The Watchers of the Plains Part 38

"Little gal, things are jest as they must be. The blame is on me fer not bein' quicker an' handier wi' my gun when I had the chance. But, howsum, Parker's a hefty man. He ken think an' act quick. We're ready, far as we ken be."

Rosebud dried her tears. Never in her life had Seth appeared to her as he appeared now. The steady, unruffled purpose of the man exalted him in her eyes to an impossible position. Somehow the feelings he roused in her lifted her out of her womanly weakness. She, too, was capable of great, unswerving devotion, but she did not realize it. She only felt that she, too, must bear her part in whatever fortune had in store for them. She would range herself beside this man and share in his success or failure.

If it were to be failure she was ready to die at his side. If it were success--a great exultation swept over her at the thought. She went no further. Success at his side would be worth--everything.

"Tell me what I can do--anything!" she cried. Her tone was low, but it rang with a note the man had never heard in it before. There was a joy in it that startled him. "Seth, I believe--I know--I want to--to fight. My blood is running like fire. Tell me what I am to do."

It was a few moments before Seth answered her. He was thinking hard. He knew she could do much. But he was debating with himself. A great pride was his as he contemplated the small face with its wonderful eyes out of which looked such steadfast courage. He, too, thrilled at the thought of fighting at her side, but he tried to tell himself that he had no right to ask anything of her. Perhaps Rosebud saw the drift of his thoughts in his face, for she gave him no chance of denial.

"Yes, the gates. That's all right. I understand. Now, what else? Can't I reconnoitre, or--or something in the meantime?"

Her enthusiasm carried the day.

"No, I guess not. But----"

"Yes, yes----"

"See, Rosie, we want time. I kind o' think it's to-morrow. Parker thinks so too. So does Hargreaves. We may be wrong. But--see right here, I'm due back here by two o'clock sure. If I'm not here by ten minutes after ther's this you ken do. Go straight back o' the barn 'bout a hundred paces; on the hill are two bunches of stuff piled up, one's wood, t'other's dried gra.s.s an' stuff. You go right out an' kindle 'em both. They're signals to the settlers around. Guess ther's eyes watchin' for 'em at every farm.

When you see 'em burnin' steady, git right back and rouse Rube an' Ma.

I'll git back later--sure. An' ther'll be others with me."

"Yes. Anything more?"

"Nope. I 'lows I'll saddle up."

They walked back to the barn in silence. Seth saddled his horse and brought him out. Together they walked to the gate of the stockade. They still remained silent. At the gate the man mounted. Rosebud, very frail looking in the moonlight, stood beside him smoothing the horse's silky neck. Her face was anxious but determined. Suddenly she looked up. Her great eyes were full of appeal. There was no wavering in her gaze, nothing but sincerity and appeal.

"Seth, dear," she said in a steady voice, "be careful of yourself--for my sake." Then, lowering her gaze, and turning to the distant reflection of the fires, "Remember, we all depend on you."

"I'll remember, Rosie, gal," the man replied, with a tender inflection he could not altogether repress. "So long."

The horse moved away with General at its heels.

For a long time Rosebud stood where the parting had left her. Now that Seth had gone she was a prey to every womanly anxiety. And her anxiety was solely for him. None of those peacefully slumbering in the house entered into her thoughts. Her care was for this one man; his image filled her heart. At that moment hers was the selfishness of a maiden's first great love. Even in her anxiety her thoughts were not unhappy ones.

At last she moved away, and with the action came a desire to do. Unknown to her the spirit of her dead father and mother roused within her. She was a woman, gentle, loving, but strong with an invincible courage which had been handed down to her from those two brave souls of whom she had no recollection. Time would prove if the tragedy of the parents should fall upon the child.

Quietly she stole up-stairs to her bedroom. Her cousin was still sleeping.

She opened a chest of drawers and drew out an old leather belt filled with ammunition, and bearing two holsters containing a pair of revolvers. These had been a present from Seth in the old days. She loaded both weapons, and then secured them about her waist. Then she closed the drawer, and crept noiselessly down-stairs again.

She made her way out into the moonlight. Pa.s.sing out of the stockade she located the exact position of the beacon-fires. The forethought in their arrangement pleased her. She understood that the wood-fire was for night, and the gra.s.s and dung for day. The smoke of the latter would be easily detected in the brightest sunlight. She came back and barred the gates, and sat out on the verandah with a small metal clock beside her. Thus her vigil began.

The time crept by. Twelve, one, two o'clock. Seth had not returned. She gave him the exact ten minutes' grace. Then, her face pale and a little drawn by the unaccustomed strain, she went out and lit the beacons. She obeyed implicitly. There was no haste, no fear. Her heart was thumping hard in her bosom as she came and went, but it was not with fear.

Finally she roused Rube and Ma. Returning to the verandah she was in time to answer a sharp summons at the gates. To her dismay she discovered that Seth had not returned. The Agent and Mr. Hargreaves had brought their womenfolk. The minister greeted the girl with a quiet announcement which lost nothing of its significance by the easy manner in which it was made.

"They're out, Rosie," he said. And a moment later the gates were closed behind the party.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SUN-DANCE

The pale moon shone down upon a strange scene.

Four great fires marked the limits of a wide clearing. And these were set with consummate accuracy at the cardinal points. Superst.i.tion demanded this setting.

The ruddy glow threw into uncertain relief the faces and unkempt figures of a vast concourse of men and women gathered, in one great circle, within the boundary limits of the fires. On the faces of all was an expression of fierce revelry. A dark setting completed the picture. Beyond the fires all was shadow, profound, ghostly. The woods in all directions closed in that weird concourse of beings, and even the devilish light of the fires could not relieve the savagery of the scene.

Like the hub of a gigantic wheel, in the midst of the circle stood a cl.u.s.ter of leafless trees, mighty patriarchs, gnarled and twisted, with great overhanging limbs as stout and rugged as only h.o.a.ry age can make them.

The clearing inside the human circle was empty for a time, but the crowd without was momentarily increasing, augmented by an incessant stream of dusky, silent figures pouring from the adjacent forest depths. As the minutes wore on the human tide slackened; it became broken, finally it ceased altogether. Men, women and children, all the able-bodied inhabitants of the Rosebud Reservation had foregathered, and the significance of the gathering could not be mistaken.

Now a distant murmur comes from out of the blackness of the woods. At first it is low, faint, and without character. But it grows, it gains in power till its raucous din breaks upon the waiting mult.i.tude, and immediately a responsive murmur rises from ten thousand voices. Those who hear know the meaning of the discordant noise. The "med'cine" men of the tribe are approaching, chanting airs which accord with their "med'cine,"

and serve at the same time to herald the coming of the great Sioux chief, Little Black Fox.

Nearer and nearer, louder and louder. All eyes are upon the black fringe of the forest where the trees no longer have power to obstruct the moonlight. And of a sudden a number of writhing, twisting figures come dancing into view.

They draw nearer to the expectant throng. Necks are craned, eyes are straining to watch the antics so significant to these creatures of superst.i.tion. For have not these strange beings power to invoke the spirits, to drive away evil influence from the path of him whose approach they herald?

They reach the clearing; they leap within the human circle. Their painted faces are distorted with the effort of their wild exertions; their befeathered heads are rendered still more hideous by the lurid blending of conflicting lights. Thirty creatures, hardly recognizable as human beings, dance to the accompaniment of a strange crooning of the women onlookers; to the beating of sad-toned drums, and the harsh sc.r.a.ping of stringed instruments. But the dance is marked by a distinct time. It has unmistakable features and figures, and it proceeds to its natural finish which leaves the dancers prostrate upon the ground, with their faces pressed hard into the dusty earth. It is a wild scene.

But the Sun-dance has only begun. There is much to follow.

Now a single figure moves out of the crowd, and takes its position in the arena. It is the young chief. His att.i.tude is one of sublime dignity. His erect figure and haughty carriage bear the indelible stamp of his ill.u.s.trious forbears. Silently he raises one hand, and a deathly hush falls upon his people.

And Little Black Fox speaks.

Tall, handsome, lithe, a frame of great bone and smooth sinewy muscle, he is an imposing figure. He wears no blanket, just the buckskin, beaded as becomes his high rank.

He harangues mightily, now working himself into an almost uncontrolled fury, again letting his voice die down to that plaintive, musical note which alone belongs to the Sioux tongue. And his speech is of war--wild, fierce, unreasonable war, such as his people love. He is thrilling with the untamed spirit of his ancestors, and every word he utters carries a ready conviction to the untutored souls to whom it is addressed.

He sweeps on in a torrential flow of pa.s.sion, and those who listen are roused at once to a savage enthusiasm. There are no interruptions. The oration is received in complete silence. These are Indians taken into their sovereign's council; they are there to hear while the young brave p.r.o.nounces, with all the fire of his ardent, aboriginal nature, the doom of their white masters.

The wise men of the council are grouped together and sit aloof. They sit like mummies, smoking, and with every appearance of indifference. But their ears are wide open. One alone displays interest, and it is noticeable that he is different from all the rest of the aged group. He is younger. He has blue eyes and fair hair, and his skin is pale. Yet he, too, is blanketed like his companions. He listens acutely to the end of the speech. Then he silently moves away, and, unheeded, becomes lost in the adjacent woods.

As the chieftain's last words die away the men of "med'cine" rise from their groveling att.i.tude and a fresh dance begins. But this time it is not confined to the clearing. It is one which launches them into the midst of the audience. Hither and thither they caper, and from their tracks emerge a number of very young men. It might be that this is the "Dance of Selection," for it undoubtedly has the result of bringing forth a number of striplings from the ranks of the onlookers.

The dancers have made the complete circuit, and about one hundred young men, little more than boys, join in the great Sun-dance.

Now ensues one of the most terrible scenes of human barbarity conceivable.

In the course of the dance the "med'cine" men seize upon each of the willing victims in turn. On the breast of each boy incisions are made with long, keen knives; two parallel incisions on each side of the chest. The flesh between each two of these is then literally torn from the underlying tissues, and a rough stick is thrust through the gaping wounds. So the would-be brave is spitted.

Now a rawhide rope is attached to the centre of the stick, the end of it is thrown over the gnarled limb of one of the trees in the centre of the clearing, and the youth is lifted from the ground and remains suspended, the whole weight of his body borne by the two straps of b.l.o.o.d.y flesh cut from his chest.

The dance proceeds until each youth is spitted and suspended from the central cl.u.s.ter of trees, then, with one accord, the men of the audience break from their places and join in the war-dance. They dance about the victims with a fierce glee like hundreds of fiends; they beat them, they slash them with knives, they thrust lighted brands upon the fresh young flesh till it blisters and throws out nauseous odors. Their acts are acts of diabolical torture, inconceivably savage. But the worst agony is endured in desperate silence by each victim. That is, by all but one.