The Magnificent Adventure, Emerson Hough [e ink epub reader TXT] 📗

sank home with a soft zut. The stricken animal swerved quickly toward him, but his wary horse leaped aside and went on. Such as the work had been, it was done for that buffalo at least, and Lewis knew that he had caught the trick.

The black runner singled out another and yet another; and again and again Lewis shot—until at last, his arrows nearly exhausted, after two or three miles of mad speed, he pulled out of the herd and waited.

In the white dust-cloud, lifted now and then, he could see naked forms swaying, bending forward, plying their weapons. Somewhere in the midst of it, out in the ruck of hoof and horn, his friend was riding, forgetting all else but the excitement of the chase. What if accident had befallen either of them? Lewis could not avoid asking himself that question.

Now the riders edged through the herd, outward, around its flank—turned it, were crowding it back, milling and confused. Out of the dust emerged two figures, naked, leaning forward to the leaping of their horses. One was an Indian, his black locks flowing, his eyes gleaming, his hand flogging his horse as he rode. The other was a white man, his tall white body splashed with blood, his long red hair, broken from his cue, on his shoulders.

The two were pursuing the same animal—a young bull, which thus far had kept his distance some fifty yards or so ahead. But as Lewis looked, both riders urged their horses to yet more speed. The piebald of William Clark, well ridden, sprang away in advance and laid him alongside of the quarry. Lewis himself saw the poised spear—saw it plunge—saw the buffalo stumble in its stride—and saw his companion pass on, whooping in exultation at Weucha, who came up an instant later, defeated, but grinning and offering his hand. Now came Dorion also, out of ammunition, yet not out of speech, excited, jabbering as usual.

“Four nice cow I’ll kill!” gabbled he. “I’ll kill him four tam, bang, bang! Plenty meat for my lodge now. How many you’ll shot, Captain?” he asked of Lewis.

“Plenty—you will find them back there.”

Weucha, who came up after magnanimously shaking the hand of William Clark, peered with curiosity into Lewis’s almost empty quiver. He smiled again, for that the white men had ridden well was obvious enough. He called a young man to him, showed him the arrow-mark, and sent him back to see how many of the dead buffalo showed arrows with similar marks.

In time the messenger came back carrying a sheaf of arrows. Grinning, he held up the fingers of two hands.

“Tell him that is nothing, Dorion,” said Lewis. “We could have killed many more if we had wished. We see that the Sioux can ride. Now, let us see if they can talk at the council fire!”

The two leaders hastened to their own encampment to remove all traces of the hunt. An hour later they emerged from their tents clad as officers of the army, each in cocked hat and full uniform, with sword at side.

With the fall of the sun, the drums sounded in the Indian village. The criers passed along the street summoning the people to the feast, summoning also the chiefs to the council lodge. Here the head men of the village gathered, sitting about the little fire, the peace pipe resting on a forked stick before them, waiting for the arrival of the white chiefs—who could make the thunder come, who could make a strong chief of black skin beat his head upon the ground; and who, moreover, could ride stripped and strike the buffalo even as the Sioux.

The white leaders were in no haste to show themselves. They demanded the full dignity of their station; but they came at last, their own drum beating as they marched at the head of their men, all of whom were in the uniform of the frontier.

York, selected as standard-bearer, bore the flag at the head of the little band. Meriwether Lewis took it from him as they reached the door of the council lodge, and thrust the staff into the soil, so that it stood erect beside the lance and shield of Weucha, chief of the Yanktonnais. Then, leaving their own men on guard without, the two white chiefs stepped into the lodge, and, with not too much attention to the chiefs sitting and waiting for them, took their own places in the seat of honor. They removed their hats, shook free their hair—which had been loosened from the cues; and so, in dignified silence, not looking about them, they sat, their long locks spread out on their shoulders.

Exclamations of excitement broke even from the dignified Sioux chiefs. Clearly the appearance and the conduct of the two officers had made a good impression. The circle eyed them with respect.

At length Meriwether Lewis, holding in his hand the great peace pipe that he had brought, arose.

“Weucha,” said he, Dorion interpreting for him, “you are head man of the Yanktonnais. I offer you this pipe. Let us smoke. We are at peace. We are children of the Great Father, and I do not bring war. I have put a flag outside the lodge. It is your flag. You must keep it. Each night you must take it down, roll it up, and put it in a parfleche, so that it will not be torn or soiled. Whenever you have a great feast, or meet other peoples, let it fly at your door. It is because you are a chief that I give you this flag. I gave one to the Omahas, another to the Otoes. Let there be no more war between you. You are under one flag now.

“I give you this medal, Weucha, this picture on white iron. See, it has the picture of the Great Father himself, my chief, who lives where the sun rises. I also give you this writing, where I have made my sign, and where the red-headed chief, my brother, has made his sign. Keep these things, so that any who come here may know that you are our friends, that you are the children of the Great Father.

“Weucha, they told us that the Sioux were bad in heart, that you would say we could not go up the river. Our Great Father has sent us up the river, and we must go. Tomorrow our boats must be on their course. If the Great Father has such medicine as this I give you, do you think we could go back to him and say the Sioux would not let us pass? You have seen that we are not afraid, that we are chiefs—we can do what you can do. Can you do what we can? Can you make the thunder come? Is there any among you who has a black skin, like the man with us? Are any of your men able to strike the eye of a deer, the head of a grouse, at fifty paces with the rifle? All of my men can do that.

“I give you these presents—these lace coats for your great men, these hats also, such as we wear, because you are our brothers, and are chiefs. A little powder, a few balls, I give you, because we think you want them. I give you a little tobacco for your pipes. If my words sound good in your ears, I will send a talking paper to the Great Father, and tell him that you are his children.”

Deep-throated exclamations of approval met this speech. Weucha took the pipe. He arose himself, a tall and powerful man, splendidly clad in savage fashion, and spoke as the born leader that he also was. He pledged the loyalty of the Sioux and the freedom of the river.

“I give you the horse you rode this morning,” said Weucha to Lewis, “the black runner. To you, red-haired chief, I give the white-and-black horse that you rode. It is well that chiefs like you should have good horses.

“Tomorrow our people will go a little way with you up the river. We want you for our friends, for we know your medicine is strong. We know that when we show this flag to other tribes—to the Otoes, the Omahas, the Osages—they will fall on the ground and knock their heads on the ground, as the black man did when the red-headed chief raised it above him.

“The Great Father has sent us two chiefs who are young but very wise. They can strike the buffalo. They can speak at the council. Weucha, the Yanktonnais, says that they may go on. We know you will not lose the trail. We know that you will come back. You are chiefs!”

CHAPTER II THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

Late in the night the Yanktonnais drums still sounded, long after a dozen Sioux had spoken, and after the two white chieftains had arisen and left the council fire. The people of the village were feasting around half a hundred fires. The village was joyous, light-hearted, and free of care. The hunt had been successful.

“Look at them, Will,” said Meriwether Lewis, as they paused at the edge of the bluff and turned back for a last glimpse at the savage scene. “They are like children. I swear, I almost believe their lot in life is happier than our own!”

“Tut, tut, Merne—moralizing again?” laughed William Clark, the light-hearted. “Come now, help me get my eelskin about my hair. We may need this red mane of mine further up the river. I trust to take it back home with me, after all, now that we seem safe to pass these Sioux without a fight. I am happy enough that our business today has come out so well. I am a bit tired, and an old bull gave me a smash with his horn this morning; so I am ready to turn into my blankets. Are all the men on the roll tonight?”

“Sergeant Ordway reports Shannon still absent. It seems he went out on the hunt this morning, and has not yet come back. I’ll wait up a time, I think, Will, to see if he comes in. It is rather a wild business for a boy to lie out all night in such a country, with only the wolves for company. Go you to your blankets, as you say. For me, I might be a better sleeper than I am.”

“Yes, that is true,” rejoined Will Clark, rubbing his bruised leg. “It is beginning to show on you, too, Merne. Isn’t it enough to be astronomer and doctor and bookkeeper and record-keeper and all that? No, you think not—you must sit up all night by your little fire under the stars and think and think. Oh, I have seen you, Merne! I have seen you sitting there when you should have been sleeping. Do you call that leadership, Captain Lewis? The men are under you, and if the leader is not fit, the men are not. Now, a human body will stand only so much—or a human mind, either, Merne. There is a limit to effort and endurance.”

His friend turned to him seriously.

“You are right, Will,” said he. “I owe duty to many besides myself.”

“You take things too hard, Merne. You cannot carry the whole world on your shoulders. Look now, I have not been so blind as not to see that something is going wrong with you. Merne, you are ill, or will be. Something is wrong!”

His companion made no reply. They marched on to their own part of the encampment, and seated themselves at the little fire which had been left burning for them.[4]

William Clark went on with his reproving.