CHAPTER VII
AN INDIAN POW-WOW
Nevil Steyne was indifferent to such blessings as a refreshingthunder-shower at sundown on a hot summer's day. It is doubtful if hewould have admitted the beneficence of Providence in thus alleviating theparching heat of the day. He had no crops to think of, which made all thedifference. Now, as he walked along through the brush on the north bank ofthe White River, in the direction of the log bridge, with the drippingtrees splashing all round him, and his boots clogging with the heavy, wetloam, he openly cursed the half-hour's drenching. His vindictiveness wasin no way half-measured. He cursed those who were glad of it, and who,when in direst necessity, occasionally remembered to offer up prayers forit.
This man had no love for the woods; no love even for the prairie, or hislife on it. He lived a grudging existence. From his manner nothing in lifeseemed to give him real joy. But there is no doubt but that he had purposeof a sort which had much to do with his associations with his Indianneighbors. With him purpose served for everything else, and made existencetolerable.
There was purpose in his movements now. He could just as easily have madehis way to the bridge through the open, but he chose the woods, and put upwith the wet while he railed at it. And there was some haste in hisslouching, loose-jointed gait which gave to his journey a suggestion offurtiveness.
At the bridge he paused, gave a quick look round, and then crossed it morerapidly still. For at this point he was in full view of the prairie. Onceon the Indian Reservation, which began beyond the bridge, he again took tothe cover the park-like land afforded him. Nor did he appear again in theopen until he had passed the Mission and the Agency.
Once clear of these, however, he gave no more heed to secrecy, and walkedboldly along open paths in the full, bright evening light. He passed inand out among the scattered tepees, speaking a word here and there to themen as he passed, or nodding a greeting. The latter being the morefrequent of the two, for the Indian is a silent man.
The life amidst which he was walking was too familiar to cause such a manas he any unusual interest. Perhaps it was because he felt he had acertain underhand power with these people; like a person who losesinterest in the thing which he has mastered. Certain it is that the busyhomes he beheld were all unnoticed. The smoke-begrimed tepees with theirgreat wooden trailers propped against them; the strings of drying meatsstretching along under the boughs of adjacent trees. The bucks huddled, inspite of the warmth of summer, in their parti-colored blankets, gazingindolently at their squaws pounding the early berries into a sort of muddypreserve, or dressing a skin for manufacture into leggings, moccasins, orbuckskin shirt. He gave no heed to the swarms of papooses, like so manyflies buzzing round the tepees, whooping in imitation of their fatherbraves, or amusing themselves with the pursuit of one of the many currishcamp dogs, which, from their earliest years, they love to persecute to thelimits of the poor beasts' endurance. The totem poles with their hideouscarved heads had no meaning for him, just as the dried scalps which hungfrom the tepee poles might have been rabbit skins for all he thought ofthem.
Just now his purpose was to reach the house of Little Black Fox, and thishe came to at last. It was a large building; next to the Mission andAgency it was by far the largest house on the Reservation. It was built oflogs and thatch and plaster, and backed into a thick clump of shady mapletrees. The son was more lavish than the father. Big Wolf had always beencontent to live in a tepee. He was an older type of chief. The son movedwith the times and was given to display.
Nevil raised the latch of the door and walked in, and his manner was thatof a privileged visitor. He entered the spacious living-room without wordfor those he beheld gathered there. He walked to a certain vacant place,and sat down upon the mud floor. It was at once plain that he had beenexpected. More, it was evident that he belonged by right to thatgathering.
Despite the display in the dimensions of Little Black Fox's house theinterior revealed the old savage. There was nothing civilized about thecouncil-chamber. There was the central fire of smouldering logs, withoutwhich no Indian can exist in summer or winter. The smoke passed outthrough a square chimney in the middle of the roof.
In a large circle the chief's councilors sat perched upon their haunchesand swathed in their blankets. There was not a seat or table there. Theysat in their councils as their forefathers had done before them, theirleader in their midst with nothing but his youth to distinguish him fromthose who were his subjects.
The debate proceeded in its spasmodic fashion. There was no haste, no heatlike in the debates of civilized folk. Each man was listened to inrespectful silence, which might have served as an example to modernlegislatures. Nevil spoke like the rest in their low, musical tongue.Whenever he spoke it was noticeable that the great, wild eyes of the chiefwere turned upon him with interest. But even he seemed a mere unit in thedebate, no more and no less, unless it were that Little Black Fox was moreinfluenced by what he said than by what was said by the others.
At length, well on into the night, the meeting drew to a close. Thebusiness in hand had been threshed out and a decision arrived at. Thewarriors and the men of "medicine" filed slowly out. Even in this therewas a certain formality and precedence. Each man addressed his chief,shook hands, and passed through the door. And no two went out together.
When the last had gone Nevil and the chief remained alone in the bareroom. Little Black Fox rose from his pile of skins and stood erect. He wasa mere youth, but of such shape and appearance that one could easilyunderstand the epithet "romantic" Rosebud had applied to him. He stood atleast four inches over six feet, and dwarfed even Nevil's height. But itwas in the perfect symmetry of his lithe, sinuous body, and the keen,handsome, high-caste face where his attractions lay.
His eyes were the eyes of the untamed savage, but of a man capable ofgreat thought as well as great reckless courage. There was nothingsinister in them, but they were glowing, live eyes which might blaze orsoften in two succeeding moments, which exactly expresses the man'scharacter. He was handsome as Indian men go. Not like the women. They areoften beautiful in a way that appeals to any artistic eye, but the men area type for study before they can be appreciated.
This chief was in the first flush of manhood, and had attained nothing ofthe seared, bloated appearance which comes to the Indian later in life.His face was almost as delicately chiseled as his sister's, but it wasstrong as well as high caste. The eagle beakishness of his nose matchedthe flashing black eyes. His mouth was sensitive and clean-cut. Hisforehead was high and broad, and his cheeks were delicately round.
Nevil became a wretched, unkempt type of manhood in comparison. In form,at least, this chief of twenty-one years was a veritable king.
He smiled on his white councilor when the last of his own people haddeparted. He thrust out a slim, strong hand, and the two men shook handsheartily.
"It is slow with many in council," the chief said, in his ownsmooth-flowing tongue. "You, white man, and I can settle matters quickly.Quicker than these wise men of my father."
There was a flash of impatience in his speaking eyes. Nevil noddedapproval.
"They think much before they speak," he replied, in the language in whichhe had been addressed. He, too, smiled; and in their manner toward eachother it was plain the excellent understanding they were on.
"Sit, my white brother, we have many things for talk. Even we, like thoseothers, must sit if we would pow-wow well. It is good. Sit." Little BlackFox laughed shortly, conceiving himself superior in thought to the oldergeneration of wise men. He was possessed of all the vanity of his years.
They both returned to the ground, and the chief kicked together the embersof the council-fire.
"Tell me, brother, of Wanaha," this still unproved warrior went on, in aneven, indifferent voice; "she who was the light of our father's eyes; shewho has the wisdom of the rattlesnake, and the gentle heart of the summermoon."
"She is well." Nevil was not expansive. He knew the man had other thingsto t
alk of, and he wanted him to talk.
"Ah. And all the friends of my white brother?"
The face smiled, but the eyes were keenly alight.
"They are well. And Rosebud----"
"Ah."
"She grows fairer every day."
There was a truly Indian pause. The fire sputtered and cast shadows uponthe dark, bare walls. The two men gazed thoughtfully into the little flamewhich vauntingly struggled to rear itself in the dense atmosphere. At lastthe Indian spoke.
"That man who killed my father is a great brave."
"Yes," nodded Nevil, with a reflective smile in his pale eyes. "AndRosebud is a ripe woman. Beautiful as the flower which is her name."
"Hah!" Then the Indian said slowly with an assumed indifference, "She willbe his squaw. This white brave."
"That is how they say." It might have puzzled Nevil to apply names tothose represented by "they." "He is a great brave, truly. He fought forher. He killed your father. That is how these things go. She is for himsurely."
A frown had settled on the fierce young chief's face.
"My father was old," he said.
Nevil glanced at the speaker out of the corner of his eyes, and thencontinued his watch on the flame still struggling so ardently to devourthe half-green wood. He knew when to hold his tongue.
"Yes," the young man went on. "My father was a wise chief, but he wasold--too old. Why did he keep the white girl alive?"
"He took her for you. You only had fifteen summers. The white girl hadeleven or thereabouts. He was wise. It was good med'cine."
Then the chief stirred himself. And Nevil, who lost no movement on theother's part, detected the restless action of one who chafes under histhought. Little Black Fox prefixed his next remark with another shortlaugh.
"My people love peace now. It is good. So good that your people come andteach us. They show our squaws how to make things like the white squawsmake. And the papooses forget our tongue, and they make words out ofstrange drawings which the white med'cine man makes on a board. Tchah! Weforget our fathers. We feed when your people give us food, and our youngmen are made to plough. We only hunt when we are told to hunt. Our life iseasy, but it is not a brave's life."
Nevil nodded, and chose his reply carefully.
"So," he said, "it is a life of ease. You choose your life. And naturallyyou choose a life where you have all you want, and do not have to trouble.After all, what is the old life? A life of much danger, and little ease.You fight, you kill, or you are killed. You risk much and gain little. Butyou are men, brave men, great warriors, I grant you. And the squaws likebrave men--even white squaws. But I say it is wise, though not brave, tolive in the tepee. It is so easy. Your braves have their squaws alwayswith them. They grow fat till their sides shake. They no longer care tohunt. Why should they? Many papooses come, and they grow up like theirfathers. There are no Sun-Dances to make braves, because none want to bebraves. There are no Ghost-Dances, because the white men keep the EvilSpirits away, and there is no need. So. The Indian lies upon his blankets,and he lives with the squaw always. They all become squaw-men. Never wasthere such peace for the Indian."
Nevil had drawn his peaceful picture with care; also the tail of his eyetold him that his companion was listening. And his movements, every nowand then, had in them something of the spasmodic movements of a chainedwild beast. This lithe youth had certain resemblance to the puma. Heseemed to burn with a restless craving spirit. The puma never ceases toseek his prey. This man would be the same were he once to begin.
"Yes. You say well," he observed moodily, "we are all squaw-men. The whitesquaws love braves, you say. I know all squaws love braves. The squaws ofour people will soon spit in our faces."
"You have no squaw to do that," observed Nevil, bending over and pushingthe fire together.
"No."
"You are chief. You should have many."
"Yes."
"Then give the word to your people and you can have them."
"I do not want them--yet."
Nevil looked round. The chief turned to the fire uncertainly. His fierceeyes were half veiled.
"This Rosebud, she was for me," he went on. "She is fair as the summersky. Her eyes are like the stars, and her laugh is like the ripple of thewaters when the sun and the wind make play with them. She is so fair thatno squaw can compare with her. Even Wanaha is as night to day."
"You cannot have her. She is for the man who killed your father."
The young chief leapt to his feet with a cry that told of a spirit whichcould no longer be restrained. And he towered threateningly over theundisturbed wood-cutter.
"But I will!" he cried vehemently, while his eyes flashed in the dyinglight of the fire. "You are my white brother, and to you I can say what isin my thoughts. This squaw, I love her. I burn for her! She is with menight and day. I will have her, I tell you! There shall be no peace tillmy father is avenged. Ha, ha!" And the ferocity of that laugh brought asmile to the hidden lips of the listening man.
He looked up now, and his words came thoughtfully.
"You are a great chief, Little Black Fox," he said. "But, see, there is noneed to go on the war-path. Sit, like those wise councilors of yours. Itis good to pow-wow."
The headstrong youth sat down again, and the pow-wow went forward. It wasdaylight again when Nevil returned to Wanaha. For Indian pow-wows are slowmoving, ponderous things, and Little Black Fox was no better than the restof his race when deliberations of grave import were on.