Читать книгу Trouble's Messenger - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 10

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First of all, came eight warriors in two ranks. They were naked to the waist, but their deerskin trousers were trimmed and beaded in the height of Indian magnificence. Their belts supported knives and pistols and, here and there, even a revolver, although that weapon had not yet been extensively adopted among the tribes. They were literally brilliant with paint, streaked upon them in rude designs and patterns that were modified according to the emblems or the personal taste of each hero. They carried long war spears, their rifles being consigned to saddle holsters, or else tied on behind the leg of the rider. These lances were decorated with ruffles, collars, and long streamers of eagle feathers, dyed in the most startling colors. Several had woven the stained feathers together, so that the light banners reached almost to the ground.

All of these men, to judge by their headdresses, were celebrities who had counted many and many a coup, and certainly they had taken many scalps, for the eagle feathers crowned them and flowed down their backs even beneath the ends of their long hair. This garlanding of spear and head and hair with feathers, to say nothing of others that decorated the ponies, gave an indescribably light and graceful air to the troop, for the feathers waved, nodded, and bent with the wind, and the horses seemed to leave the ground and fly in the air, also.

Hand-picked among thousands of their kind, and chosen by experts among a nation of riders, these were the finest war ponies that the riders possessed, and they showed themselves off as in duty bound. They were fresh from good grasslands. They had had a long period of leisure, and their sleek sides fairly dripped the sunshine or flashed it blindingly bright in the eyes of the watchers.

“They’re the first half of what War Lance calls the sacred band,” commented Lessing to the boy.

“Sacred for what?” asked Messenger in his cold, detached way.

“Sacred for the hell that they raise when it comes to a fight,” said Lessing with more appreciation. “He keeps sixteen bucks around him who he gets out of the cream of the nation. He made some big medicine and discovered, with the aid of the chief medicine man of the tribe, that if men would attach themselves to him by a special oath, they would get all kinds of Indian blessings.”

“Such as what?” said the boy. “And what’s the oath?”

“Why, the oath is that once in the band, they’ll never leave it. That they’ll fight to the death for each other until their chief calls them away from the battle. That they’ll charge home in spite of numbers if the call comes, and that they’ll never reveal any of the secret councils of the band.”

“That’s a good deal of an oath,” said the boy. “That War Lance can call on any of them to jump off a cliff, then, if he wants to?”

“Of course, he can, and they’d do it gladly.”

“Well, what are the rewards?”

“Tons of them. While they’re on earth, War Lance promises that all the members of the sacred band will be rich, have sons, and stack up coups and scalps until they’re the most honored men in the tribe.”

“How does he manage that?” the boy asked.

“Well, it’s not so hard as you might think. What’s Indian riches? Well, hosses, mostly. About two thirds of the war parties that the sacred band rides on is to lift hosses from the Crows, or somebody else. They run off three hundred, about six months back, right in the middle of winter. As for the rest of the riches, well, the bucks that War Lance picks for the band find it pretty easy to get all the wives they want, and a buck with plenty of wives can always have plenty of robes manufactured, and turn ’em into axes, beads, guns, ammunition, and all that, so that his hosses are still in the bank, and growing with interest. And a man with plenty of wives is sure to have some sons. So you see how it works out?”

“Yes, but the scalps and the coups they count so much on?”

“That’s the easiest part of all. War Lance keeps those fellows up to the hilt in fighting all the time, and they either count coups and take scalps, or else they lose their own, pretty pronto. It’s easier for them all the time, because they’ve got such a reputation now that, when a bunch of the Crows hears the special war whoop of the band, they take to their heels and run for it. And I don’t blame ’em. The sacred band can come up behind on the best hosses that are rode in these here mountains, and they do about as they please. Look at ’em as they come near. There’s two ranks in front of War Lance, and two rows behind him.”

They came closer. Suddenly the people at the fort could endure the suspense no longer, for the presence of these celebrated warriors was like a weight on the eye and a flame in the brain. And a wild cheer went up from the watchers.

The sudden shout caused several of the mustangs to try to jump through a hole in the sky, but horse contortions were nothing to those heroes. They sat the animals without a quiver.

“They’ve got so famous, that band,” said Lessing, “that now and then you’ll get a famous fighter coming up from another tribe. See that one on the right, that fellow with the heavy shoulders. That’s a Cheyenne. He ain’t as old as he looks, but he had his face pretty nigh clawed off in a fight with a grizzly. He killed that grizzly and earned the necklace of claws that he’s wearing, but you can see that most of his face disappeared durin’ the fight. He was a big name in his own tribe, but he come up here to get a little closer to the happy hunting grounds. You see, the sacred band has a special pass to the sky when it dies.”

“A pass to the sky?” Messenger echoed, opening his eyes.

“Certainly. Right up to the sky. The minute that one of them passes in his chips, he’s snatched to the happy hunting grounds, and there the Old Man gives him a herd of a hundred hosses, though one hoss would be enough, because they’re bred so’s they can run all day and never get tired in the fields and the hills of the sky. Then the Old Man walks out a hundred or so beautiful girls, and the hero that’s dead, he takes his pick, though there ain’t much picking and choosing to do, because each one of them is a little more pretty than the rest, and every one of them is a boss hand at cooking, tanning hides, thinning ’em, making clothes, beading, doing quill work, and sewing teepees, and all the other kinds of talent that a man would want in a squaw. Up there in the sky grounds, there’s billions of buffalo that run like the wind, but not so fast as the blue horses. And there’s heaps of moose and elk and all kinds of antelope and deer, and the bows and arrows of those Sky People will shoot over a hill and kill you a deer on the other side.”

“Do those fighters believe all of that stuff?” asked the boy, sneering.

“Sure they do, because War Lance has told ’em those things, and he can’t be wrong.”

“Why not?”

“Because after a man has taken ten scalps and counted twenty coups, he can’t tell a lie among the Blackfeet. Likely War Lance believes all that rot himself. Probably come to him in a dream, and they believe in their dreams more than we believe in our eyes, you can bet.”

“They’re either half-wits or children never grown up,” Messenger declared.

“If you get to know ’em better, you’ll change your mind,” said the trapper. “Look at number three in the first line. That’s Sinking Bull, and what’s hanging from his bridle reins is three brand-new scalps. They don’t look as though they had finished drying out yet.”

The boy shuddered.

“Yeah, it ain’t pretty, but you get used to it,” said Lessing. “I’ve taken a couple scalps in my day myself. One was a Pawnee that tried to count a coup on me before he brained me, and I just managed to run my knife into his gizzard and open him up a mite. I took his hair. Seemed like I needed some kind of a souvenir, that day. Look at them boys go by! Every one of them is ten years younger than he looks, and there ain’t a one of them that would trade his place in the sacred band to be President of the United States and King of England, all rolled into one.”

“Murderers and horse thieves,” said the boy. But he was stating an opinion, rather than asking a question.

“No, sir!” exclaimed Lessing hotly. “Honorable gentlemen, accordin’ to their lights. And there ain’t any man that can travel by any light better than the best that he knows about.”

Like eight paladins, those first two rows went by, sitting proudly, managing their frantic horses as though they hardly knew that the animals were dancing and prancing. Just before the gate there was a shallow ditch made by the flow of the current during the seasons of high water, when the river passed its ordinary banks, and, when the eight leaders reached this place, they reined their horses so that the entire troop vaulted over, bounding high. It was a pretty sight, and they went by Messenger with a whirring of feathers, a streaming of hair, and a flashing of spear points.

Never had he seen, at close hand, such magnificent specimens of manhood. There was one among them who appeared both young and feeble, although a second glance showed any trained eye that the youth was a mass of tough fibers and sinews. But the others were massively strong, and their powerful legs seemed to crush the sides of the ponies that they bestrode. These animals, too, chosen as they were, resembled other Indian ponies no more than did their riders resemble the rank and file of the braves. They were small, few if any of them standing more than fifteen hands, but they were perfect models. The old Barb and Arab blood from which they were descended appeared clear and pure in them now, with their big, starry eyes, and their compact heads, and their greyhound bodies. Perhaps they looked a little insufficient for the human burdens that bestrode them, but perhaps that was because the perfect proportions of the animals disguised their strength.

But, behind the troop, came a horseman and a horse that made the rest vanish even from the cold and calculating brain of the boy. He started. Instinctively he put out a hand to grip the arm of his companion.

“Aye, aye,” said Lessing. “There’s the king of ’em all. There’s the grandest chief and the hardest fighter in the whole length of the mountains. They’re all small birds compared to that eagle. Look at the head on him, and look at the arms! He’s taken more scalps than I ever took bird eggs. That’s human hair that fringes his trousers, and human hair that makes that tuft under his lance. That’s War Lance, and that’s his hoss.”