II
The morning broke at last, still, cold, clear, and serene. The tall trees stood motionless to the tips as though congealed into iron, and the smoke of each fire rose slow as though afraid to leave the tepee’s mouth. Here and there an old woman scurried about bearing fuel. The dogs slunk through the camp whining with cold—holding up their half-frozen feet. The horses uneasily circled, brushing close against each other for warmth. Indeed it was a morning of merciless cruelty—the plain was a measureless realm of frost.
In Oma’s tent physical agony was added to grief, or so it seemed, but in truth the mother knew only sorrow. She was too deeply schooled by the terrors of the plains not to know how surely the work of the winter demon had been done. Somewhere out there her sweet little babe was lying stiff and stark in his icy bed—somewhere on the savage and relentless upland his small limbs were at the mercy of the cold.
One by one her friends reassembled to help her bear her loss—eager to offer food, quick to rebuild her fire—but she would not listen, could not face the cheerful flame. Meat and the glow of embers were of no avail to revive her frozen, hopeless heart.
The chief himself came at last to see her—to inquire again minutely of her loss. “We will seek further,” he said. “We will find the boy. We will bring him to you. Be patient.”
Suddenly a shout arose. “A white man! a white man!” and the warning cry carried forward from lip to lip announced the news to Waumdisapa.
“A white man comes—riding a pony and bearing something in his arms. He is within the camp circle!”
Footprints in the Snow
To an old hunter, footprints in the snow are as an open book, and it was by these “signs” on the trail that the buffalo hunters knew the Sioux had crawled in upon the dispatch-bearer as he rested in a timbered bottom and poured in the bullets that put an end to his career. To the trooper, the plains white with snow had seemed lonely indeed, but, as he well knew, one could not, in those days, trust the plains to be as lonely as they looked, what with the possibility of Mr. Sitting Bull or Mr. Crazy Horse, with a band of his braves, popping out of some coulee, intent upon taking the scalp of any chance wayfarer.
Geronimo and His Band Returning from a Raid in Mexico
Leaving their reservation under such leaders as Geronimo, the Apache Indians, in the period 1882-86, used to take refuge in the Sierra Madre Mountains, and from this stronghold raid the settlements in Mexico and Arizona.
“Bring him to me!” commanded Waumdisapa. “I will know his errand.”
To all this Oma paid little heed. What to her was any living creatures now that she was utterly bereaved?
But the wail of a child pierced her heart and she sprang up, listened intently, just as a smiling young white man, carrying a bundle in his arms, entered the door and nodding carelessly to the chief, said in Sioux, “Here’s a little chap I found in the snow last night. I reckon it belongs here.”
The frenzied mother leaped toward him and snatched the babe from his arms. Her cry of joy was sweet to hear, and as she cuddled the baby close, the hunter’s brown face grew very tender—though he laughed.
“I reckon that youngster’s gone to the right spot, chief. I thought he belonged to your band.”
Then Waumdisapa shook him by the hand and commanded him to sit. “Go shelter the white man’s horse,” he said, to his people, “and let a feast be cried, for the lost child is found. This warm-hearted stranger has brought the dead to life, and we are all glad.”
The hunter laughed in some dismay, and put away the food which the women began to press upon him. “I must go, chief. My people wait. I do not deserve this fuss.”
“I will send a messenger to say you are here. They shall also come to our feast.”
“They may kill your messenger for we are at war.”
The chief considered. “Write large on a piece of paper. Say that we are at war no more. This deed has made us friends. You are one of us—we will honor you. We cannot let you go. See the mother’s joy? She wishes to thank you!”
It was true. Oma, holding her child in her arms, was kneeling before the young hunter, her face upturned in gratitude. She caught his hand and kissed it, pressing it to her cheek.
“You are a good man. You have a brave warm heart. You have restored my child. I love you. I will love all white people hereafter. Stay and feast with us for I am very happy.”
Flushed with embarrassment the young man shrank away. “Don’t do that! I have done very little. Any white man would have acted the same.”
But the people of the snow would not have it so. Smilingly they laid hands upon him and would not let him go. “No, you must remain and dance with us. We will send for your companions—we will write a new treaty of peace. Our gratitude shall make us brothers.”
Like a flower that springs up in the wet grass after a rain the mother’s head lifted and her face shone with joy. The child was untouched of frost, not even a toe had been pinched, and he fell asleep again as soon as he was fed. Then Oma laid him down and came to flutter about his rescuer with gestures of timid worship. She smiled with such radiance that the young man wondered at the change in her, and her ecstasy awoke his pity. Then the chief said:
“See! Oma is a widow. She already loves you. Stay with us and take her to wife.”
Then the youth grew more uneasy than ever and with hesitation said: “No, chief, I can’t do that—far away among the white villagers is a girl who is to be my wife. I cannot marry anyone else. I have made a vow.”
The gentle old chief did not persist, but the women perceived how Oma’s gratitude grew and one of them took the hunter by the sleeve and while Oma stood before him in confusion said: “See! You have made her very happy. She desires to show you how much she owes to you—stay and be happy.”
He shook them off, but in no unkindly way. “No,” he repeated. “I must go,” and stepped toward the door of the lodge, strangely moved by the passion of this primitive scene. These grateful women moved him but he looked not back.
Waumdisapa followed him. “Friend, tell me your name.”
“Your people call me ‘Blazing Hand,’” returned the young man.
“Hah!” shouted the chief in surprise. “Blazing Hand! you are much admired among my men. You are swift to shoot.”
Blazing Hand! The name ran from lip to lip, for they had all heard of this reckless and remorseless young outlaw. More eagerly than ever they crowded to see him—but the chief after a moment regained his calm dignity of manner. “Blazing Hand, you have befriended my people before. Now we are doubly anxious to have you remain with us....”
The young man lifted the door-flap. “Addios,” he said, fixing his eyes on Oma.
She plucked her child from its bed and ran toward him. “I have heard your name. It shall remain in my ears while I live and I will teach my child that he may say it after I am dead.”
Waumdisapa called to his scouts: “See that this man is guided safely to his fellows. And let no one molest him. Henceforth we are brothers. He and his may hunt and trap where they choose on Teton land.”
The light was gray on the face of Oma as the stranger rode away—but the voice of her babe comforted her. Her smile came back and she said: “Perhaps the kind hunter will return. The face of Blazing Hand will live forever in my heart.”
THE BLOOD LUST