CHAPTER XII. “THUNDER-CLOUD’S” REVELATION.
“Wal, we’re in for it,” said the “Crow-Killer,” philosophically. “But, if they will only give us time, we may trick ’em yet,” he said.
“Yes, but they will not give us time; they are too afraid of us to linger in their vengeance.”
“You’re right, Dave; I expect they’ll settle our hash in short order. Wal, I’ve been fighting the Crows ’bout twenty years now; I’ve shed the life’s blood of many a Crow chief, and they can only take my life in return; so the odds are on my side,” said the “Crow-Killer.”
At that moment the old chief, the “Thunder-Cloud,” followed by two other warriors entered the lodge.
“Take the young brave to the lodge of the ‘Thunder-Cloud.’” The Indians assisted Dave to rise from the skin-couch upon which he had been placed.
“Let the ‘Crow-Killer’ open his ears and hear the words of the Crow chief,” continued the old brave.
The two Indians conducted Dave from the lodge, through the village, to the hut of “Thunder-Cloud.” Just at the entrance, the party was met by the “White Vulture,” who looked at the warriors in astonishment.
“Who has dared to take the pale-face from the lodge where the ‘White Vulture’ placed him?” questioned the chief, angrily.
“The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ would talk with the ‘Crow-Killer’ alone,” responded one of the Indians; “he has a secret to tell the pale-face that will make the great chief howl like a dog.”
“It is well; the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ is a great chief; let my brothers go on,” replied the “White Vulture” as he walked away. The Indians placed Dave in the lodge and left him to solitude and the bitterness of his own reflections.
The “White Vulture” walked slowly through the village, paused at the hut wherein was confined the “Crow-Killer”—listened for a moment at the door, and then as if hearing something to excite his curiosity, he noiselessly stole round to the back of the lodge, extended himself upon the ground and listened to the conversation going on within.
After the Indians had departed with Dave, the “Thunder-Cloud” gazed with a look of curiosity upon the massive form of the great enemy of his nation—the famous “Crow-Killer”—as he lay extended on the bed of bear-skins.
The hunter’s face was stoically indifferent as he gazed upon the old chief.
After a long silence, the old chief stirred up the little fire burning within the lodge, which threw a glimmering, uncertain light around.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great chief,” said the old warrior, breaking the silence.
“What does the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ want with the ‘Crow-Killer’?” asked the guide, speaking in the Crow tongue.
“Many braves of the Crow nation have been sent to the happy hunting-grounds by the knife and the bullet of the ‘Crow-Killer.’”
“The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ speaks truth,” replied Abe. “I’ve done for enough Crows to keep the race on short allowance for braves.”
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great warrior; he steals like a snake into the lodges of the Crows and he overcomes the great chief, the ‘White Vulture,’ in single fight; the blood of the Crow braves is red upon his hands; their spirits cry from the white clouds for vengeance. It is good; the chiefs of the Crows listen; their ears are open, they hear the wail of their slaughtered brothers; the ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great chief, he will die before the sun comes over the big river.”
“The chief speaks with a straight tongue; the ‘Crow-Killer’ has done all that the chief has said; he is a great warrior and the Crows are dogs that howl and run before him; no Crow chief dares to meet the ‘Crow-Killer’ in single fight. He has slain every Crow warrior that has faced him. The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ had a brother; that brother, the ‘Rolling Cloud,’ fell by the knife of the ‘Crow-Killer’; he stole away the singing bird of the Crows, and the ‘Little Star’ sung many moons in the wigwam of the white chief. The ‘Crow-Killer’ does not fear death; he is not a dog to howl with fear; he will be tied to the torture-stake and he will laugh at the Crow warriors that run from him when he is free and dance around him when he is tied. The Crows are dogs and the ‘Crow-Killer’ spits upon them!”
The veins upon the forehead of the Indian swelled purple with rage, as he listened to the taunts of the demon of his race—taunts hurled at him in his own tongue. At last, the Warrior found his voice:
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ talks big; let him open his ears and the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ will speak words that will make him howl like a dog. The ‘Crow-Killer’ will not die like a chief at the torture-stake; he will die here in the wigwam of the Crow—die by the knife of the ‘Thunder-Cloud’; but, before the red chief strikes the pale-face, he shall listen to words that kill.”
The “Thunder-Cloud” approached nearer to the “Crow-Killer,” and then, with a glance of deadly hatred, he spoke again:
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ has said that he stole away the ‘Little Star’ and that she sung many moons in his wigwam by the big river. The white chief speaks truth. He did steal the singing bird of the Crow nation; she sung in his lodge, and when the ice in the big river melted, the ‘Little Star’ gave the ‘Crow-Killer’ two young braves. The white chief was proud of his pappooses, but the Crows had not forgotten the singing bird, and when the leaves and grass began to die, the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ led the warriors of the Crows to the big river to the lodge of the ‘Crow-Killer’ and took his squaw and his two pappooses. Then they traveled to the Crow villages, but when all was dark they halted by the bank of the big river; there the Blackfeet surprised the Crow camp; the Crow braves fought like the white bear, but the Blackfeet were like the blades of grass on the prairie and took the ‘Little Star’ and the two pappooses of the ‘Crow-Killer’; but the blue-coated white braves came upon the Blackfeet and took their scalps. Then the Blackfeet warriors, flying with the ‘Little Star’ and the pappooses, were set upon by the Crow braves, who again took the ‘Little Star’ and the young braves but, after the fight, one of the pappooses was gone.” The old hunter started in astonishment.
“Either the Blackfeet braves or the blue-coated whites had taken one of the pappooses, but the Crows had the ‘Little Star’ and the other pappoose. They carried them to their lodges by the big mountains. The ‘Little Star’ would not marry the ‘Rolling Cloud,’ and she was killed by the Crow nation; but the young pappoose—the pappoose of the ‘Crow-Killer’ and the ‘Little Star’—was reared and made a warrior of by the Crows. He is now the ‘great fighting-man of the Crow nation.’ Does the ‘Crow-Killer’ understand? the ‘White Vulture’ is his son! That son, to-night, has given him into the hands of the Crows. The ‘Crow-Killer’ has killed many a young warrior of the Crow nation, but the red chiefs will be avenged, for the ‘Crow-Killer’ will die and know that his son is a great Chief of the Crow nation, and that son hates and will kill the whites. Has my brother heard?”
And the old chief looked down upon the guide with a glance of triumph. Busy thoughts were in the mind of the ‘Crow-Killer.’ He replied not to the Crow, and looked at him with an expression of contempt.
“My brother is silent. Have the words of the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ taken away his tongue? Let the ‘Crow-Killer’ listen again. When the light comes over the big river, the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ will come back, and the knife of the Crow chief will drink the blood of the ‘Crow-Killer.’ The chief has said; it is good.” Saying which, the Indian stalked from the lodge.
In a few minutes Dave was brought back by the two guards, and again placed within the hut; then the Indians withdrew and laid themselves down before the door.
The “Crow-Killer” repeated the story of the “Thunder-Cloud” to Dave; the mystery of the birth of the young guide was all made plain, as well as the wonderful resemblance between him and the “White Vulture”; they were brothers!
“Wal, it’s fate,” finally exclaimed Abe; “I don’t rebel ag’in’ it. I confess, though, I’d like to have a chance to tell the Crows what I think about ’em afore I die. It kinder makes me feel proud to think, too, that a son of mine is their great chief. Blood will tell; the white blood, my blood, has made him what he is—the biggest fighting-man in all the Crow nation.”
“We have not many hours before us,” said Dave.
“No, our time is ’bout up; the old chief don’t dare to let us die in public, now that we know this secret. He’ll probably send the Indians that guard the lodge away on some pretense, an’ then quietly finish us.”
And so we’ll leave the two guides to their reflections and return to Leona. The poor girl was in despair; she thought to herself that she alone was to blame for the danger of her lover, for, if it had not been for her, he would never have come, and would have escaped the certain death that now awaited him.
“Oh!” she cried, in agony, “why did I ever see him—why should I cost him his life?”
Some time had passed since the Indians had removed the two guides from the lodge; she dreaded every moment lest she should hear the sounds that would announce to her the death of her lover; but, the Indian village was still as death.
Suddenly the poor girl heard the sound of footsteps approaching the lodge; ’twas but a single man; the skin of the doorway was presently pushed aside, and the tall form of the “White Vulture” stood before the helpless maid. In terror she gazed upon the Indian; by the dim light of the flickering fire she could distinguish his features, now utterly divested of paint, and for the first time she noticed the wonderful resemblance that the Indian chief bore to her lover.
“Why does the Singing Bird weep?” asked the “White Vulture,” in soft tones, and speaking English plainly, and with a very slight Indian accent.
“Because I am unhappy,” truthfully answered the maiden.
“Why? No harm shall come to the white squaw.”
Leona shook her head sorrowfully, as if in doubt.
“The wigwam of the ‘White Vulture’ is empty; will not the white bird come and sing in the lodge of the Crow chief?”
“What, I?” For the first time Leona guessed the fate that was intended for her, and her heart sunk within her at the very thought.
“Yes, you! The ‘White Vulture’ is a great chief of the Crow nation; he loves the Singing Bird of the whites; he would take her to his wigwam; she shall not work like the red squaws: she shall be the Singing Bird of the greatest chief in the Crow nation. Will the white squaw come?”
“No! no! I can not!” cried Leona, looking pleadingly into the face of the “White Vulture.”
“The Singing Bird loves another?” asked the “White Vulture,” in his calm, clear tones.
“Yes,” replied Leona.
“Is the Singing Bird sure that she loves another?” continued the chief.
“Yes, I am sure,” said Leona, wonderingly.
“The white squaw loves the young guide who looks like the red chief, and is a prisoner in the village of the Crows?”
“Yes,” answered Leona, mournfully but firmly.
“It is good; does the white hunter love the Singing Bird?” said the chief.
“Yes, loves her as his life.”
“Does the white squaw know that the young hunter will die by the hands of the Crows before the sun rises over the big river?”
Leona hid her face in her hands, sobbing.
“The Singing Bird says she loves the white hunter; if she loves him, will she save him from death?”
Leona, through her tears, gazed in astonishment up at the stolid features of the Indian.
“I save him? How?” she cried.
“The white hunter’s life belongs to the ‘White Vulture.’ If the ‘White Vulture’ says ‘Go free,’ no warrior in the Crow nation will dare say ‘No.’ If the Singing Bird will promise to come and sing in the lodge of the ‘White Vulture,’ the white hunter shall return to his people.” And the Indian bent his full, dark eyes upon her as he spoke.
A few moments Leona hesitated; she could save her lover’s life by sacrificing her own, for she knew full well that death would soon claim her as his own should she remain in the wilderness. Her lover had risked his life and was now to fall a sacrifice in endeavoring to save her; she could save him, and as she loved him better than she did her own life, she resolved upon her own sacrifice.
“Set him free and I promise to do whatever you will.”
“The Singing Bird is wise,” responded the “White Vulture,” in the same calm tone as before; no trace of feeling could be discerned upon his face. “Let the Singing Bird follow me.”
Then from the Indian lodge went the “White Vulture,” and Leona followed him.
The chief led the way through the village, which seemed deserted, as it really was—as all the braves, with the exception of the two who watched the lodge wherein the whites were confined, were assembled at a grand council at the upper end of the tillage.
The chief, passing the lodges, reached the little thicket where the “Crow-Killer” and Dave had captured him a few hours before.
“The Singing Bird will wait for the chief’s return and not stir?” questioned the “White Vulture.”
“Yes,” replied Leona, now passive in her agony.
“It is good—wait!” responded the chief.
Then the “White Vulture” left the girl, walked back through the village and halted at the door of the lodge wherein were confined the two guides. The two braves on watch at the entrance drew off to a respectful distance as the chief entered the hut.
The two hunters, by the dim light thrown from the fire, could discern who their visitor was, and they exchanged a glance of meaning as the elder looked upon his son and the younger hunter upon his brother.
Noiselessly and without a word the “White Vulture” drew his keen-edged scalping-knife, stepped across the lodge and slit the skins that formed the back of the lodge so as to make a passage through them; then passing through, he beckoned the hunters to follow. Their hands alone were bound; they obeyed the gesture in wonder. The “White Vulture” cautiously led the way back of the lodges to the outskirts of the village to the little thicket; there he halted and brought Leona forth from the wood; with a cry of joy she rushed to her lover’s side, clinging to him in a passionate frenzy.
“The Singing Bird has saved the life of the white hunter by consenting to sing in the lodge of the ‘White Vulture.’”
“Never!” cried Dave. “I will not accept life on such conditions!”
The “Crow-Killer” regarded the “White Vulture” with a puzzled look.
Without a word, the Indian chief removed the thongs that bound the arms of the whites.
“The ‘White Vulture’ is the great fighting-man of the Crow nation; he has heard the words of the ‘Thunder-Cloud’—his ears were open; father! brother!” and as he spoke he clasped them by the hand. “‘Little Star’ looks down from the happy hunting-grounds upon her son. See!” and he led the way, followed by all, to one side of the thicket where stood three horses. “Mount and ride for the Big Fort. The ‘White Vulture’ will die a Crow, but he will never more shed the blood of the whites. Will my father, my brother, think of the chief sometimes, and will the Singing Bird, when she sings in the happy wigwam of my brother, think of the ‘White Vulture’ who is desolate and alone? Away! Ride fast, for the Crow braves must not know that I have saved my father, my brother, and the Singing Bird.”
Soon all were mounted, and walking their horses at first, till they got beyond ear-shot of the village, they then pushed the animals to their utmost speed, taking the hiding-place of the “Crow-Killer’s” roan mare and Dave’s horse on their way.
The “White Vulture” watched them until they disappeared in the distance; then he turned and retraced his steps through the village, entered the lodge by the slit he had cut in the rear, and then went out through the door, passing the two braves, who still kept watch.
When the “Thunder-Cloud” entered the lodge to execute his vengeance upon the hunters, he found, to his astonishment, that they had disappeared!
A terrible commotion was the result of this, and hot chase was given, but it was a useless chase, and the Crows believe to this day that the “Crow-Killer” was aided by some evil power in his escape.
———
Abe, Dave and Leona reached Fort Benton in safety, and then proceeded to Spur City, where young Dick Hickman was made to disgorge the property that he had taken possession of as his father’s heir.
Leona and Dave were married; true love met its reward.
The “Crow-Killer” still continues to act as guide, but his account with the Crow nation is closed, and he no longer fights Indians, except in self-defense.
The “White Vulture” became the chief of all the Crow nation, and the terror of all the surrounding tribes. All recognized him as the greatest fighting-man of the north-west. He died as became a great chief, during a raid into the Blackfoot country, at the close of a bloody fight, in which, as usual, he had seemed to bear a charmed life. The victory was with the Crows, and the Blackfeet were scattering, routed, through the timber, when the “White Vulture” suddenly fell from his saddle. Examination showed a bullet, shot from the rear, passing through the head: the chief had been shot by one of his own nation—a relative, doubtless, of the “Black Dog” chief, that had died by the hand of the “White Vulture” on the banks of the Yellowstone. Sorrowfully the Crows bore home the body of the great fighting-man of the Crow nation.
THE END.
