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  THE WHITE INDIAN

  THE WHITE INDIAN

  Book One of the Rusty

  Sabin Saga

  MAX BRAND

  Skyhorse Publishing

  First Skyhorse Publishing, Inc., edition published 2013 in cooperation with Golden West Literary Agency

  Copyright © 2011, 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency.

  The White Indian by Max Brand first appeared as a six-part serial in Argosy (9/9/33–10/14/33). Copyright © 1933 by the Frank A. Munsey Company. Copyright © renewed 1961 by the Estate of Frederick Faust. Copyright © 2011 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. The name Max Brand® is a registered trademark with the United States Patent and Trademark Office and cannot be used for any purpose without express written permission.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-62087-722-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Publisher’s Note

  The White Indian begins the Rusty Sabin saga. The second book of the trilogy, Brother of the Cheyennes, will be published by Skyhorse Publishing in the fall of 2013, and the third installment, The Sacred Valley, will be published in 2014.

  Chapter One

  In weather like this, when the heat pressed like two thumbs against the temples and the song of the locusts entered the brain with a dangerously rapid pulsation, Marshall Sabin insisted that his wife should wear a hat whenever she went out into the sun. But this day he was off hunting fresh meat, and she could overlook his wishes. She disliked the wavering of the soft straw brim up and down across her eyes. He insisted that she wear moccasins, also, when she left the house, but her feet were as tough as an Indian’s, and she decided that she would go as she was.

  Still, she was a little uneasy, for even when her husband was far away, she felt the sternness of his eye upon her. That was why, when she picked up the bucket and climbed the eight steps from the floor of the dug-out house to the ground level, she paused at the top of them and ran her eye over the horizon with a thrill of childish fear and pleasure. Between the homestead and the edge of the world there was only the flat of the plain, with the shimmer and mist of heat waves rising up from it. It was not often that she let her eye run out to the horizon in this way, because the immensity of it shrank their domain of plowed land to a handful, so she turned her eye quickly to the cornfield, probing through the aisles and the dim shadows of it.

  She was tall, but some of the lofty heads she could not touch. Many of the big leaves were broken down, sun-yellowed, and they added a crisp note to the rustling, whenever the wind moved among the stalks. To her ear it was a sound richer than the noise of sweeping silks.

  Her three-year-old son, christened Lawrence, but forever to be called Rusty by his father because he had her own red hair, was out in the fenced pasture making friends with the calf, while the cow very wisely paid no heed to the child, but stood guard between her offspring and the big wolfish dog that sat at the bars. They had picked up the dog more than a year before, expressly as a playmate for Rusty, and they thought it amusing to name him Dusty.

  She smiled as she thought of the coupled names, but the smile went out when she considered what labor it had been to haul the wood for that fence from far, far down the creek, and then to dig in the summer-hardened ground. However, if one is to have corn land, the animals must be fenced away from it. Sometimes she yearned for the green Berkshire hills—yearned more than a sailor for the sea—but usually she felt in her body an excess of power that should be lavished on this hard land like water on the desert, until it bloomed and gave them wealth and ease.

  She went on down the path that her feet, chiefly, had worn toward the creek. A puff of wind blew a strand of her red hair loose and across her eyes, so she slid the bail of the bucket up to her elbow in order that she might put that lock in place under the thong that she wore, Indian-wise, around her head. Above the knot of her hair the thong was joined at the ends by a green scarab pin that was her only bit of jewelry. Her uncle, that man of wisdom and wide travels, had sent the pin to her from Egypt. Her husband so loved the green stone against the color of her hair that she had formed the habit of wearing it constantly.

  When she came to the bank of the creek, she looked down with a sigh at the shapeless flight of steps that had been cut into the ground, for it was a full thirty feet to the bottom, where the water was so thin a stream that it seemed barely sufficient to keep the pools full and fresh. The descent now was into the heat of an oven; the heat thrown back from the hard earth burned her skin so that she was glad, at last, to stand more than ankle deep in the water as she filled the bucket. There she remained for a moment, enjoying a breeze that somehow came wandering down between the sides of the ravine, carrying the song of a dove, monotonously contented.

  At the top she paused once more, but without putting down the pail. Even the touch of the hot wind was cool to her as it dried the sweat on her face, on her throat, on her body.

  She saw Rusty wandering toward the cornfield—forbidden ground—with the dog beside him. Moccasins and a pair of trousers were Rusty’s outfit, and she smiled at the sleek, sun-blackened little body. She would have been happier if he had been heavier of bone and jaw and brow, like his father, yet she rejoiced because he was so wholly her child. His eyes were her eyes—deep blue—and one day the sun-faded brows would be dark like hers. She knew that she was beautiful, and she knew that if God gave her son strength, he would be glorious, too.

  She went up the path toward the house. “Don’t go into the corn, Rusty!” she called.

  He turned to her, gloomily, his right hand gripping the fur on the back of the dog’s neck. Silently he watched her out of sight, and she was smiling as she entered the house, for she knew that in two minutes he would be twisting through the narrow corridors among the stalks. However, the dog always barked to give her warning, whenever Rusty went beyond the appointed bounds. Oh, let him forever pass the bounds. Let him leave this great, flat land and one day triumph in the cities of men.

  She had hardly put down the bucket of water when Dusty began to bark. And with the barking merged the scream of her son, wildly raised, continuing, pulsing, though not broken by the beat of his running feet. Is it a snake? Is it that other danger of which Marshall Sabin had dared to speak to me only once?

  On the table lay the revolver that he had freshly loaded before he left. She caught it up as she leaped through the doorway and up the steps. It was the end. It was that second danger which, as Marshall Sabin had carefully explained, must be death for her.

  Here, and there, and there, they broke out from the tall ranks of the corn. The sun burned hot on the red bronze of their bodies; the war paint had turned their faces into goblin masks; their yelling ran needle-wise through her brain.

  Behind Rusty sprang a feathered chief. She could see the anticipation in his grin as hi
s left hand reached for the boy and his right hand raised his rifle as a club. Rusty, seeing her, screamed more loudly still, and threw out his arms.

  She was perfectly calm; she was as steady of hand and mind as if these had been figures in a book, figures invented by the loose imagination of some writer. As she steadied the revolver with both hands, she heard a frantic outburst of yelling, but that was no matter. Rusty was right in the line of her fire, but that was no matter either. She had to strike her target, and so she struck it. The feathered chief behind Rusty, as she pulled the trigger, leaped into the air with a hand clapped to his wounded face. Then he dropped to one knee and leveled his rifle.

  Little Rusty, at the same instant, tumbled headlong. She got to him, somehow, scooped him up. To her, just then, he seemed to weigh nothing. She could have carried him in the grip of one hand, by the hair of the head, and with the other hand she could have fought her way.

  She was at the head of the steps when the bullet struck her, but she would not fall. She got safely down into the house, before she collapsed in a corner. Dusty stood over her, trying to lick her face, and the boy was screaming again.

  “Mommy, I’m hurt! Mommy, I’m hurt! Look, Mommy! Mommy, I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!”

  On the sod of the steps outside she heard two muffled footfalls, like the steps of a heavy cart, so she stretched out the right arm, with the gun gripped hard, aiming at the door of buffalo hide. When it opened, she fired at the sun flash on the naked copper of the Indian’s body. He lurched on in, falling. He fell all the way across the room, dropping his rifle and striking his head and shoulders with frightful force against the opposite side wall. Then he slumped sidelong on his face.

  No more Indians tried to break through the open door, but she could hear the beat of their feet on the top of the house. The solid little mud building shuddered under the impacts.

  She sat up, making three distinct efforts.

  “Poor little Rusty,” she said, when she saw that the bullet that had driven through her own body had also scratched his shoulder. She wanted to take him in her arms, but she could not endure the thought of pressing him into the blood that streamed from her breast. It ran down into her lap so fast that it made a pool there.

  “Poor Rusty . . . poor darling lamb,” she said.

  The dog began to howl like a wolf.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Look, look!” screamed Rusty, pointing, dancing with ecstatic terror.

  She looked with dull eyes in the direction he indicated and saw the wounded Indian rising from the floor to one hand and one knee. He was naked, except for moccasins and breechclout, and she knew by the shaking of his muscles and the glare of his eye that the last of his life went into the effort of drawing back his knife to throw.

  The mother in her saw that he was only a boy, smooth-bodied, supple. Looking down the sights of the revolver, she saw the poising of the knife, but she could not fire. She could only watch the pumping of the blood from his breast, and how it foamed on the floor. She thought vaguely that that was how this great, burning land was enriched for habitation—by the rubbing out of life in labor, and by the pouring forth of life and blood.

  Then the knife struck the floor with a shivering note of music, as though a gong had been struck at almost infinite distance. The Indian boy slumped to the earth. Yet he continued to reach for the knife, a tremor running through his body, and he put his face against the ground and was still.

  Dusty sat down beside the dead Indian boy, pointed his nose rigidly at the unseen sky, and began to howl. It seemed to Kate Sabin that all the rest could be endured except the outcry of the dog.

  She was in a stupor, from which a sense of unfulfilled duty pulled her back toward consciousness. She looked dully around her at the table that Marshall Sabin had made with so much care, at the broad-bladed hoes that had flashed and chimed so many hours in the cornfield, at the little hanging shelf on which stood copies of the Bible, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and Robinson Crusoe. She had hardly opened the Bible, except to record in the flyleaf the day and the hour when she, unaided, and with her own body and hands alone, had brought forth to life a man-child. This present pain of her dying, she realized, was far less than that agony had been.

  There was a faint hope that this sun-blackened mite of a child would be spared, since the tribesmen sometimes adopted male children. If only she could dress him in his suit of clothes, crowd his feet into the shoes, brush his hair. Knowing that she had no strength for this, she pulled the thong from about her head and hung around his neck the green scarab. She prayed that in the eyes of the Indians the little green scarab might be a token of a great chief.

  If only the howling of the dog could be hushed.

  Rusty’s eyes were as round and white in his brown face as the eyes of a Negro baby, and he had stopped crying. From outside, she heard the voice of a man, running toward the house and crying out in the Indian tongue some name or question, in a frantic note of grief. She could understand that, also, for there are not many sons in the teepee of a brave—and the dead boy was lying yonder.

  She was seeing all this so dimly that she knew death was close. In her right hand was the revolver, with the muzzle pressed under her left breast.

  “Rusty,” she said, taking him in her arms, “they are coming . . . lots of Indians. But they won’t hurt you if you’re brave, and stand straight. Darling, kiss me . . . love me.”

  He flung his arms around her neck and strained at her with all his might. If those had been the mighty hands of Marshall Sabin, it seemed to her that even now the outflow of her life might be stopped. But there was only the howling, the dreadful howling of the dog—the outcry of the Indian who was running swiftly toward the house—the voice of her son moaning at her ear.

  “Mommy, Mommy, don’t go away from me. . . .”

  What instinct told the boy that she was going away beyond call—forever? It seemed to her then that she wanted only one thing, and that was to see the face of the first Indian who entered the house, so that she could offer the boy to him with a gesture of supplication. But she dared not wait, because Marshall Sabin had told her that, even though a woman was near death, she was not safe from these Indians. So she pressed her face between Rusty’s neck and shoulder, kissed his soft flesh, and then pulled the trigger of the revolver as Marshall Sabin had taught her to pull it, with the squeeze of the entire hand.

  Chapter Two

  Rusty Sabin, at eighteen, rode his horse behind Spotted Antelope up a ravine in the Black Hills. Although it was late summer, the water still ran strongly down the gorge, sometimes roaring like a wind, sometimes echoing from the walls like human voices. To Rusty Sabin, who knew himself only as Red Hawk, those voices rang with anger and reproaches, for there was wrath, he knew, in the heart of the Cheyenne who had adopted him. He had known it for years, and when he had asked Bitter Root, his foster mother, what could be in the mind of the brave, she would answer: “A wise man speaks only once, and not to a child.”

  However, he was about to pass from boyhood to manhood, since he must endure the torment and make the sacrifice of blood tomorrow. Therefore he knew that Spotted Antelope was about to speak, at last, and in respectful fear he had been riding ten strides behind the Indian.

  When they came to a place where the ravine made an elbow turn, Spotted Antelope dismounted and hobbled his horse, and Red Hawk immediately did the same. It was nearing sunset, but the midsummer day was close and hot, so that when the gray old Indian gathered his buffalo robe close about him it was plainly no more than a gesture of ceremonial dignity. He pointed a shrouded arm toward a place where the current whirled in a deep pool, making itself smooth with speed.

  “Purify yourself with water,” said Spotted Antelope, “and afterward I shall purify you with smoke. My son, you have made me unhappy, and now we are about to pray before the entrance to the Sacred Valley.”

  For some ordeal, Red Hawk had been nerving himself, but his breast grew hollow when he heard this name, for it w
as at the entrance to the Sacred Valley that Sweet Medicine, the hero who brought the buffalo to the Cheyennes, had last been seen by men. The foolish tribe had driven him out and had hunted him far away until, as he came to this gorge, before their eyes he had grown as tall as the clouds. His laughter had rolled from the sky, over the heads of his pursuers, and with one gesture of his hand he had broken from the rocky wall a vast pillar and left it leaning, ready to fall on any who ventured near. Now, at last, the warriors understood what manner of man he was. And stretching out their hands, they called to him like children to a father.

  The boy was full of awe of that legend as he pulled off his leggings, his moccasins, his breechclout, until there remained on him only a green scarab that was fastened about his neck by a leather thong. Part of his name had come from it, from that talisman, for among the mysterious figures inscribed on the underside of the beetle there was a clearly drawn hawk. The other half of his name he took from his dark red hair, the long braids of which he now wound tightly around his head, and fastened.

  He tried the cold of the water and its force with his foot. Physically he was not true to the brawny Cheyenne type, who is the giant of the plains, although he was perfectly made for speed of hand and foot. Strength had been given him where it would best serve, and about ankle, knee, and wrist the tendons were fitted close and neatly rounded off.

  He looked at the obscure and shimmering bronze of his image as he leaned over the pool, his arms extended, his palms turned down, while he prayed: “Underwater People, be good to me . . . and remember that I have sacrificed two good knives and an eagle feather to you.” Then he dived in, shooting himself out from the verge with a strong thrust of his legs. The currents were serpents that coiled on his body and caught at his hands, his knees, his feet. He went blind with effort before his hand touched a rock and he could draw himself, shining and panting, from the stream.