Читать книгу Opening the West With Lewis and Clark - Edwin L. Sabin - Страница 10

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Little White Osage did not understand the words, but they were said with a laugh. He could only stare.

Two, were these United States men. The one who had spoken was short and broad and quick, like a bear. He had a lean freckled face and shrewd twinkling grey eyes. He wore a blue shirt, and belted trousers, and boots, and on his head a wide-brimmed black hat. Leaning upon a long-barrelled flint-lock gun, he laughed.

The other man was younger—much younger, almost too young to take the war path. He was smooth-faced and very blue-eyed. He wore a blue shirt, too, and fringed buckskin trousers, and moccasins, and around his black hair a red handkerchief, gaily tied.

But as his hair was black, he could not be one of the chiefs. The short man’s hair was not black, but it was the color of wet sand—and so he could not be one of the chiefs.

Now the young warrior spoke and his voice was sweet.

“Who are you, boy?”

This Little White Osage did understand. The words penetrated through as from a distance. There had been a long time since he had heard such words. His throat swelled to answer.

“Boy,” he stammered.

“I see. What boy? Oto?”

Little White Osage shook his head.

“Missouri?”

Little White Osage shook his head.

“’Maha?”

Little White Osage shook his head more vigorously.

“What tribe, then?”

Little White Osage struggled hard to reply in that language. But his throat closed tight. The young warrior was so handsome and so kind, and the broad warrior was so homely and so alert, and he himself was so small and so full of hopes and fears, that he choked. He could not speak at all.

“See what you can make out of him, Pat,” bade the young warrior. “He seems afraid of me. But he understands English.”

“Faith, now,” drawled the bold warrior, “sure, mebbe he’s wan o’ them Mandan Injuns, from up-river. Haven’t they the eyes an’ complexion same as a white man?” And he addressed Little White Osage. “Mandan?”

Little White Osage again shook his head.

“Well, if you’re not Oto or Missouri or ’Maha or Mandan, who be ye? My name’s Patrick Gass; what’s your name?”

The throat of Little White Osage swelled. He strove—and suddenly out popped the word, long, long unused.

“Kerr.”

“What?”

“Kerr—white boy.”

“Holy saints!” exclaimed Patrick Gass, astonished. “Did you hear that, George, lad? An’ sure he’s white, an’ by the name o’ him Irish! Ye’ll find the Irish, wherever ye go. An’ what might be your first name, me boy? Is it Pat, or Terry, or Mike?”

That was too much talk all at once, for Little White Osage. The man called George helped him out.

“How can he understand your villainous brogue, Pat! Let me talk to him.” And he invited, of Little White Osage: “Kerr, you say?”

Little White Osage nodded.

“You are white?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Oto.”

“Where are you going?”

A boldness seized upon Little White Osage.

“You,” he said. “Up big river—with ’Nited States.”

“Oho!” laughed Patrick Gass. “Another recruit, is it? Does your mother say you might?”

Little White Osage shook his head. Somehow, a lump rose in his throat. “Mother?” What was “mother?” That soft white woman, who away back in the Osage village had hugged him and kissed him and taught him these words which thronged inside him, must have been “mother.”

“No mother. No f-f-father.” He carefully felt his way. “Ken—Kentucky. Peter—Peter Kerr. Go up river with ’Nited States.” And he managed another word. “Please.”

“An’ we set the prairie afire to call in the Injuns, an’ here’s what we caught,” ejaculated Patrick Gass. “Peter Kerr, be it? Likely that was his father’s name, an’ he’s young Peter. Well, what’ll we do with him?”

“We can take him back to the boats with us, I suppose,” mused George. “But as for his going on with the expedition, Pat, I don’t know what the captains would say, or the Otoes, either. He’s from the Otoes, he claims.”

“Ah, sure ain’t he an Irishman from Kentucky?” reminded Pat. “An’ ain’t we Irish, too? Mebbe we can buy the young spalpeen, for a trifle o’ paint an’ powder.”

George didn’t think so.

“I doubt if the Otoes would sell him. How long have you been with the Otoes, Peter?”

Little White Osage had been listening as hard as he could, trying to guess what these long speeches were about. That last question, to him, awakened an answer.

“Al-ways,” he uttered, slowly. “First Osage, then Oto.”

“Do you know where Kentucky is?”

Little White Osage shook his head.

“No.” But he pointed to the east. “There.”

“Where are your father and mother?”

“There,” and Little White Osage pointed to the sky.

“Do you know where St. Louis is?”

“There,” and he pointed south.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“There,” and he pointed north.

“When did you leave the Otoes?”

“Two days.”

“Why?”

“Me—white; you white. I ’Nited States.” And Little White Osage stiffened proudly.

“Bedad, spoken like a good citizen,” approved Patrick Gass. “Faith, George, lad, ’twould be a shame to return him to the Injuns—to them oncivilized rascals. Can’t we smuggle him aboard? An’ then after we’re all under way the two captains can do with him as they plaze.” His gray eyes danced at the thought, and he scanned George questioningly.

George’s blue eyes were twinkling.

“I dare say that on our way up river we’ll meet more traders coming down, and he can be sent to St. Louis that way. But we’re liable to be in a scrape, Pat, if we’re found out.”

“What’s an Irishman without a scrape?” laughed Pat “Listen, now,” he bade, to Little White Osage, who had been attending very keenly. “After dusk ye slip aboard the big boat. Understand?”

Little White Osage nodded. They had planned something good for him, and he was willing to agree to whatever it was.

“Slip aboard the big boat,” and Pat pointed and signed, to make plain, “an’ hide yourself away for’d down among the supplies. Kape quiet till after the council, or the Otoes’ll get ye. I’ll be findin’ ye an’ passin’ ye a bit to ate. An’ when we’re a-sailin’ up the big river wance more, then ye’ll have to face the captains, an’ what they’ll say I dunno, but I’ll bet my hat that Cap’n Clark’ll talk the heart o’ Cap’n Lewis, who’s an officer an’ a gintleman, into lettin’ ye stay if there’s proof ye have no-wheres else to go.” And Patrick Gass chuckled. “Sure, they can’t set ye afoot on the prairie.”

There were too many strange words in this speech, but Little White Osage caught the import.

“I hide,” he said, obediently. “In big boat.”

“Right-o!” encouraged George. “And if you’re found, stand up for yourself.”

“No tell,” blurted Little White Osage. “Talk to ’Nited States chiefs. No tell.”

“B’jabbers, there’s pluck!” approved Patrick Gass. “Now, we be goin’ to take some o’ this meat back wid us, but we’ll lave you enough to chew on. You have plenty fire. ’Twas only for signal to the Injuns to come in to council. We had no thought o’ burnin’ annywan, ’specially a boy. No, or of burnin’ me own coat, nayther, till I see the wind changin’.” He and George rapidly made up a parcel of the meat, blackened and charred though the hunks were. “But we cooked our supper by it. Goodbye to ye. Chance be we’ll see ye later.” With airy wave of hand he trudged away.

“His name is Patrick Gass. My name is George Shannon,” emphasized George, lingering a moment. “Yours is Peter Kerr. All right, Peter. Watch out for the Otoes, that they don’t spy you when you come in after dark.”

“I come,” answered Peter, carefully. “Oto no catch.”

Away they hastened, toward the river. Standing stock-still, Peter watched them go. Good men they were. They were white; he was white. They were ’Nited States; he was to be ’Nited States, too.

He did not pause to eat now. He grabbed a chunk of the buffalo meat left for him, and trotted for the nearest sand-hill. The fire had burned before him, and the earth was still warm, but the sand-hills were untouched.

He drank, at last, from a branch of the Omaha Creek; and among the sand-hills he stayed all day.

In the afternoon he heard, from off toward the United States camp at the river, a rumble like thunder. It was the big gun! At dusk he saw a glow redly lighting the eastern horizon over the river. Maybe the United States were having a war-dance. At any rate, the man named Pat had told him to come; this seemed to be the best time; and, guided by the glow, he hurried for the river.

When he had struck the river well above the camp, the boats and the beach were ruddy. People had gathered about a huge fire. They were making music and dancing; and some were white men and others were Indians: Otoes! Chief Little Thief had arrived.

Somewhat fearing, but very determined, Peter cautiously waded out into the water, and from waist-deep slipping into the current silently swam down, down, outside the edge of the firelight, until obliquing in he might use the big boat as a shield. With his hand he felt along it; encountered a rope stretched taut from boat to water. Wah! Or—hoorah, he meant.

As neatly as a cat he swarmed up the rope and hoisted himself over the gunwale. Sprawling in, he dropped flat, to cower in the shadow of the mast. A dark figure, with a gun, had seen him—was making for him, from down the deck.

“Hist, Peter!” huskily spoke a voice. “’Tis Pat. Ye’re all right. Stay where ye are, now!”

Yes, except for Pat, the sentry, all the big boat was deserted. There was a great time ashore. Crouched panting and dripping, Peter witnessed, from behind the mast. The shore was bright, the figures plainly outlined. There were the two white chiefs. Of this he was certain. They had on their heads the queer hats; they wore long tight blue shirts that glittered with ornaments; they carried the long knives, in sheathes at their sides; the one was the chief with the yellow hair, and the other was the chief with the red hair.

The ’Nited States were giving a feast and dance, evidently. Two of them were making music by drawing a stick across a box held to their chins; and the others, and the Indians, sat in a circle, around the fire, watching the dances.

It was now the turn of the Otoes, for they sprang up, and into the centre, to dance. Peter knew them, one by one: Head Chief Little Thief, Big Horse, Crow’s Head, Black Cat, Iron Eyes, Bix Ox, Brave Man, and Big Blue Eyes—all Otoes except Crow’s Head and Black Cat, who were Missouris.

They danced. It was the Oto Buffalo Dance. The ’Nited States warriors cheered—and on a sudden cheered louder and clapped their hands together, for into the centre had leaped a new figure, to dance by himself.

He was the black medicine man!

His eyes rolled white; his teeth were white; but all the rest of him was black—and he was very large. Assuredly, the ’Nited States must be a great and powerful nation, with such medicine men, decided little Peter, watching.

Along the deck Patrick Gass hissed and beckoned.

“Here,” he bade. Peter scurried to him. “Get down in for’d,” and Pat pointed to the open door of the forecastle or wooden house that had been built in the bows, under a higher deck. “Stow yourself away an’ kape quiet. Ye’ll find a place.”

Peter darted in. It was a room lined with beds in tiers from floor to ceiling: the white warriors’ sleeping-room. Clothing was hanging against the far end; down the centre was a narrow table. Like a cat again, Peter sprang upon the table, scrambled into the highest of the bunks on this side, and came to the far-end wall. The wall did not meet the roof; it was a bulkhead partition dividing off the room from the remainder of the bows. Peter thrust his arm in over the top, and could feel, there beyond, a solid bale on a level with the bunk. He wriggled in over, landed cautiously, explored with hands and feet, in the darkness—and stretched out in a space that had been left between the ballast of extra supplies and the deck above. Good!

That warm August night the “’Nited States” men of Captains Lewis and Clark slept on the sand, in the open air, by the river; and in the tent of the captains slept Chief Little Thief. But Patrick Gass, when relieved from guard duty, slept in the forecastle, near Peter—that being, as he yawned, “more convanient.”