Читать книгу Softfoot of Silver Creek - Robert Leighton - Страница 9

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THE Pawnee women and children were out on the prairie with their pack-horses and travois dogs. There was not a live bison to be seen on the wide expanse of sandy hillocks and far-stretching levels of grass and blossoming flowers. The stampeding herd had disappeared beyond the hills to more peaceful grazing grounds.

But the plain was dotted over with carcases which the Indian men were flaying; and round each was a group of industrious squaws, girls and boys, busy at the work of securing the hides and cutting up the meat.

Three Stars and his attendant warriors had ridden the round of the kill superintending the gathering of the marked arrows that would show which of the hunters, whether man or boy, had been most successful in the chase. If more than one arrow was found in any particular bull or cow, the medicine chief’s word decided which of them had been fatal.

When the arrows had been collected and laid out for their various owners to claim according to the totem mark on the smooth shaft, those that had been used by the six tenderfoot boys were kept apart, so that he who had done better than his companions should be decorated with an eagle’s plume. Every one in Great Bear’s circle of lodges was interested in the prowess of the youths of the tribe.

Softfoot, now wearing his fringed buckskins, and followed by his tame wolf-cub, strode towards the warriors to claim his arrows. He halted on the outskirts of the crowd.

“It is strange,” Three Stars was saying, “but I have counted seven great buffaloes that were killed by the well-aimed arrows of Weasel Moccasin before he was hurt. Each one of them was buried deep in the heart. Mosquito Child killed an old stub-horned bull. Little Antelope brought down two cows. Red Crow killed two good bull calves. Prairie Owl fell and broke his bow. These have done well. But not one bison have I found killed by Softfoot’s arrows.”

Softfoot had hold of his wolf-cub’s ear, and his fingers tightened their hold in his astonishment at this verdict.

“Yet Softfoot was in the hunt,” pursued Three Stars. “He came home with an empty quiver. All his arrows left his bowstring; but not one of them struck a vital part. Many of them fell out of the wounds that gave hurt, but did not kill. That is not good hunting. My medicine tells me that Softfoot has failed as a buffalo hunter. His arm is weak. Let him spend his days among the wigwams, making moccasins, cutting wood, carrying water, milking the cows, and playing as a child among children.”

Softfoot made a step forward, but drew back and stood silently listening.

“Yet it was Softfoot who won in the arrow game,” Long Hair reminded the chief. “He had six arrows in the air. Weasel Moccasin lost his pony in the chase. It was gored by a savage bull.”

“Softfoot carried Weasel Moccasin out from the surround,” added Talks-with-the-Buffalo.

“No,” Three Stars assured him. “It was our paleface friend over there who brought them out, or they would both have been killed under the stampeding hoofs. Softfoot did nothing to gain praise. The buffalo hunt is not for him.”

“Listen!” urged Big Elk. “The great bull that tossed Weasel Moccasin and his pony was killed with an arrow—not by the white man’s bullet. Weasel Moccasin could not have shot that arrow after his head was hurt. A bull with an arrow in its heart could not have tossed a pony and its rider high in the air.”

Three Stars shook his head in dissent.

“The great bull was killed by Weasel Moccasin, whose marked arrow I myself found buried in its heart,” he said decisively. “My spirit is heavy because Softfoot has failed. But in this matter we must be just. The marked arrows have told their own story.”

His daughter Wenonah caught a fold of the chief’s blanket. She had seen Softfoot join the throng with his vicious-looking wolf-dog.

“Let Softfoot talk,” she interposed. “His tongue is not forked, even if his arm is weak. He will speak the truth. Let him talk.”

Three Stars frowned as he looked down at the girl’s shabby overall that was smeared with wet blood and buffalo fat. All the morning she had been occupied in hanging up great slabs of freshly cut meat on the drying scaffolds. Her hands were red with buffalo blood. She drew apart from the warriors now and went towards the black-bearded frontiersman who stood near with an elbow resting on his saddle. He removed his pipe from his mouth and smiled at her as she paused to look at the shining cartridges in his belt and at the guns in their holsters on his hips.

“Is this boy Softfoot a good Indian?” he asked her idly.

“The Pawnees are all good Indians,” she answered him proudly.

“I see he wears two feathers,” Blue Eye nodded. “How did he gain them?”

“One for his skill in the arrow game,” Wenonah told him, “and one because he caught a kenabeek in his hand and cut off its head when it would have bitten me.”

“Then he is brave,” nodded Blue Eye, “and you naturally stick up for him since he saved you from that rattlesnake?”

Wenonah shook her head in doubt.

“He was weak in the buffalo hunt,” she said. “I think he was afraid. The Pawnees say that his father, Fast Buffalo Horse, was a coward, and that Softfoot is like his father. But Softfoot is a good Indian. He is very wise.”

The blue-eyed frontiersman looked at her curiously.

“Fast Buffalo Horse was a very great warrior,” he declared. “He was one of the bravest men, red or white, that I have ever known. I am glad that Softfoot is his son. Yes, I am sure he is a good Indian.”

He knocked the ash from his pipe on the heel of his spurred boot, and was preparing to mount when he heard the medicine chief again speaking.

“Softfoot knows his own arrows by their marks,” said Three Stars. “Let him take them away.”

Softfoot, still followed by his wolf-cub, stepped forward and looked upon the separate bundles of arrows that lay on the grass. He was perplexed, but at length he collected and counted those that had been used in the chase by Weasel Moccasin.

“These are mine,” he announced, gathering them under his arm. Then he glanced at others bearing Weasel Moccasin’s own mark. He knew that these others were the arrows that he had himself taken one by one from his quiver and used in the buffalo hunt. He saw that the credit of having killed as many as seven buffaloes was now going to Weasel Moccasin, instead of to himself. Had Weasel Moccasin been present here he would have demanded an explanation. But Weasel Moccasin was now lying unconscious in his teepee. Softfoot made no protest, but quietly carried his inglorious arrows away.

The man whom he had called Blue Eye followed him, leading his horse by its bridle rein.

“I heard what the warriors were saying about you, Softfoot,” he began as he overtook him. “Why do you not tell them that it was you who killed the great bull—who brought six others to the ground?”

Softfoot looked very straight into the man’s blue eyes.

“It is because I did not kill them with my own arrows,” he explained. “It is because while he is not here to listen to me I will not say that I think it was Weasel Moccasin who changed our arrows before we started. When he is well and can remember why he changed them, he will tell the truth.”

“Come with me and we will talk to Mishe-mokwa about this thing,” Blue Eye advised. “Mishe-mokwa will straighten it out.”

“No,” Softfoot protested. “I do not want the warriors to know that Weasel Moccasin did badly. Weasel Moccasin is my friend. I will not speak a word against my friend.”

Blue Eye smiled and held out his hand. He was leaving Great Bear’s camp.

“Softfoot,” he said in his own tongue, “I admire your loyalty. I’ve had proof of your pluck. When I want the help of a good scout whose honour I can trust, whose bravery I can depend on, I guess I just know where to find him.”

Softfoot watched him mounting to his saddle, saw him ride away in the direction of the lodges, and wondered, with a curious, expectant yearning, when and in what circumstances he might possibly meet him again. For his medicine told him that he and Blue Eye were destined to tread the same trail.