Читать книгу Thunder Moon Strikes - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 7

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“Black dog!” said the young warrior. “Do you laugh at two warriors of the Suhtai?”

“Don’t touch him! Take away your knife,” said Thunder Moon, not displeased at this touch of discipline, however. “Does he not belong to my father? The anger of a chief is very great if one of his warriors is touched by the knife of a stranger!”

“Warrior?” snarled the young Suhtai, in great contempt, as he released his captive. “Warrior? A creature like this?”

He thrust home his knife in its sheath with a snapping sound as the hilt rapped the leather.

“What warriors are these, brother?”

Thunder Moon considered.

“We are in a strange country, friend,” said he. “Their ways are not our ways, and their speech is not our speech. They are hard to understand. They are even as hard to understand as the tight clothes they wear. However, when in a Comanche lodge, eat like a Comanche.”

A bath had been prepared by the servants and Thunder Moon sat in the tub and for the first time in his life scrubbed himself with soap. Burnished and glowing from a rub with a rough towel, he came out to Standing Antelope.

“I am a lighter man,” said he. “My heart is better. There is no harm in this medicine, Standing Antelope.”

“For my part,” said the boy, “I cannot see why men should sit still in a bowl when they might swim in a river. Besides, this is hot water and steam baths are good, as the medicine men say, but hot water always is bad.”

“With the Comanches, be a Comanche,” repeated Thunder Moon. “Have no fear, Standing Antelope. But what has become of the black men? Have you frightened them away?”

“I only looked at them once or twice,” grinned the boy, “and they backed away through that door.”

“You are a young wolf among the village dogs,” chuckled Thunder Moon. “How am I to arrange these medicine clothes?”

He got them on in some fashion. They were not a bad fit, for Colonel Sutton was a big man, famous for his strength; yet his coat was very tight upon his newfound son. Up to the neck Thunder Moon was a civilized white man; but he knew nothing of the manipulation of a cravat. His great brown throat rose like a column, and over his shoulders flowed a tide of wild black hair. His toilet was not completed by these labors, however, for, feeling that something still was lacking, made a little paint with the materials which he carried in his belt and decorated his face in a becoming manner.

Then he reviewed himself in the mirror with much gravity.

“How do I appear, Standing Antelope?” he asked.

“Above the shoulders, like a great warrior of the Suhtai,” said the boy instantly. “But the rest—”

He made a gesture to indicate his displeasure and disdain.

“You are neither a white man nor an Indian,” said he. “You will see! They will laugh at you.”

Thunder Moon looked again, anxiously, but he could not see in what manner he was ridiculous. Therefore, he picked up his robe and flung it over his shoulders, and from a packet which was a part of his equipment, he selected a few of his best eagle feathers and arranged them in his hair—an effect which materially increased his height.

When he had finished thus arraying himself, he turned his attention to his young companion, but Standing Antelope, finding that the day was warm, was neatly and efficiently clad in a breechclout, with his robe flung over one shoulder.

Thunder Moon regarded him with attention.

“I never have seen a white man dressed as you are dressed now, Standing Antelope, except the squaw man High Creek, who married the daughter of Lame Eagle. What will they say when they see you?”

“What will the braves of the Suhtai say when they know how Thunder Moon has changed himself!” cried the boy indignantly. “Besides, what is wrong with me? Except that I need a little paint!”

So saying, he borrowed some from Thunder Moon, daubed himself over each eye and turned his face instantly into a hideous mask.

“That is much better,” said Thunder Moon approvingly. “Now I think we can go out and let them see us.”

“Oh, my father,” cried the boy, “you who have harried the Comanches in their far southland, and made the Crows tremble, and the Pawnees to run like dogs, do you wonder how these white strangers may look on you, and what they will say?”

Thunder Moon finished combing his long, black locks and tying again the band that circled his forehead to keep the hair from falling across his face.

He had no adequate answer for the boy, so he merely replied, “There are many things you are too young to understand, my son. Give me my war belt, and then go down before me.”

Standing Antelope handed to his companion the belt that supported the two heavy Colts and the hunting knife of Thunder Moon. This the warrior fastened about his hips and gave the finishing touch to his costume.

With Standing Antelope leading the way, they left the room and crossed the hall.

A moment later they were in the midst of a sensation.

All the lower rooms of the house were now filled with eager-eyed, whispering friends and neighbors, all come to congratulate the colonel upon this miraculous recovery of a lost son; and even Mrs. Sutton, recovering rapidly from her weakness, had come down to be among her kind friends.

Into that audience walked Standing Antelope, garbed chiefly in the clothes God had given him at birth, and with a beautifully made buffalo robe, flung lightly over one shoulder, because the day was warm. Standing Antelope was very young and he did not respect these strangers; otherwise he would have stalked in as Thunder Moon did behind him with his robe gathered carefully around him.

People were stunned, and they managed to keep their faces only by looking down at the floor.

Mrs. Sutton, amazed, though she had tried to prepare her guests for something strange, was unable to stir, but the colonel rose valiantly to the situation. He took his newfound son in tow and escorted him around the rooms. And the introductions were not altogether without result.

“Mr. Kilpatrick is a very old friend of mine, William.”

“And of yours, too, my dear boy,” said old Mr. Kilpatrick. “Remember me, William?”

“If you are my friend,” said Thunder Moon in a grave, loud voice, which reached to every corner of the room, “tell me if all these women have some big medicine? Why do they sit, while the braves stand?”

At this blow, the colonel flinched a little; and the murmur of conversation ceased for an instant, but was immediately resumed.

“Here are Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Graham, our neighbors, William.”

“How,” said Thunder Moon; and then adopted the white man’s etiquette by seizing the hand of Mr. Stanley Graham and nearly crushing its bones in his terrible grip.

“Is this your squaw?” asked Thunder Moon, as the face of young Graham went white with pain.

“Yes,” said Stanley Graham politely.

“Tell her to bring me water, friend,” said Thunder Moon. “I am thirsty, for the clothes of a white man are hot to wear!”

“One moment,” said the colonel, biting his lip. “A servant—”

“I’m very happy to get a glass of water,” said Mrs. Stanley Graham, and went off with the pleasantest of smiles, and returned with the water.

Thunder Moon took it at a draught.

“Thank you,” said he to Stanley Graham.

“I think,” observed old Mr. Kilpatrick, “that the weaker sex is about to be put in its right place!”