“Oak Heart, you are my prisoner! Yield yourself!” he cried, in the Sioux tongue.
At the same moment he seized the thong by which the Indian was wrenching at the jaw of the white horse, snatched it from Oak Heart’s grasp, and gave the big charger his head. The white horse sprang forward for the open gate of the fort, and Buffalo Bill’s mount kept abreast of him. The redskins dared not fire at the scout for fear of killing Oak Heart.
A volley from the soldiery sent the would-be rescuers of the chief back to cover. Only the beautiful girl, White Antelope, was left boldly in the open, shaking her befeathered spear and trying to rally her people to the charge. The white men honored Buffalo Bill’s request and did not shoot at her, or the Sioux would have lost their mascot as well as their great chieftain.
In a moment the scout with his prisoner dashed through the open gates, which were slammed shut and barred amid the deafening acclamations of the garrison. Major Baldwin was on hand to grasp Buffalo Bill’s hand again, and as he wrung it he cried:
“Another brave deed to your credit, Cody! It was cleverly done.”
He turned to the chief whom the scout was freeing from the lariat that had been the cause of his capture. The redskin king had accepted his fate philosophically. His look and bearing was of fearlessness and savage dignity. He had been captured by the palefaces, and so humbled in the eyes of a thousand braves; but he was defiant still, and his features would not reveal his heart-anguish to those foes that now surrounded him with flushed faces.
The stoical traits of the Indian character cannot but arouse admiration in the white man’s breast. From babyhood the redskin is taught—both by precept and instinct—to utter no cry of pain, to reveal no emotion which should cause a foe pleasure. When captured by other savages, the Indian will go to the fire, or stand to be hacked to pieces by his enemies, with no sound issuing from his lips but the death-chant.
And this Spartan fortitude is present in the very papooses themselves. A traveler once told how, in walking through an Indian village, he came upon a little baby tied in the Indian fashion to a board, the board leaning against the outside of a wigwam. The mother had left it there and the white man came upon it suddenly. Undoubtedly his appearance, and his standing to look at the small savage, frightened it as such an experience would a white child. But his voice was not raised. Not a sound did the poor little savage utter; but the tears formed in his beady eyes and ran down his fat cheeks. Infant that he was, and filled with fright of the white man, he would not weep aloud.
Oak Heart, the savage king, looked abroad upon his enemies, and his haughty face gave no expression of fear. He was a captive, but his spirit was unconquered.
“This is a good job, Cody,” whispered Baldwin, glancing again at the chieftain. “We can make use of him, eh?”