CHAPTER IX. THE CROWS IN COUNCIL.
The “Crow-Killer” now made his way again to the river-bank, struck the stream at the place where he had left it, descended under the bank and then turned up the current—his footprints being in water, of course were soon washed from sight.
“Thar,” he thought, with a sly chuckle, “I guess the Crows will have some difficulty to foller me. If they find the dead Injun, then they’ll track me to the river an’ then they’ll be bothered. They won’t think for a single moment that I’ve gone up-stream right into their camp, ’cos that’s foolhardy, but, bless their stupid souls, the bold game is the one that wins in the long run. No, of course they’ll imagine that I’ve gone down the river an’ they won’t dare to track me very far in that direction for fear of gettin’ within range of our rifles. I think I’ve fooled ’em ’bout as cute as it can be done. They’ll get sick of tackling the ‘Crow-Killer’ ’fore long, I reckon; if they don’t, they’re bigger fools than I take ’em to be.”
So up the river, hid by the overhanging bank, cautiously went the “Crow-Killer.” It was necessary to again ascend the bank in order to get within ear-shot of the Indians; but how to do it without leaving the marks of his feet upon the soft clay bank was a puzzle. Circumstances favored him. Right before him a stunted oak grew out of the bank and overhung the stream; grasping the trunk with his hands, light and quick as a cat, Abe lifted and swung himself up over the bank, his feet finding a resting-place on the bottom of the tree-trunk and thus leaving no mark.
The bank thus again gained, he plunged once more into the thicket.
After advancing a few steps, he heard the sound of horses pawing the ground, a sure proof that he was near the camp.
Cautiously he stole forward a few steps more, when the thicket ended suddenly, and before him extended another little glade, not tenanted by a single savage as was the other, but by a score or more of the red braves. Extending himself flat on the ground, the guide, snake-like, wormed himself forward among the tangled underbrush, until he arrived at the very edge of the thicket, where he could not only command a full view of what was going on, but could hear nearly every word that was said. As he conjectured, he looked upon the main camp of the war-party.
On the prairie, close to the timber, the horses of the party, the wild Indian ponies, hardy and savage as their masters, the red chiefs, were tethered.
Some thirty warriors were in the little glade; the rest of the party, as the scout had surmised, were watching the camp of the emigrants.
All of the thirty warriors, excepting some eight, who appeared to the practiced eyes of the “Crow-Killer” to be the principal chiefs, were scattered over the prairie edge of the little glade near the horses, nearly all reclining on the ground.
The eight chiefs, among whom was the “White Vulture,” were seated near the middle of the glade in a circle, apparently holding a council. So the scout judged, and also that the council had just commenced, as the calumet, from which the smoke lazily curled, was being passed from mouth to mouth.
“Now then,” thought the guide, “we’ll see what the red devils are arter.” Then his eyes wandered anxiously over the Indians near the horses.
“What on earth have they done with the little gal? I can’t see her anywhar. Can the red-skins have murdered her?” and used as the “Crow-Killer” was to scenes of blood, he shuddered when he thought of Leona lying dead on the prairie and the beautiful red-gold hair hanging at the belt of some savage chief as a trophy of victory.
The pipe was passed around, and when it had completed the circle, the old warrior, the uncle of the “White Vulture,” who was called the “Thunder-Cloud,” spoke.
“My brothers are in council; their hearts are brave like the great white bear; their tongues are straight as the arrow. Will the chiefs of the Crow nation attack the white wagons again, or will they go to their lodges in the great mountains?”
Then up rose a brawny savage, hideously streaked with black paint. It was the same Indian who had, on the previous night, captured the hapless Leona. He was known among the Crows as the “Black Dog.”
It was very evident to the scout, from “Black Dog’s” speech, that he was a rival of the “White Vulture.”
The “Black Dog” advocated an immediate descent upon the train—declared that the whites were whipped and would fly before another attack—in a covert way insinuated that the chiefs in favor of returning home were cowards—a course which gained the “Black Dog” no friends, but made him enemies, for the majority of the Crows were fully satisfied that the emigrants, headed by the dreaded “Crow-Killer,” were more than a match for them.
Then the “White Vulture” spoke.
“My brothers,” he said, “have listened to the words of the ‘Black Dog’; he has said that some of the hearts of the Crow chiefs were white—that they feared the pale-faces. My brother, the ‘Black Dog,’ is a great warrior, a great chief,” and the lip of the “White Vulture” curled in scorn. “While the other chiefs of the Crow nation can show wounds from the fight with the white wagons, my brother, the ‘Black Dog,’ can show none. He has no wounds, but he has a pale-face squaw, that he took in single fight. My brother is a mighty warrior.”
It was evident that all the chiefs sided with the “White Vulture,” as a sneer was upon every lip. The “Black Dog’s” brows were dark with rage. In a voice trembling with suppressed passion he answered the “White Vulture.”
“The ‘White Vulture’ speaks with a forked tongue; his heart is black toward his brother. The ‘Black Dog’ has no wounds because the Great Spirit smiled on him and the pale-faces could not harm him. Though he has no wounds, yet he gave wounds; the white-wagon braves shrunk before him like the grass before the wind. The ‘Black Dog’ is not a snake; he crawls not on the ground; but his way is like the eagle. The ‘Black Dog’ is not blind like an owl, he would not have run his head against the white wagons to slaughter the braves of the Crow nation. The ‘White Vulture’ is a great chief; the snakes that crawl in the grass and the dogs that lick the hand that feeds them, say he is the ‘great fighting-man of the Crow nation;’ yet the squaws at our lodges, at the great mountains, will mourn for the braves that fell by the hands of the white warriors, by the Yellowstone, when the ‘White Vulture’ led them.”
Astonishment was visible upon the faces of the other chiefs, the “White Vulture” alone excepted, at this speech. The face of the “great fighting-man of the Crow nation” was like marble, no trace of anger appeared upon it at the bitter speech of his foe. The “Crow-Killer” watched the scene eagerly.
“He’ll give the ‘Black Dog’ a lick under the short ribs, the fust thing he knows on. He a fighter, wah!” and the expression of contempt was evidently intended for the Dog chief. “If the ‘White Vulture’ goes for him, I’ll bet my pile on him every time.”
The “White Vulture” arose from his seat to answer the speech of the “Black Dog”; all the chiefs looked on with evident anxiety; that a storm was brewing that might end in blood was evident to all.
“The ‘White Vulture’ has listened with his ears open to the words of the ‘Black Dog’,” began the chief. “The chief has said that the ‘White Vulture’ led the braves of the Crow nation to death: what is death to a warrior? Nothing! Does the ‘Black Dog’ know the reason why the braves of the white wagons beat the red chiefs? If not, the ‘White Vulture’ will tell him. The red braves were to creep upon the white wagons as the panther creeps upon his prey; then they were to spring upon the whites as quick as the forked light comes from the hand of the Great Spirit—the red chiefs were closing in upon the white wagons, but they were not ready for the attack, when the squall of a squaw, the mighty capture of the ‘Black Dog,’ gave warning to the whites that their foes were near. If the ‘Black Dog’ had not captured the white squaw the Crows would have beaten the pale-faces.”
A low murmur went round the circle; all agreed with the “White Vulture,” save, of course, the “Black Dog,” who, with his hand clutched instinctively on his knife, glared upon his foe.
“My brother talks straight!” said the “Thunder-Cloud.”
Then, calm as a statue, the “White Vulture” went on in his speech:
“My brothers gave me the command of the expedition; it was good; they are great chiefs, as brave as the white bear and wise as the beaver.”
All the chiefs bowed assent; the compliment pleased them. Human nature is the same, whether embosomed in the red breast or the white. The “Black Dog” alone looked surly; he saw clearly that the chiefs were all against him, and his heart swelled with rage to see his foe triumph.
The “White Vulture” continued:
“The ‘Black Dog’ has said that the squaws of the Crow nation will mourn and sing the death-song for the young braves that the ‘White Vulture’ led to their graves. The ‘Black Dog’ lies!” and the accusation came forth with terrific force from the lips of the chief. “The squaws in the Crow lodges by the big mountain will mourn for the braves slaughtered by the ‘Black Dog’ for the sake of the white squaw.”
The face of the “Black Dog” was purple with passion. In a voice hoarse with rage, and drawing the sharp scalping-knife from his girdle as he spoke, he addressed the “White Vulture”:
“If the great fighting-man of the Crow nation does not fear, he will follow the ‘Black Dog’.”
And with a stately step the warrior, knife in hand, marched toward the thicket wherein the “Crow-Killer” was concealed. The “White Vulture” understood the challenge to mortal combat, and drawing his knife he followed the “Black Dog.” The rest of the chiefs remained seated in the circle awaiting the result.
The “Black Dog” headed directly for the spot where the “Crow-Killer” lay.
“Jerusalem!” muttered the “Crow-Killer,” as the warriors came toward his hiding-place, “if they keep on, they’ll settle me. I’ll kill that skunk first any way, an’ save the ‘White Vulture’ the trouble.”
The scout drew his knife, but the “Black Dog” turned off abruptly to the right and entered the thicket not far from where the scout was ambushed. Behind stalked the “White Vulture.”
Some thirty feet from where the “Crow-Killer” lay, was a little space unincumbered by bushes. To this spot the “Black Dog” led the “White Vulture.”
The “Crow-Killer,” from his hiding-place, commanded a full view of the scene, by merely turning his head.
“Sho!” he muttered, “it will be as good as a circus; but if the ‘White Vulture’ don’t settle that fellow’s hash, I ain’t any judge of fighting,” and then with eager eyes he looked upon the scene.
The two chiefs surveyed each other for a moment, their long, keen-edged blades glittering in their hands. Then the “Black Dog” advanced upon the “White Vulture” and began the attack. A moment they swayed from side to side, like pugilists, the glittering eyes watching for a weak spot in their opponent’s guard; then suddenly the “Black Dog” made a desperate hinge at the breast of the “White Vulture.” The chief avoided it by skillfully jumping back, and before the “Black Dog” could recover himself, with a quick downward motion he slashed the “Black Dog” across the face, cutting a terrible gash from the forehead to the chin, from which the blood streamed freely. Maddened with the pain and blinded by the blood which streamed into his eyes, the “Black Dog” made a desperate push on his nimble opponent as if to crush him by his weight; the “White Vulture,” quick as a cat, avoided the thrust, by stepping to one side, and then, as the “Black Dog” passed by him in his mad rush, he lunged at him and made a terrible wound in his side. The “Black Dog” fell on his knees, the blood streaming from the two wounds; his strength was going fast—the wound in his side was mortal. Twice he attempted to rise and twice he sunk back on his knees. The “White Vulture” stood at a little distance with folded arms and regarded him with a calm smile. A third time the “Black Dog” essayed to gain his feet, his eyes still glaring vengeance upon his foe. With a mighty effort the chief arose and stood erect. A single instant only did he keep his feet; and then his strength failing, the knife dropped from his nerveless hand and he sunk to the ground, dead.
For a few moments the “White Vulture”—who had not received even a single scratch in the encounter—regarded the foe who had fallen by his arm. Calmly he looked upon him, then approached, took the body of the dead Indian in his arms, carried it to the river’s bank and committed it to the waters, then he carefully washed off the blood-stains caused by handling the body, from his hands and breast, cleaned his knife and returned to the camp.
“He’s chain-lightning!” said Abe, who had not lost a single incident of the exciting scene.
The “White Vulture” strode into the circle of chiefs, and took his former seat. They all surveyed him earnestly, but no trace of the deadly conflict through which he had just passed was upon his person.
“Brothers, listen,” he said, as he resumed his seat. “The Great Spirit is angry with the ‘Black Dog’ for having caused so many young braves to be slain by the white-wagon braves; the ‘Black Dog’ fell into the swift waters and the Crow nation will see him no more. The ‘White Vulture’ will take the pale-face squaw of the ‘Black Dog,’ and he will give his brothers his share of the fur-wagons. Is it good?”
The chiefs gravely nodded assent; it was not well for any of the braves of the Crow nation to cross the will of the “White Vulture.”
The scout in his hiding-place was struck with a sudden idea.
“Durned if I don’t believe he picked the quarrel with the ‘Black Dog’ just to get hold of this ‘white squaw’; that’s why he wiped him out. He’s a cute Injun,” soliloquized the guide. “The ‘white squaw’ must be Miss Leona, ’cos thar ain’t any other female missing. I’m afraid that the ‘Black Dog’ won’t be the only man he’s got to wipe out afore he can have the ‘white squaw.’ But, whar on earth is the gal? I can’t see her anywhar. She must be in the timber.”
And so the “Crow-Killer” watched the Indians eagerly, keen to discover their plans.