CARBOONA'S CALL
It was a triumphal entry which Dusty Star with Kiopo at his side, made into the camp. In the absence of the men, the squaws had built large outside fires partly to celebrate their victorious return, partly for the purpose of extensive cooking.
As Dusty Star and his wolf came within the circle of the light, a great shout went up. The entire camp stormed forward to meet them, Spotted Eagle and the other chiefs forming a guard of honour. Naturally Dusty Star's father, who had returned at last in safety, and his mother were the first to greet him. Nikana's delight in having her now famous son safe and sound once more was unbounded. Running Wolf made little outward sign of joy; but it was not the blaze of the fires alone which made his dusky features take that unaccustomed glow, or the light glitter in his black eyes, as he gazed with pride upon his son.
And though half the camp seemed pressing forward to do him honour, and the other half to hang back respectfully in awe of his terrible wolf, Dusty Star's memory did not sleep. There were other scenes, little less vivid, in which he and Kiopo had played very different parts, and when the eyes which now gazed upon them with gratitude and awe had watched them with suspicion and hate. Within him the human mind, and the wolf's instinct, were fighting; and neither would allow him to forget.
There were two other persons who also had a long memory, and who remained at the outside of the crowd. Dusty Star's sharp eyes caught sight of a tall, slightly stooping figure, standing alone in solitary contemplation, and he immediately made his way towards it.
As he saw the youth approaching him, Lone Chief never moved. Something that might almost have been taken for a smile flickered in his face.
Dusty Star was the first to speak.
"I said I would not come," he said, and stopped.
Lone Chief understood. He was remembering an occasion when a boy had come to him with an urgent appeal for help which he had refused; and which because the boy had brought a strange influence with him, he had given it after all.
"I also said I would not come," he replied, while the thing that might have been a smile flickered and went out. "The medicine has strange ways. Though the words go west, the heart may take the eastern trail."
Dusty Star's mind flashed to Sitting-Alway's sickness, and he also understood.
They said nothing more, but each felt that, whatever happened in the future, there was a sympathy between them which would always hold them friends.
The other person with the backward-reaching memory remained even further in the background than Lone Chief. As the reflections of the dancing flames lit up the old yellow-painted face, its sunken eyes glared out upon the scene with an expression of uneasiness that was almost fear.
"The wolves are bad medicine," the painted mouth muttered. "No good will come of it, if the wolf stays."
Nikana found her mother crouching in the shadows on her way back to the tepee, and did her utmost to persuade her to come and join in welcoming her grandson back; but the old squaw's obstinate refusal was not to be overcome, and she gave up the attempt.
So, half in shadow, half in flickering light, the old painted mouth went on muttering from time to time: "Bad medicine! Bad medicine," till at last Sitting-Always took herself off uneasily to bed.
For three days the feasting and rejoicing were continued. Dusty Star, was, of course, the central figure. In spite of his extreme youth, the treatment he received was that of a great chief and famous medicine-man combined. He was loaded with honours and marks of distinction. Presents of all kinds were showered upon him. He became rich—as the Indian mind counts riches—in a day. Even those who had been most hostile to him in the past, were now the foremost in courting his favour, as the hero of the hour. Beside him, Spotted Eagle himself took a second place.
Even Sitting-Always changed her behaviour, and seemed to wish to stand in the good graces of her famous grandson. So that when he visited her tepee, leaving Kiopo behind, she showed her broken yellow teeth at him in a smile that was like a wound across her face. And her words were sweet as sarvis-berries that have been well stewed. Only, as Dusty Star listened to them, he heard behind their juiciness, the old false, yellow voice that had cried passionately: "Kill! Kill!"
Yet in spite of all his overwhelming good-fortune, he was not happy. If Kiopo had shown himself content, it might have been different. But the honours heaped upon the Little Brother left Kiopo untouched. To all friendly advances from any person outside the immediate family circle, he showed an indifference which occasionally gave dangerous signs of changing into enmity. People became chary of visiting the tepee when it was observed that the wolf was on guard.... He might be, and doubtless was, a marvellous animal—a mighty "medicine." But like other great Powers, his jaws could close with a snap. From the rabble of the huskies, he naturally held aloof with the utmost scorn. And they in their turn, hating him whole-heartedly, but, fearing him with equal measure, gave him the widest possible berth.
Day by day, his dislike and distrust of camp-life became more and more apparent. Even when his body was still, and he lay motionless as a log, with his great head laid between his out-stretched paws, his eyes, turning constantly from Dusty Star to the prairies, and back again to Dusty Star, had the haunted look of a creature in a trap. And Dusty Star, reading their expression, felt a heavy foreboding settle upon his heart. He was not surprised when, on the fourth day after their return, Kiopo disappeared.
Since the defeat of the Yellow Dogs, nothing had been seen of the White Wolf and his pack. But by sounds heard at sundown, and during the night, and by the unusual restlessness of the ponies, it was believed that a large body of wolves was still hanging about the neighbourhood. If Dusty Star had not heard the night calls, he could have learnt the truth of the thing by reading Kiopo's eyes.
On the morning of the fifth day, he was wakened early by the continual howling of a wolf, which seemed to come from a point not far off in the prairie. Listening intently, he was sure that Kiopo was calling him, and that, for some reason or other, he would not enter the camp.
He rose softly from his couch, so as not to disturb his parents, and went out upon the prairie. He expected every minute to find Kiopo at his side; but Kiopo's voice, like a will-o-the-wisp, was always on ahead, leading him further and further away.
At last he came to the foot of Look-out-Bluff and, in the dim light of the dawn, saw Kiopo standing before him. After a rapid licking of the Little Brother's hand, Kiopo turned at once and began to ascend the bluff. Dusty Star followed him without hesitation.
After they had reached the summit, Kiopo sat down and gave three, short howling barks. They were answered immediately from a spot to the north. Then there was silence, while he and Dusty Star waited.
Presently, a large white wolf appeared over the top of the bluff. He was followed by a line of wolves. In the twilight the line appeared endless. And still they came. It seemed as if, for leagues around, the entire prairie was giving up its wolves.
Dusty Star and Kiopo stood in the centre, with the White Wolf a little to one side. Here and there a wolf would sit or lie down, and begin to lick or scratch his coat, but for the most part the animals remained standing, their heads turned towards the group in the centre, as if waiting for some sign.
For a considerable time nothing happened. In the windless air, the deep stillness of the dawn seemed to surround the bluff with a ring of silence, cutting it off from the rest of the earth. Within that ring, Dusty Star felt himself in a world, in which, every moment, the wolfishness of things grew more enormous, excluding everything besides. As never before, he felt the soul that was in him answer to the wolves.
He knew not why he was here. The wolves were claiming him. They were waiting for something which had not yet happened. When it happened, they would take him with them across the prairies into that tremendous endlessness of the West; to the places beyond the sunset, where the black lakes glimmer to the wolf-trail of the stars. And he knew also, that, if he went, he would not come back; for the moccasins that follow the wolves far enough, find at last the wolf-trail that is worn across the heavens, and never more return.
All at once, the White Wolf got up and advanced slowly towards Kiopo. The two wolves touched noses. The White Wolf then turned towards Dusty Star, looking him full in the face, as much as to say: "Are you ready?"
After a moment's pause, he trotted away across the bluff and disappeared. The rest of the pack, followed him in a body. When the last wolf had disappeared, Dusty Star found himself alone with Kiopo. The wolf stood straight in front of him, gazing at him intently.
Dusty Star, looking right into his eyes, read the message there, all too plainly: "It is time for us to go."
And deep, deep in the West, over a thousand leagues of soundless prairie, he heard Carboona call.
He wanted to go. All the part of him that was wolf cried out to go. Yet something held him back. If Carboona sent a voice from the West, so also the camp of his people called him in the East. The human in him, the deep, loving, human thing, which had been born with him, and which he could not understand, refused to let him go.
Yet Kiopo! How could he part with Kiopo—the one creature in the world which he fully understood? He felt that he would give all he possessed—his new-found honours, his wealth, his power over his tribe—if only Kiopo would return with him to the camp. Yet he knew it could not be. It would be asking Kiopo to come back to a life which, sooner or later, would prove his doom.
Yes; whether he himself went or stayed, he knew Kiopo must go. That wild heart, faithful as it was, could never more cabin itself in the cramped circle of an Indian camp. It, too, had heard Carboona's call. Carboona—the grim foster-mother had summoned it—and the wolf-heart obeyed.
In Dusty Star's own heart the fight was terrible. It seemed as if the Wolf and Human, in a final struggle for victory, were rending it apart. And yet, in spite of the Wolf within him, tearing him to pieces, the old mystery of of his race, true to its age-long, world-deep roots, held. He knew, at last, that Kiopo must return alone.
In the clear light of the rising sun, there might have been seen, drawn sharply against the morning sky on the ridge of Look-out-Bluff, the figures of an Indian and a wolf. Then the wolf's disappeared, and the human figure was left standing alone. But although, in the long clearness of the prairies, sound sometimes carries further than sight, no listening ears caught the despairing cry, "Kiopo! Kiopo!" which sobbed itself westward into a silence that gave no answering voice.
And now, as to all things, there comes an end, even to the endless-seeming journeys of the wandering cariboo, so also we have reached the the end of the history of Dusty Star.
Did he stay with his people always, you ask? Or did he one day disappear into Carboona to find Kiopo? Or did Kiopo, after long wanderings, return once more to seek the Little Brother along the eastern trail?
I cannot say. Only in the West, strange things may happen. But this I know. Of the final parting between the boy and the wolf there was no witness, beast or human. And exactly what took place then, no white man's tongue may tell.
The big things happen like that. Out there, in the enormous spaces, the Great Spirit hides them in the shadow of His robe.