CHAPTER II. THE GREAT FIGHTING MAN OF THE CROWS.
Although the stranger was apparently indifferent to all that passed around him and seemed half asleep, yet his quick eye had noticed the two guides in conversation, noticed the glances they had cast toward him, and had rightly concluded that they were speaking of him; then, when he saw Dave walk toward him, he quietly turned his head in the direction of the river as if seeking an avenue of escape in case of danger. As if satisfied, he turned his attention again to the crowd near the fort. Dave came up to him.
“How are you, stranger?” said the guide.
“Well,” answered the unknown, in a deep, guttural voice that instantly proclaimed its owner to be a red-skin.
“Is the chief a Mandan?” questioned the guide.
“No,” was the laconic answer of the stranger.
“Sioux?”
“Yes.”
“What tribe?”
“Yancton!” responded the stranger, who, Indian fashion, was sparing of his words.
“What brings the chief to Fort Bent, so far away from his home?” asked Dave.
“Ah-ke-no is a chief of the Sioux; he fought the Mandan braves on the Powder river. In the dark he lost his brothers, he traveled north to the wigwams of blue-coated braves. He is at peace with his white brothers; he is hungry and would eat; he is thirsty and would drink. Ah-ke-no is a great chief of the Yanctons!”
The savage uttered his story with a stolid face, while the quick flashing of his eyes changed into a dull gleam.
“Did my brother come on foot?” asked Dave.
“The chief is not a mud-turtle,” answered the savage; “he does not crawl when he can fly like the eagle. My white brother will look,” and the chief pointed to a small, open space between the fort and the river, where a white horse, strangely marked with small patches of black in the flanks, and of matchless beauty, tethered to a stake, lay upon the ground.
The guide gazed upon the steed with unbounded admiration. He had seen many a horse of wondrous beauty, but never one to compare with that milk-white steed of the chief.
“My brother’s horse is handsome,” said Dave.
“The chief is a great brave among his warriors; he rides on the wind. The mustang never lived that could overtake the “White Vulture”!”
“Your horse?” questioned Dave, wondering at the name.
“The chief has said,” responded the Indian, with savage dignity.
“If my brother is hungry, come to the fort and eat,” said Dave.
“My brother is good; the blue-coats have fed the Sioux chief; his hunger is gone.”
“Will you return to your people now?” questioned the guide.
“As fast as the crow flies to his nest; his braves mourn him as dead and gone to the happy hunting-grounds, but the scalp of the Sioux chief will never hang in the smoke of a Mandan lodge,” and the savage drew his tall form up proudly. Then, bending his eyes on the train, he asked: “Does my white brother hunt with the white wigwams, that go to the setting sun?” and with his eyes he indicated the emigrant-wagons as he spoke.
“Yes, I am their guide,” answered Dave.
“And the tall chief, who wears the hide of the coyote,” indicating Abe, who was in conversation with the corporal, as he spoke, “does he hunt with my brother?”
“Yes; we are the chiefs of the train,” said Dave, wondering at the curiosity of the Indian.
“What is my tall white brother called?” asked the red-skin, pointing to Abe.
“Abe Colt.”
“Crow-Killer?” questioned the savage, with a slight uneasiness perceptible in his manner.
“Yes,” answered Dave, secretly wondering that his companion’s name should be so well known to the Yancton Sioux; “you have heard of the ‘Crow-Killer’ then?” he asked.
“The deeds of a great brave on the war-path travel like the white clouds, when the winds blow over the prairie. The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great chief,” answered the Indian, a peculiar gleam in his dark eyes, as he looked upon the famous Indian fighter.
“Does my brother go soon?” asked Dave.
“When the moon comes, the Sioux chief rides like the wind for the Big river, (Missouri); his warriors wait for him, and the singing bird that sings for the chief, sings not when the wigwam is empty and the nest is cold.” Then the Indian gazed upon the crowd with the same stolid glance as before.
Dave having gained all the information that he could, rejoined Abe and the corporal.
“Wal, who and what is he?” asked Abe.
“He says he’s a Sioux of the Yancton tribe, separated from the rest of his braves in a fight with the Mandans on the Powder river; and that he came here for food and drink,” answered Dave to Abe’s question.
“Well, now I think of it,” said the corporal, “I remember hearing the boys saying something, this morning, about an Indian coming in, hungry, and they giving him food.”
“A Yancton Sioux, eh?” said Abe, half to himself.
“Yes; what do you think of him?” asked Dave.
“Wal, I don’t exactly know,” replied the “Crow-Killer,” thoughtfully; “but ef I were to meet that Injun, a hundred and fifty miles west from hyar, I’d say he was a Crow an’ be willin’ to bet my life onto it.”
“A Crow!” cried Dave.
“That’s so, hoss; though I noticed he’s ripped off the trimmings of his moccasins and leggins, so as to make ’em plain and disguise his tribe. Now, if he were a Sioux, why does he come skulking hyar in disguise—that’s what I want to know?”
Just then the “Crow-Killer” was interrupted by a horseman dashing into the little village from the upper trail leading up the bank of the Yellowstone. The horse was covered with lather, showing that he had been ridden hard; the horseman, a sturdy-looking fellow but pale as death in the face, drew rein in the center of the little square formed by the fort, the trading-houses and the wagon-train; then tumbled from his horse exhausted. A crowd gathered around him.
“What’s the matter?” “What is it, stranger?” were the questions poured in upon him by the bystanders.
“The devil’s to pay!” gasped the stranger. “The Injuns are up again on the Yellowstone trail, thick as grasshoppers in summer.”
“What Injuns?” yelled half a dozen excited voices.
“The Crows!” replied the stranger, who thereupon proceeded to tell his story. He had left Montana with a party, composed of two wagons loaded with furs, and ten men; they had not seen signs of Indians until after passing Great Falls and striking across to the Yellowstone; then they came across an Indian trail, which one of the trappers pronounced to be that of a war-party and about three days old; but, as the trail led directly southward across their line of march they did not anticipate any danger. But, on the first night after striking the Yellowstone river, they were attacked by a large party of Crow Indians; the trappers fought bravely but they were overpowered and forced to leave their wagons and seek safety in flight. How many of his companions had escaped he knew not; but he, possessing a very swift horse, had succeeded in passing the line of the encircling savages and in escaping by reason of the fleetness of his horse; but, in escaping from the Indians, he had been compelled to leave the lower trail and go northward, and had been five days in reaching the fort, which, had he come straight by the bank of the Yellowstone, he might easily have made in four.
Dave and Abe had listened intently to the tale.
“Stranger, I believe you said the red devils were Crows?”
“Yes,” answered the trapper.
“What chief mought be at the head on ’em? Do you know?” asked Abe.
“Yes; Dick Sawyer, my partner, recognized one of the chiefs, an’ he seemed to be the head one of the party. He said it was the ‘White Vulture,’” said the trapper.
“You don’t say so!” and the “Crow-Killer” indulged in a low whistle of astonishment. “Why, he’s the biggest fighting man in all the Crow nation. They do say he’s a perfect ‘painter’ on the war-trail. I never see’d him yet, but I’d like to!” and there was a strange tone in the old hunter’s voice, and a strange glitter in his eyes, as he uttered the words. His fingers, too, clenched tighter around the long barrel of his rifle, and there was an expression upon his face which boded danger to the Crow chief.
“I didn’t see much of him,” said the stranger, “’cos I were in pretty considerable hurry to git for the open country, but he’s a heap on fight, I should say for he cleaned us out in about twenty minutes, an’ we made a tough old fight of it, too.”
“Do you think any the rest of your friends escaped?” asked the captain in command of the fort, who had been an attentive listener to the trapper’s story.
“Wal, I don’t exactly know,” said the trapper, scratching his head thoughtfully. “I guess my partner, Dick Sawyer, would get shet of them, if any in the party would, ’cos he had a powerful running hoss—an animal that was jist chain-lightning on the go. It were a hoss from the south. Dick give a couple of hundred for him, an’ that’s a fancy price, you know; but he were awful fast, an’ jist as handsome a critter as I ever laid eyes on. An’ I kinder think that if any of the party got away ’sides me, it were likely to be Dick an’ his white hoss.”
“A white horse?” asked Dave, a sudden suspicion coming into his mind.
“Yes,” answered the trapper, “a hoss jist as white as milk, ’cept it had a patch or two of black upon its flanks, an’ the prettiest beast you ever saw.”
Could it be possible, that the Crow chief had the bravado to come into the fort in disguise, and right after his attack upon the trappers? Dave looked around for the Indian; he had disappeared! The guide quietly left the little knot of people and went toward the bank of the river. The white horse was gone; the Indian as well. Far in the distance, on the trail leading up the river, Dave saw the stranger mounted on the white steed, riding at full speed.
“Curse you, red-skin!” he muttered; “you’ve been after no good. I’ll meet you one of these days, and I’ll put a bullet through you, though you do look enough like me to be my brother.”
The young man rejoined the little knot of people around the trapper, who were eagerly discussing the particulars of the late attack.
Dave drew Abe aside, and told him his suspicions. Abe heard all with a grave shake of the head.
“I had an idea that that Injun was a Crow,” he said. “Some way or other I can generally tell ’em: but, though I hate the whole nation and never yet spared a Crow that I got within rifle range of, yet I should dreffully hate to put a bullet through this fellow, for he looks so much like you.”
“You think then that I am right in my suspicions?”
“Sart’in, you’ve hit the right nail on the head. That Injun was the ‘White Vulture,’ the greatest fighting-man of all the Crow nation, though he’s a mighty young brave.”
“He can’t be older than I am,” said Dave.
“No, I should say he wasn’t. I first heard tell on him about three years ago, when I were up trading in the Blackfoot country. A party of Blackfeet made a raid down into the Crow region, an’ at the first on it, they whipped the Crows right out of their moccasins; they took this ‘White Vulture’ prisoner, tied him to a tree to torture him a little, but, before they lit the fire under him they amused themselves by seeing how near they could come to his head throwing hatchets and scalping-knives at him in their devilish fashion. Well, some way they hadn’t tied him very strong and one of the hatchets, thrown carelessly, cut one of the thongs that bound him. In a twinkling he burst the rest of the bonds, seized one of the hatchets, laid about him right an’ left, killed five of the Blackfeet braves almost instantly and then made a rush for life and escaped, although the whole party gave chase. Then, after he got back to his tribe he collected a few warriors and hung about the rear of the retreating Blackfeet, picking off a man hyar and there, until at last their retreat became a rout and they hurried north as if the devil himself was at their heels. Well, I were in the Blackfeet country when the party got back, an’ of course I hearn all about it. The next year, the ‘White Vulture’ returned the visit of the Blackfeet and raided all through their country, with a small party too, hardly losing a man. From that day to this his fame as a great brave has been increasing; the Crow Indians themselves regard him with superstition; they think he’s a great medicine-man; they don’t believe that the bullet was ever run that can kill him; in fact, to-day he’s the head-chief and the greatest fighting man in all the Crow nation.”
“I’m afraid that if he ever comes again within range of my rifle I shall convince the Crows that there’s a bullet in my pouch that will settle him,” said Dave, with a grim smile, tapping the butt of his rifle.
“Do you know, Dave, that I don’t want to meet the ‘White Vulture’?” said the “Crow-Killer” solemnly.
“Why not?” asked Dave, in amazement.
“Because I should have to kill him, and that I don’t want to do. Strange, too, that up to to-day we have never met. The last time he attacked a wagon-train between here an’ Fort Benton, I was to go as guide with that same train, but at the last moment, just as we were starting, I had a sort of feeling which said, ‘don’t go!’—a sorter voice that seem to whisper, ‘don’t go,’ right in my ear. I didn’t go, but got another man in my place; I thought I was acting like a fool at the time; wal, that train was attacked an’ the stock all run off; an’ the Crows were led by this same ‘White Vulture.’”
“Well, that was strange,” said Dave.
“It were more than strange,” replied the old guide, in a solemn tone, “I’ve got a notion somehow that it isn’t fated that we shall ever meet in fight, an’ then ag’in, I get the idea that if we ever do meet, it will be the death of one of us.”
“It’ll be the ‘White Vulture’ then that’ll go under. I’ll bet my life on it,” cried Dave.
“I don’t know that, Dave, I don’t know that; he’s a good fighter, quick as a cat an’ savage as a painter. They do tell me that he’s the best runner in his tribe an’ a sure shot with the rifle. If we meet in a fair fight, I think he’s got the advantage of me. The Indian owes me a debt of vengeance for I killed his father.”
“You did?” said Dave.
“Yes.” By this time they had reached the open prairie, just beyond the wagons; there they paused.
“Sit down,” said Abe, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”
The two guides sat down upon the grass. Abe closed his eyes for a moment thoughtfully, as if striving to remember the past. After a moment of silence he spoke:
“Of course you’ve heard, Dave, that my father was killed out here on the Yellowstone trail by these Crows, and died in my arms?”
“Yes,” said Dave, “I have heard the story.”
“An’ I suppose hearn, too, how I swore to be revenged upon all the red devils of the Crow nation?”
“Yes, I heard that also.”
“Wal,” said the guide, “I did a good deal in wiping ’em out in fair fight, but the bitterest revenge that I took wasn’t in fair fight. It were about two years after my father’s death, an’ the border folks an’ the Injuns had already begun to call me the ‘Crow-Killer,’ that a large lot of the Crows came into Fort Benton to sign a treaty and have a big talk with the Injun agents. I was at the fort at the time an’ the Crows were mighty anxious to get a look at their devil as they called me. Of course as they were there on a peace-mission, I couldn’t very well take their top-knots, but I wanted to, for the blood were hot in my veins in those days. Being on a peace-talk, they had brought their squaws with them, an’ among the squaws was the prettiest Injun I ever saw. She were called ‘Little Star,’ an’ she were a star! Although she were a Crow, I fell in love with her, an’, as it ’bout always happens in just such cases, she fell in love with me. She was to be the wife of one of the young braves, named ‘Rolling Cloud’; the ‘White Vulture’ is his son. Wal, the ‘Little Star’ an’ I used to meet nights, outside the fort; she were dead gone on me—I were called a handsome feller then—an’ were willin’ to leave her tribe an’ go with me. Wal, I loved the gal, Injun though she was, an’ I took her. One morning both she an’ I were missin’. We went down the river, an’ I married her, Injun fashion, for thar wasn’t no minister nigh. Wal, my takin’ the gal riled the Crows awfully. I pitched my shanty with a little settlement on the Missouri, an’ for two years I were happy. There were some things happened in those two years, but I don’t care to speak of them. At the end, about, of those two years I came back one night an’ found my cabin destroyed an’ my wife gone, an’ from that day to this I have never hearn word of her; but in an Injun fight out hyar, I met the ‘Rolling Cloud.’ We had a fair tussle an’ I downed an’ knifed him, an’ as he died he muttered something ’bout the ‘Little Star,’ which makes me think the Crows know something of my wife’s fate.”