried another week atFrayne. There was still very much to keep him there; so, not until heand "Black Bill" came down did we at other stations learn the facts. Thegeneral, as usual, had little to say. The colonel talked for both.
A woful time, it seems, they had had with poor Nanette when at last itbecame necessary to take her away from her dead brave. She raged andraved at even her pleading aunt. Defiant of them all, from the generaldown, and reckless of law or fact, she vowed it was all a conspiracy tomurder Moreau in cold blood. They gave him the knife, she declared,although it later developed that she had tossed it through the openwindow. They had given him the chance to escape--the sight of Kennedy,"who had striven to kill him twice before," and then of the blacksmiths,with their degrading shackles--all just to tempt him to make a dash forfreedom;--just as they had lured and murdered Crazy Horse--Crazy Horse,his brave kinsman--not ten years before,--then had placed a dead shot onthe path to life and liberty--a man who killed him in cold blood, asdeliberately planned. These were her accusations, and that story tookstrong hold in certain circles in the far East, where "love of truth"inspired its widespread publication, but not its contradiction when thefacts became known. The same conditions obtain to-day in dealing withaffairs across the sea.
Nanette said many other things before her final breakdown; and Hay andhis sorrowing wife found their load of care far heaviest, for the strainof Indian blood, now known to all, had steeled the soul of the girlagainst the people at Fort Frayne, men and women both--against none sovehemently as those who would have shown her sympathy--none somalignantly as those who had suffered for her sake.
This was especially true of Field. In the mad hope of "getting justice,"as she termed it, for the dead, she had demanded speech of the general,and, in presence of "Black Bill" and the surgeon, he had given her ahearing. It proved fatal to her cause, for in her fury at what shetermed "the triumph of his foes," she lost all sense of right or reason,and declared that it was Field who had warned Stabber's band and sentthem fleeing to unite with Lame Wolf,--Field who took the trader'shorses and rode by night with Kennedy to warn them it was Webb'sintention to surround the village at dawn and make prisoners of the men.It was Field, she said, who furnished the money Moreau needed toestablish his claim to a gold mine in the Black Hills, the ownership ofwhich would make them rich and repay Field a dozen times over. It wasField who sought to protect her kindred among the Sioux in hopes, shesaid it boldly, of winning her. But the general had heard enough. Thedoor was opened and Ray and Blake were ushered in. The former brieflytold of the finding of her note in Field's room the night the adjutantwas so mysteriously missing. The note itself was held forth by theinspector general and she was asked if she cared to have it opened andread aloud. Her answer was that Field was a coward, a dastard to betraya woman who had trusted him.
"Oh, he didn't," said Blake, drily. "'Twas just the other way. Hecouldn't be induced to open his head, so his friends took a hand. Yougot word of the outbreak through your Indian followers. You wrote toField and sent the note by Pete, bidding him join you at that godlesshour, telling him that you would provide the horses and that you mustride to Stabber's camp to see Moreau for the last time, as he was goingat once to the Black Hills. You made Field believe he was your halfbrother, instead of what he was. You brought Moreau back to the post andtook something, I can't say what, down to him from Mr. Hay's,--hewaiting for you on the flats below the trader's corral. You should haveworn your moccasins, as well as a divided skirt, that night instead ofFrench-heeled _bottines_. The rest--others can tell."
The others were Kennedy and the recaptured, half recalcitrant Pete; thelatter turned state's evidence. Kennedy told how he had wandered downinto the flats after "the few dhrinks" that made him think scornful ofSioux; of his encounter with Eagle Wing, his rescue by Field and a girlwho spoke Sioux like a native. He thought it was little Fawn Eyes whenhe heard her speak, and until he heard this lady; then he understood. Hehad been pledged to secrecy by the lieutenant, and never meant to tell asoul, but when he heard the lie the lady told about the lieutenant, itended any promise.
Then Pete, an abject, whining wretch, was ushered in, and his story,when dragged out by the roots, was worst of all. Poor Mrs. Hay! She hadto hear it, for they sent for her; somebody had to restrain Nanette.Pete said he had known Nanette long time, ever since baby. So hadCrapaud. Yes, and they had known Eagle Wing, Moreau, always--knew hisfather and mother. Knew Nanette's father and mother. But Black Billinterposed. No need to go into these particulars, as substantiating Mrs.Hay and himself, said he. "The lady knows perfectly well that I know allabout her girlhood," so Pete returned to modern history. Eagle Wing, itseems, came riding often in from Stabber's camp to see Nanette by night,and "he was in heap trouble, always heap
trouble, always want money,"and one night she told Pete he must come with her, must never tell ofit. She had money, she said, her own, in the trader's safe, but the doorwas too heavy, she couldn't open it, even though she had the key. Shehad opened the store by the back door, then came to him to help her withthe rest. He pulled the safe door open, he said, and then she hunted andfound two big letters, and took them to the house, and next night sheopened the store again, and he pulled open the safe, and she put backthe letters and sent him to Mr. Field's back door with note, and thenover to saddle Harney and Dan, and "bring 'em out back way from stable."Then later she told him Captain Blake had Eagle Wing's buckskin pouchand letters, and they must get them or somebody would hang Eagle Wing,and she kept them going, "all time going," meeting messengers from theSioux camps, or carrying letters. She fixed everything for the Sioux tocome and capture Hay and the wagon;--fixed everything, even to nearlymurdering the sentry on Number Six. Pete and Spotted Horse, a youngbrave of Stabber's band, had compassed that attempted rescue. She wouldhave had them kill the sentry, if need be, and the reason they didn'tget Wing away was that she couldn't wait until the sentries had calledoff. They might even then have succeeded, only her pony broke away, andshe clung to Eagle Wing's until he--he had to hit her to make her letgo.
The wild girl, in a fury declared it false from end to end. The poorwoman, weeping by her side, bowed her head and declared it doubtlesstrue.
Her story,--Mrs. Hay's,--was saddest of all. Her own father died whenshe was very, very young. He was a French Canadian trader and travellerwho had left them fairly well to do. Next to her Indian mother, Mrs. Hayhad loved no soul on earth as she had her pretty baby sister. The girlsgrew up together. The younger, petted and spoiled, fell in love with ahandsome, reckless young French half breed, Jean La Fleur; against allwarnings, became his wife, and was soon bullied, beaten and deserted.She lived but a little while, leaving to her more prosperous andlevel-headed sister, now wedded to Mr. Hay, their baby daughter, alsonamed Nanette, and by her the worthy couple had done their very best.Perhaps it would have been wiser had they sent the child away from allassociation with the Sioux, but she had lived eight years on the Laramiein daily contact with them, sharing the Indian sports and games, lovingtheir free life, and rebelling furiously when finally taken East. "She"was the real reason why her aunt spent so many months of each succeedingyear away from her husband and the frontier. One of the girl's playmateswas a magnificent young savage, a son of Crow Killer, the famous chief.The father was killed the day of Crazy Horse's fierce assault on thestarving force of General Crook at Slim Buttes in '76, and good, kindmissionary people speedily saw promise in the lad, put him at school andstrove to educate him. The rest they knew. Sometimes at eastern schools,sometimes with Buffalo Bill, but generally out of money and intomischief, Eagle Wing went from one year to another, and Nanette,foolishly permitted to meet him again in the East, had becomeinfatuated. All that art and education, wealth, travel and luxurycombined could do, was done to wean her from her passionate adoration ofthis superb young savage. There is no fiercer, more intense, devotionthan that the Sioux girl gives the warrior who wins her love. Shebecomes his abject slave. She will labor, lie, steal, sin, suffer, die,_gladly_ die for him, if only she believes herself loved in turn, andthis did Nanette more than believe, and believing, slaved and studiedbetween his irregular appearances that she might wheedle more money fromher aunt to lavish on her brave. When discovered meeting him in secretand by night, she was locked in her third story room and thought secure,until the day revealed her gone by way of the lightning rod. They had toresort to more stringent measures, but time and again she met him,undetected until too late, and when at last her education was declaredcomplete, she had amazed her aunt by expressing willingness to go toFrayne, when the good woman thought the objectionable kinsman abroadwith Buffalo Bill. Until too late, Mrs. Hay knew nothing of his havingbeen discharged and of his preceding them to the West. Then Nanettebegged her for more money, because he was in dreadful trouble;--hadstabbed a police officer at Omaha, whose people, so Moreau said, agreednot to prosecute him if one thousand dollars could be paid at once.Hay's patience had been exhausted. He had firmly refused to contributeanother cent to settle Moreau's scrapes, even though he was a distantkinsman of his wife, and they both were fond of his little sister FawnEyes. It had never occurred to Mrs. Hay that Nan could steal from orplot against her benefactors, but that was before she dreamed thatNanette had become the Indian's wife. After that, anything might happen."If she could do _that_ for love of Moreau," said she, "there wasnothing she could not do."
And it would seem there was little short of deliberate murder she hadnot done for her Sioux lover, who had rewarded her utter self-sacrificeby a savage blow with a revolver butt. "Poor Nanette!" sobbed Mrs. Hay,and "Poor Nanette!" said all Fort Frayne, their distrust of her buriedand forgotten as she lay, refusing herself to everyone; starving herselfin dull, desperate misery in her lonely room. Even grim old "BlackBill," whom she had recognized at once,--Bill, who had been the first toconfirm Blake's suspicions as to her identity,--had pity and compassionfor her. "It's the way of the blood," said Blake. "She is
"'Bred out of that bloody strain That haunted us in our familiar paths.'"
"She could do no different," said the general, "having fixed her love onhim. It's the strain of the Sioux. _We_ call her conduct criminal:--theycall it sublime."
And one night, while decision in Nanette's case was still pending, and,still self-secluded, she hid within the trader's home, refusing speechwith anyone but little Fawn Eyes, a sleighing party set out from Fraynefor a spin by moonlight along the frozen Platte. Wagon bodies had beenset on runners, and piled with hay. The young people from officers' row,with the proper allowance of matrons and elders, were stowed therein,and tucked in robes and furs, Esther Dade among them, gentle andresponsive as ever, yet still very silent. Field, in his deep mourning,went nowhere. He seemed humiliated beyond words by his connection withthis most painful affair. Even the general failed to cheer and reassurehim. He blamed himself for everything and shrank even from his friends.They saw the dim glow of the student lamp in his quarters, as theyjingled cheerily away. They were coming homeward, toward ten o'clock.The moon was shining brilliantly along the bold heights of the southernbank, and, insensibly, chat and laughter gradually ceased as they cameagain in sight of the twinkling lights of Frayne, and glanced aloft at anew-made scaffolding, standing black against the sky at the crest ofFetterman Bluff. "Eagle Wing roosts high," said a thoughtless youngster."The general let them have their way to the last. What's that?" headded, with sudden stop.
The sleigh had as suddenly been reined in. The driver, an Irish trooper,crossed himself, for, on the hush of the breathless winter night, thererose and fell--shrill, quavering, now high, now low, in mournful minor,a weird, desolate, despairing chant, the voice of a heart-broken woman,and one and all they knew at once it was Nanette, after the manner ofher mother's people, alone on the lofty height, alone in the wintrywilderness, sobbing out her grief song to the sleeping winds, mourningto the last her lost, her passionately loved brave.
Then, all on a sudden, it ceased. A black form started from under thescaffolding to the edge of the bluff. Then again, weird, wild, uncanny,a barbaric, almost savage strain burst from the lips of the girl."Mother of Heavin!" cried the driver. "Can no one shtop that awful keen.It's her death song she's singin'!"
Two young officers sprang from the sleigh, but at the instant anothercry arose. Another form, this one of horse and rider, appeared at thecrest, silhouetted with the girl's against the stars. They saw the riderleap from saddle, almost within arms' length of the singer; saw herquickly turn, as though, for the first time, aware of an intruder. Thenthe wailing song went out in sudden scream of mingled wrath, hatred anddespair, and, like the Sioux that she was at heart, the girl made onemad rush to reach the point of bluff where was a sheer descent of overeighty feet. A shriek of dread went up from the crowded sleigh; a cry ofrejoicin
g, as the intruder sprang and clasped her, preventing herreaching the precipice. But almost instantly followed a moan of anguish,for slipping at the crest, together, firmly linked, they came rolling,sliding, shooting down the steep incline of the frozen bluff, andbrought up with stunning force among the ice blocks, logs and driftwoodat the base.
They bore them swiftly homeward,--Field senseless and sorelyshaken,--Nanette's fierce spirit slowly drifting away from the bruisedand broken tenement held there, so pityingly, in the arms of EstherDade. Before the Christmas fires were lighted in the snowbound, frontierfort, they had laid all that was mortal of the brave, deluded girl inthe little cemetery of Fort Frayne, her solemn story closed, on earth,forever.