“The ‘sleeping sun’!” Raymond exclaimed entranced, remembering Arabella Howard’s joy in the fancy, and thinking how the unique splendor of this single pearl would befit her grace.
He had a prophetic intimation of the proffer even before it came.
“Since you scorn my necklace,” Tus-ka-sah said in Cherokee, “this—this—the nation will give you if you go not to Choté, beloved town.”
Raymond had never dreamed that his loyalty could be tempted by any treasure. He did not pique himself on his fidelity. It was too nearly the essence of his individuality, the breath of his life. An honest man cannot levy tribute for his integrity—he feels it a matter of course, impossible to be otherwise. Raymond was dismayed to find his distended eyes still fixed upon the gem,—they had a gloat of longing that did not escape the keen observation of the chiefs. For this was unique. This was a gift no other could bestow,—it was indeed fit for a princess.
He experienced a vague internal revolt against the authority of his superior officer. Why did the instructions specify Choté? Any mission to the head-men could be as effectively discharged at any of the seven great “mother-towns.” As to the aversion of the chiefs to his appearance in the “beloved town,” this was doubtless some vagary of their strange savage religion against the errors of which it was puerile and futile to contend. If they esteemed his presence at Choté a profanation of the “ever-sacred” soil, why persist in intruding logic upon their superstition—especially since compliance would be so richly rewarded? Moreover, there were practical considerations in their favor. Choté was yet distant half a hundred miles, perhaps,—a weary march in this frozen wilderness for the already exhausted detachment. Though seasoned to Indian warfare, they were new to the topography of this particular region. Hard at hand was the lesser town of Little Choté—thus even the casual talk of the troops could not betray him. Captain Howard need never know that he had not penetrated to Choté Great, “the beloved city.” He could open here his sealed orders, accomplish every detail of his mission, he thought, and yet secure the rich guerdon of his compliance with so simple a request.
Raymond rose suddenly to his feet, trembling in every limb. Tempted—tempted thus by a bauble! Barter his honor for the lustres of the “sleeping sun”! His face was scarlet. His eyes flashed. His lip quivered.
“I am a poor man, Tus-ka-sah,” he said, “and stop me, my heart grows very heavy for the sake of the ‘sleeping sun.’ I would give gold for it, to the extent of my power. Gad, I would willingly be poorer still for its sake. But you cannot bargain with me for my duty as a soldier. Go to Choté, says my superior, and to Choté I go.”
He could hardly understand the deep disappointment expressed in the faces of the Indians who consciously were trembling on the verge of the accomplishment of their secret design. Tus-ka-sah first recovered himself with a fleer at the confession of poverty, so characteristically scorned by the Indians. “Poor! La-a! Poor!” He stuck his head askew with an affronting leer that made his grimace as insulting as a blow. “For no poor man!” he added, bundling up his great pearl into its buck-skin bag, with the air of indignantly terminating the interview, as if he had received the proffer of a sum beneath contempt for his valuable jewel.
Whether or not he would have devised some return to the negotiation, a sudden accident definitely terminated it. At last the great flare of the fire, the ascending column of heated air, began to affect the snow congealed upon the boughs of the pine above their heads. The thawing of a branch effected the dislodgment of a great drift that it had supported in a crotch. The snow fell into the fire with a hissing noise, and in one moment all was charred cinders and hot mounting steam where once were red-hot coals and the flash of flames. Raymond called out a warning to the fire-guard, who were presently kindling the protective blaze at a little distance, and as his servant, roused from sleep, began to shift his effects thither from the despoiled site of his camp, he sat on the edge of the stump, listening to the growling of the wolves which, encouraged by the obscurity, were now dangerously near. He had not marked when nor how the two Indians had disappeared, but they were gone in the confusion, and on the morrow he resumed his march.