The Steel Box Read online

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2015 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.

  Copyright © 2012 by Golden West Literary Agency.

  “Prairie Pawn” first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (6/16/28). Copyright © 1928 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1956 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2012 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for their co-operation.

  “The Steel Box” first appeared under the title “The Stranger” as a five-part serial in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (1/12/29 - 2/9/29). Copyright © 1929 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1956 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2012 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for their co-operation.

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  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63220-465-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-918-4

  Printed in United States of America

  Prairie Pawn

  The four-part saga of Paul Torridon, a character known as White Thunder among the Cheyennes, was originally published in 1928 under Frederick Faust’s Peter Henry Morland byline in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine. The “Prairie Pawn” is the third installment in the saga. The first part, “Torridon,” can be found in Gunman’s Rendezvous (Skyhorse Publishing, 2015), and the second, “The Man from the Sky,” in Peyton (Skyhorse Publishing, 2015). The final story will appear in Red Fire.

  I

  In great good-humor was High Wolf and with reason. No fewer than twenty of his young men were on the warpath under the leadership of the young chiefs, Rising Hawk and Standing Bull, but still the man power of his camp was so great that he had been able to send out young and old to a great hunt, and a vastly successful one, so that now the whole camp was red with hanging buffalo meat and white with the great strips of back fat. It was not strange that the old warrior chose to wrap himself in his robe and walk slowly through the camp. Everywhere the women were at work, for now that the meat had been hung to dry, there was the labor of fleshing the many hides—cowhides for robes and lodge skins, bull hides for parfleche, shields, and everything that needed stiff and powerful leather. Three days like this, in a year’s hunting, would keep the entire camp in affluence.

  So, therefore, smiles and flashing teeth turned toward the chief as he went on his solitary way through the crowd, apparently oblivious of everything, but with his old eyes missing not the least of details, until he had completed the round of the teepees and returned to the center of the camp where, near his own big lodge there stood a still more brilliant teepee, a nineteen-skin beauty, of snowy hide, with just enough gaudy paint to show off its white texture.

  Without envy, but with a critical eye, he regarded this lodge, moving from one side to another, as though anxious to make sure that all was well with it. Then he struck with his walking staff at the flap of the tent. He was asked to enter, and, stepping inside, he found there an old woman, busily beading moccasins. She rose to greet him. It was one of his squaws, Young Willow, though there was nothing young about her except her name. Time had shrunk and bowed her a little, but her arms were still long and powerful, and she was known through the whole tribe for the work of her strong hands.

  High Wolf tapped the hard floor of the lodge impatiently with his staff.

  “Why are you not fleshing hides?” he asked. “It is not always summer. When winter comes, White Thunder will have to sit close to the fire, and even then his back will be cold. He will not have anything to wrap himself in.”

  In spite of the awe in which she held her husband and master, Young Willow allowed herself the luxury of a faint smile, and she waved to the furnishings of the tent. There was only one bed, but there were six backrests made of the slenderest willow shoots, strung on sinew, and covered with the softest robes, and between the backrests were great sacks of dried meat, corn, and fruit. There were huge, square bundles, too, encased in dry rawhide, almost as stiff and strong as wood. One of these she opened. It was filled with folded robes, and, lifting the uppermost one, she displayed to her husband the inner surface, elaborately painted.

  “And there are many more,” said Young Willow. “There are so many more than he can use that I have to keep them in these bundles. He has enough to wear, enough to wrap his friends in in cold weather, enough to give away to the poor and the old warriors, and besides there are plenty to use for trade. He is rich, and there is no one else among the Cheyennes who is as rich as he. Look!”

  She took up a bag, and, jerking open its mouth, she allowed the chief to look down into a great mass of beads of all colors, all sizes. There were crystal beads that flashed like diamonds, there were beads of crimson, purple, yellow, black, gold, and brown. There were big and small beads, dull and bright beads.

  Even the calm of the chief was broken a little and he grunted: “This is well. This is well. Who gave him all these beads?”

  “Whistling Elk brought them yesterday,” said the squaw. “When he came in from the traders, you know that he brought many things. But most of his robes he had traded for these beads and he came to the teepee here and told White Thunder that he wanted him to have the beads. White Thunder did not want to take them.”

  The chief grunted.

  “Why not?” he asked sharply. “Does a treasure like this fall down every day like dew on the ground?”

  “White Thunder said that he had more than he required. But Whistling Elk reminded him that his son would have died, if White Thunder had not cured him with a strong medicine.”

  “I remember,” said the old man. “That is very true. The son of Whistling Elk became very sick.”

  “He was as hot as fire,” said the squaw. “The medicine men could not help him. Then White Thunder had him carried to this lodge. Listen to me. For three days he gave that boy nothing to eat except water in which meat had been boiled. He wrapped him in cold clothes, too. On the fourth day the boy began to sweat terribly. His mother was sitting beside him and she began to cry and mourn. She said that her son was melting away. But White Thunder smiled. He said that the sickness was melting away and not the body. He was right. The boy slept, and, when he opened his eyes, they were clear and bright. In half a moon he could walk with the other boys.”

  “I remember it.” The chief nodded. “Heammawihio has clothed White Thunder with power as he clothes a tree with green leaves. If he is rich now, still he is not rich enough.”

  “He has sixty horses in the herd,” said the woman.

  “Still he is not rich enough,” said High Wolf. “I h
ave given you to this teepee to take care of him and cook for him. It would be better for you to displease me than to displease him. It would be better for you to displease underwater spirits than to displease him, Young Willow!”

  He spoke so sternly that she shrank from him a little, and immediately explained: “Wind Woman and three young girls are all working to flesh hides for White Thunder. They can do more than I can do alone. Besides, I am working here at this beading to make him happy.”

  She showed the moccasin and the chief deigned to examine it with some care. He handed it back with a grunt and a nod.

  “He did not go to the hunt,” he said. “Why did he not go? Was he sick?”

  “His heart is sick, not his body,” said the squaw sullenly. “He has all that any warrior could want, and yet he is not a warrior. Look. There is always meat steaming in the pot. It is the best meat. There is always fat in it. The flesh of old bulls is never given to him. The dried meat of young, tender cows and calves fills those sacks. He lives like a great chief. But he is not a chief. He has never made a scalp shirt. He has never taken a scalp or killed an enemy or counted a coup!”

  “So,” said the chief, “you work for him with your hands, but in your heart you despise him.”

  She answered sullenly: “Why should I not? He is not like us. There is no young man in the camp who is not stronger and taller.”

  The chief made a little pause in which his anger seemed to rise. “What young man,” he said, “has come to us from among the Sky People?”

  She was silent, shrugging her shoulders.

  “What young man,” he said, “could drive off the water spirits when they were tearing down the banks of a great river?”

  At this she blinked a little, as though remembering something important, but half forgotten.

  “What young man among us . . . or what old man, either . . . what great doctor or medicine man,” went on High Wolf with rising sternness, “was able to bring the rain? The corn withered. Dust covered the prairie. In the winter we should have starved. But White Thunder went out and called once, and immediately the clouds jumped up in the south. He called again and the clouds covered the sky. The third time he cried out, the rain washed our faces and ran down to the roots of the dying corn . . . but these things you forget!”

  “No,” she muttered, “I never shall forget that day. No Cheyenne ever has seen such strong medicine working.”

  “But you,” went on the chief sternly, “are not contented with such things. What are scalps and scalp-takers compared to the strength of a man who can call down the Sky People to help him? Since Standing Bull brought him to us, everything we do is lucky. There is no drought. The young men and the children do not die of sickness. The buffalo come up and stand at the edge of our camp and wait for us to surround and shoot them down. Our war parties have struck the Crows and the Pawnee wolves and brought back horses and scalps, and counted many coups. But this man is not great enough for you to serve! You despise him in your heart while you work with your hands. Do you think that he does not know? I tell you, Young Willow, that he sees the thoughts in your heart as clearly as he sees the paintings on his teepee.”

  This speech he delivered in a stern and gloomy voice, and the squaw began to bite her lips nervously.

  “I am willing to work for him,” she whined. “All day my hands never stop.”

  “There are other women who would work for him,” said the chief. “There are other women who would be glad to live in the presence of such good medicine all day long.”

  “All day he never speaks,” she answered in feeble self-defense. “There are many backrests in this lodge. It is a lodge for a great and noble chief to fill with feasting and friends. But he never calls in friends, except Standing Bull or Rising Hawk. He would rather sit on his bed of rye grass and rushes, wrapped in an unpainted robe. Then he takes a flute of juniper wood and makes sad music, like a young man in love. Or he goes down to the river and sits on the banks. The three young warriors who have to be with him to guard him, they stand and yawn and wish to be hunting or on the warpath, but he sits and plays the flute. Or else he takes his pistol from his breast and shoots little birds that fly overhead near him. Even a child would be ashamed of such a life.”

  “Can a child take a pistol and shoot little birds out of the air?” asked the chief sharply. “Can any of the warriors do that?”

  “No man could do it,” she replied. “It is medicine that kills them with the flash of his pistol. But when does he take the war rifle and go on the warpath?”

  “You speak,” said the chief slowly, “like a fool and the daughter of a fool. But you have given me a thought. If he makes sad music on the flute, it is because he has seen some beautiful girl among the Cheyennes. He is in love. Now, Young Willow, learn the name of the girl he has seen, and he shall have her, and you . . . you shall come into my lodge and name the thing you want as a reward. Only learn the name of the girl he wants.”

  II

  Under a spreading willow on the bank of the river lay White Thunder, his hands beneath his head, his sad eyes looking up through the thin branches, noting how they changed their pattern against the sky as the wind stirred them. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, because, in so doing, he would be forced to see the three who guarded him. Every moon three chosen and proved young warriors were told to watch him day and night. In the day they never left his side except when he entered his teepee. And in the night they slept or watched outside his lodge. The vigilance of the Cheyennes netted Paul Torridon about in the dark and in the daylight, so that he had given up all hope of escape from them. If there were any hope left to him, it was something that he could not visualize, something that would scatter the tribe and by a merciful accident leave him free to return to his kind. Particularly he wished to avoid the attention of these three, because he knew their hearts were burning with anger against him. They had yearned to go off with the hunt, but, since he refused, they were forced to remain idly in camp watching him, instead of flying their horses among the wild buffalo—a sport for a king.

  The three were talking, softly. For though they despised him, they held him in awe, also. As a man, he was to them less than nothing. As a communer with the spirits, he was a dreadful power. Now they mentioned a familiar name. Torridon half closed his eyes.

  “What do you say of my horse?” he asked.

  “I say,” answered a voice, “that the horse would come to you even through a running river.”

  Another answered sharply: “And I say that no horse will swim unless it is forced. It would be a strong medicine, for instance, that would make a horse go into that stream. A horse has no hands to push himself away from sharp rocks.”

  Torridon thrust himself up on one arm, and shook back the hair from his face. It was quite true that the river beneath them was not a pleasant ford for horses. Men could manage it easily enough, but it was thickly strewn with rocks, and among the rocks the current drove down strongly.

  Torridon whistled, and up to him came a black stallion at a sharp trot and, standing before him, actually lowered his fine head and sniffed at the hand of his master as though to inquire his meaning.

  The three young braves looked on with hearts that swelled with awe.

  “Do you fear the water, Ashur?” asked Torridon in Cheyenne.

  He flung out his hand in a little gesture, and that gesture made the horse turn his head toward the river. But so seemingly did Ashur understand the question, so human was that turning of the head to look at the water that the young braves murmured softly to one another.

  “You see,” said Torridon, who was not above a little charlatanry from time to time, “that he has no fear of the water. He asks me for what purpose he should go into it, however.”

  The young Cheyennes were filled with amazement. “But in what manner did he speak?” asked the eldest, who had taken his scalp in regular battle and therefore was the accepted leader of the little party. “For I did not hear
a sound.”

  “Tell me,” said the untruthful Torridon, “do you have a sign language?”

  “Yes, with which every Indian can speak.”

  “Well, then, a horse has signs, also.”

  “But a horse has no fingers with which to make signs.”

  “He has a tail, however,” said Torridon smoothly, “and also two ears, and a head to nod or shake, and four hoofs to stamp.”

  There was a general exclamation of wonder.

  “However,” said the scalp-taker a little sullenly, “I still think that no horse would cross that water, except under a whip.”

  Torridon pretended to frown. “Do you think,” he asked, “that when I put a spell on a horse it is less than a whip on his back?”

  “Even a child,” replied the young warrior truthfully, “may speak about great things.”

  “Very well,” said Torridon, “this is a knife that you have admired.”

  He took from his belt a really beautiful weapon, the point curving only slightly from the straight, the steel of the finest quality, with the glimmer of a summer blue sky close to the sun. The haft was ornamented with inset beadwork, to roughen the grip. It was a treasure that Torridon had received from a grateful brave to whom he had given good fortune on the warpath, the fortune immediately being proved by the counting of a coup and the capture of five good horses.

  “It is true,” said the young Cheyenne, his eyes blazing in his head. “But,” he added, “what have I to offer against it?”

  “You have a new rifle,” said Torridon carelessly.

  The other sighed. The rifle was a very good one. It was the pride of his young life. However, the knife was a gaudy trinket that inflamed his very heart with lust to own it, and he reassured himself by looking down at the dangerous water.

  Besides, a horse was to be persuaded through the midst of that water without the use of a whip or a spur, and with no man on its back to direct it. He nodded as he turned again to Torridon. “Look!” he exclaimed suddenly. And he laid the rifle at the feet of a companion.