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  When Tarlton was aware of these things, he guessed the purpose for which he had been brought. And he flushed a little, for he saw what he would be urged to do, and he did not like the role.

  Little Bull came out to meet him and greeted him with a clumsy, formal handshake. Then he sat Tarlton down, while about them appeared at least a score of dignified warriors. They were not invited to attend the conversation, but they were not driven away, and therefore their curiosity was satisfied. They laid their hands upon the mare, upon the saddle, upon the naked, iron stirrups, the short leathers, the open, very light saddle. They touched the ends of the bit and made out that it was a simple snaffle. Everything that they saw, they admired with a soft chorus of grunts. Small boys, naked and brown-red, pressed behind them, around them, between their legs, to peer at the beautiful horse.

  But in spite of this press of people, there was a soft decorum in the voices. No Indian people of the plains possessed the majestic dignity of the Cheyennes, just as none possessed such a Roman steadiness in battle.

  In the meantime, the chief had produced his pipe, filled, and lighted it, and Tarlton, with grave care—instructed a little from a distance by the half-breed—managed to accept it in the proper fashion.

  The speech of Little Bull was quietly to the point. He said that he had not been a rich man before this day, and that after this day there still would be many richer men than he in the tribe. However, he had found a great windfall.

  “Because,” he said, “as I passed the rider of the mare, I heard him speak, and I distinctly heard him say that she would surely win if he cared to have her.”

  This was duly translated by Young River, that nine-tongued interpreter. And Tarlton blinked, for he remembered his jesting remark that had been so seriously interpreted.

  “Say to me, therefore,” said the chief, “what you will take to remember Little Bull, and that he is a friend and not ungrateful to those who do good for him. Look at this heap that I have won. I know that the white man wishes to have beaver skins. There is that heap, there. And the white man wishes to have rifles . . . and, see, there are some. You and your friend must go among these things. Where there are four, take two. Where there are three, take two, also. Because a good division of these things will be the division that makes my friend happy.”

  “Tell him,” said Tarlton to the half-breed, “that I cannot take anything that I have not bought.”

  Young River made a gesture of bewilderment. “Here is enough,” he said, “to buy twenty horses, at least, besides those horses, yonder.”

  “Very well,” said Tarlton, “let the twenty horses remain.”

  “Ah,” said the half-breed, “if you will say this, remember that everyone is not as rich as you are, brother, and everyone does not have such beautiful mares that run so swiftly, or little pistols that shoot so straight. There is I, brother. Remember me. Take what the large heart of the chief offers to you, and I shall be able to take from you everything else that you do not need.”

  At this speech, Tarlton shook his head and swallowed a smile. Therefore, with almost a groan, the half-breed translated the last speech of his master exactly as it had been made. It caused a good deal of astonishment among the Cheyennes. The fine mare ceased to be an object of attention, at once. An old woman was seen to bend over her son, to point and to whisper: “Yonder sat a man who refused a gift of twenty horses.”

  The chief, in the meantime, was in dismay and in some doubt. He even frowned, as though he felt that there was an insult hidden somewhere in this remark, or a challenge.

  Then Tarlton said: “Explain this, Young River. Tell him that I am glad the running of the mare and her good jumping made him better off. But, after all, the best thing that he can offer me is friendship. You understand, Young River. Put it in his own words, and in your own way. Don’t try to turn the English words into Cheyenne, until you feel that you know what I mean. The fact is that I could not take any of these things. They would be payment. I’m not to be paid, after all, but the mare. And how can anyone pay her?”

  Young River sighed. He saw a handsome profit lost to his master; he saw, also, a chance for a handsome gain lost to himself, for he knew that the fingers of Tarlton were wide set and that much flowed through them. However, he saw, too, the chance to make his speech, and he made it. There is nothing that an Indian loves better. And here was the opportunity of a lifetime, in the sense of a red man. For a young man, a Piegan, was able to stand before the great Cheyennes and speak to the wise men and the chiefs in their own tongue, and hold them spellbound.

  The Indian is generous, but he is as apt at taking as he is at giving. The philosophy of the white man, however, even if it could not be exactly understood and imitated, appeared a noble thing. Like children, the Cheyennes smiled. They looked upon one another, greatly pleased and astonished. They looked upon Tarlton and nodded. Certainly his idea was most acceptable to the red men.

  Only Little Bull was troubled. He said, when the speech was ended: “These are very good words. But now I am like snow on the mountains. The sun begins to shine. I melt, and there is no place to flow. Well, brother, if there is only friendship to be given, let there be much of that. We do not forget, if you will remember. I speak a little for myself, but also for many of the Cheyennes. I spoke to them. When I heard your voice speak, I knew that what you said was true, because I could see that you were wise. I spoke to the famous warriors. They heard me. They took their horses and loaded them with goods. They went down, and they made their bets against the Crows and the Blackfeet, who are not so rich, tonight.”

  He got up, and, taking from his shoulders the fine robe that was gathered about him, he drew it around Tarlton.

  “In this manner,” said Little Bull, “we remember one another. There is no teepee among the Cheyennes that is not open to you. There is no sun too hot for us to give you shade, and there is no winter wind so cold that it can reach you when you do come to us.”

  He would have made a longer speech, but there was a sudden shouting down the river, far away from them, and then the ringing explosion of rifles.

  Voices were raised among the outer ring of the Cheyennes, and Young River leaped to Tarlton and cried in his ear: “Now is the time to forget fine talk and pretty words. They are murdering the white men before the camp of the Piegans. Ride back to the fort! Ride back to the fort! Who can tell when the Cheyennes will forget the talk they have just been making and will be glad to take scalps and count coups instead?”

  Tarlton raised his hand to Little Bull, and, turning from him, he leaped into the saddle on the mare. She, nervous instantly with the excitement of her master, swung about and leaped down the riverbank.

  Then he could see, straight before him, but at a distance of a furlong at least, a swirl of figures and the smoke of rifles. The Piegans were sweeping toward the trader, and half a dozen other white men who had gathered on the bank about Meany.

  Young River did not hesitate. He turned his pony and dashed it through the river and hastened on toward the fort, yelling at his master to follow with all speed, and never turning until he was almost at the fort entrance. When he turned, he saw that Tarlton, instead of heeding the advice of the half-breed, had ridden straight down the green bank of the river and now was among the fighters before the camp of the Piegans.

  At the same moment, Young River could see Meany go down, while the tall form of Sam Quigley threw up its arms and fell from the saddle.

  XI

  It was not altogether a chivalrous instinct that sent Tarlton forward, but very largely the desire of any young man to be present where excitement was gathering. But also there was a vague spur working in him that might be called conscience.

  The young mare galloped like the wind, and as she went, devouring the yards with long, bounding strides, Tarlton saw distinctly what was taking place.

  While Meany had continued his discussion with the two chiefs, apparently the bad feeling among the Piegans had reached a climax as m
an after man returned from the horse races and climbed the slope to the camp, many of them on foot—for the good reason that their horses had been lost. Some were carrying their saddles and rawhide lariats, and others were empty-handed. There were some who had gambled away the very clothes on their backs and now strode along in loin straps alone.

  Meany, whatever his eloquence, had not been able to prevent the chiefs from leaving him in disgust; they had ridden up the slope toward the verge of their camp, and they were almost at it when the turmoil began.

  Those men of force and dignity had been able to keep the anger of the younger men in check, but as soon as they were gone, the youths turned upon Meany as the author of their losses. They had poured in upon him, and the white men around him, and a brisk struggle began. Rifles were discharged, but the range was very close, and there was little mischief at first.

  It was simply a turmoil of tumbling bodies, and the strength and the united valor of the whites kept the red men at bay.

  But that could not last long. As Tarlton swept up on the mare, he saw four of the men from the fort dive from the bank into the river. At the same time Meany, attempting to swing his horse about, was overtaken by a hundred hands and instantly mastered, while Quigley was shot from his horse.

  Tarlton could tell that it was impossible for him to do the slightest good to Meany, for the press of the Piegans was too thick about him. He doubted for the safety of his own skin, but he could not help trying to save Quigley.

  That big man lay prone on the grass, then gradually pried himself up on one elbow, stunned, but instinctively struggling. And, luckily, he was on the verge of the riverbank, the water swishing not two yards from where he had fallen from his horse in his retreat. The Piegan who had fired the shot, throwing aside his rifle, rushed in, tugging out his knife as he did so.

  Tarlton’s pistol was in his hand by this time, and the shot was easy. But in all his life of gaming and dueling, he never had fired at the back of a human being, and he could not begin now. Instead, he brought the barrel of the gun down on the head of the Blackfoot. The latter was more startled than hurt. He was not even stunned, but in the shock of horror at this unexpected attack from the rear, he let the knife fall from his hand and actually threw himself headlong into the river.

  It was that which saved the life of Tarlton, and the life of Quigley as well—that and the intervention of the chiefs, who now had returned from higher up the slope. They shouted, and the young men heard them. Besides, they were weak with laughter at the ridiculous sight of the warrior who had been frightened into the water. Tarlton drew up, helped Quigley onto the saddle before him, and then crossed the river and jogged without haste up the farther slope to the fort.

  He was still dizzy. He felt as does a man who is about to be sucked into the heart of a whirlpool and then is suddenly cast up to the calm surface, free from danger. So it was with him, and luck had stood at his side. If he had felled the Piegan, he now saw, a dozen sure rifles would have blown him from the saddle. But the battle had suddenly turned into a jest, and he went free.

  However, looking back, he saw the crowd still thick, whirling around a knotted center, as the Piegans carried poor Meany up to their camp, and the heart of Tarlton suddenly sickened within him.

  Quigley was perfectly composed.

  “I’ve lost a mighty smart young pony,” he said to Tarlton, “with a fine lot of beads wove into him, too. One look at that horse would’ve got me the finest squaw that ever beaded moccasins among the Crows, and that’s the nation I’m gonna marry into. However, it’s a mighty sight better to have shank’s pony than no horse at all, and I’d be red-headed by this time, if you hadn’t come boomin’ up when you did, young man.”

  In this leisurely fashion, he thanked Tarlton as the two came to the fort.

  In the meantime, the alarm had gone out from Fort Meany, and with the crack of the first rifle, there had been an instant rush toward the fort on the part of the white men and an instant rush of the Indians away from it. It was almost as though an explosion had happened in the fort, and the fleeing Indians were like the streaks of smoke, blown raggedly outward from the center.

  In the fort, there was an instant rallying, and the oldest heads in command sent a strong line to hold the top of the earth wall behind the stout palisade, while others thrust out from the entrance and prepared to meet any drive of the Indians before it could reach to the wagons, which were yet not in full readiness to hold off an assault.

  There was ample need for these precautions.

  The whole of the three Indian camps had been thrown into turmoil. Living in constant readiness to leap into the saddle, the youngsters of the Piegans were the first out, for they were the tribe that felt the grievance most keenly. The Crows were not far behind them, and the Cheyennes followed from the irresistible force of example.

  The latter were by no means friendly toward the Crows and the Blackfeet. But far more than they disliked the other Indians, they hated the whites with a natural and profound hatred. That hate was a fire, and this event had been a sufficient breath of air to make the flames leap.

  Now, around and around the plain, at the foot of the slope on which the fort stood, the youngsters coursed their horses. More than half were without saddles, having flung themselves on the first ponies at hand. With the wildest yells, they circled the fort. Most of them carried bows and arrows only. For the older braves, who were the better armed, had not as yet come out to enter the lists; they waited some authoritative word from the chiefs. However, the young vanguard was ready for action, and as they coursed wildly around the fort, had there been the slightest sign of lack of preparedness on the part of the defenders, they would have poured into the gap instantly.

  That was the state of affairs that was beginning when Tarlton rode up the slope, with Quigley before him, bleeding rapidly from a wound in the right side that made him pant a little in his drawling speech.

  At the head of the party that pushed out from the entrance of Fort Meany was William Duncan, as a matter of course. He had been the first to perceive the necessity, and he was also the first to spring into the position of command. Behind him the best men of the fort were marching, their rifles ready. Other men were climbing the walls of the fort, and others were racing out to throw themselves into the wagon circles, while the nearest wagons were being dragged within the gates of the fort by hand power.

  Duncan called out, as Tarlton came up to him: “You’ve been at it again, have you? I’ve a mind to have you roped hand and foot and thrown into the river! You’ve raised a fire again, have you?”

  Before Tarlton could answer, Quigley responded for him: “Him that started the trouble was him that sent the Crow to race against Tarlton’s mare, Duncan, and him that told the Blackfeet that the bet would be easy ag’in’ the mare. I dunno who sent that word, but it never was Tarlton. Maybe you know better than me. Tarlton, here, has just snaked me away from the stake, as you might say. Go on, son. There ain’t gonna be any roping of you and throwing of you in rivers, not if there was ten Duncans to ask for it.”

  Duncan, as part of this speech touched him very closely, drew back with a growl, and Tarlton passed inside the fort.

  Of that crowd that stirred within, the first face he saw was that of Helen Meany. White and strained, she passed him. Only for a moment she paused as she ran and turned toward him. “You let him stay in their hands! You left him to the fire!” she cried to Tarlton, and whipped away.

  Tarlton’s head jerked up as though a bullet had struck him with a heavy impact at that moment.

  With his perfect calm, Quigley said: “Now, that’s the woman of it, son. It ain’t enough that you’ve caught one fish out of the creek when the family’s starvin’. But the only one that’ll do the wife is the speckled feller with the funny shape to his head. Oh, I know women. I got a wife and three daughters back at home. That’s why I want a Crow squaw and a peaceful lodge.”

  The storekeeper, coming out with rifle in hand
, paused and helped Quigley down from the back of the mare. Then, they carried him into the fort and stretched him on a cot, with a roll of blankets by way of a pillow under his head.

  They opened his shirt, and it could be seen at once that his wound was not very serious. The bullet had raked along the ribs. The blood had flowed until he was appreciably weakened, but when they had washed and bandaged the wound tightly, and given him a strong shot of whiskey, he asked immediately for a pipe.

  “Go out and take a look at the trouble,” he said to the storekeeper. “You stay here,” he added to Tarlton, and the young man unwillingly remained.

  “Because there ain’t going to be any real trouble now,” Quigley explained to his rescuer. “If I thought that there was, this little scratch that I got wouldn’t keep me from getting out there with the rest of the men, young feller. But nothing will happen till night.”

  “And then?” asked Tarlton.

  “And then it depends all on Meany. If the Blackfeet murder him and take his scalp, then the whole three tribes will come at us. And, mind you, though they won’t rush a place like this in the day, in the night they might jump their horses over this here palisade and rub us all out in no time at all.”

  XII

  In a few minutes, the trouble grew serious. Guns popped far off; they were answered by the single crack of a rifle from the fort.

  “Hello!” said Quigley. “The boys are trying to talk like men, I hear. Go have a look and let me know what’s happening.”

  Tarlton hurried out, and from the top of the embankment, which was lined with men who were digging themselves into shallow rifle pits, he looked out on the green plains and found them fairly awash with riders. At that moment, a long line of Cheyennes rushed at the fort, looking like a wave that was sure to overtop the wall. One excited youngster on the embankment discharged a rifle whose bullet went wild, and the Cheyennes, with a yell of triumphant mockery, split to one side and the other, and foamed around the walls, shaking spears and guns above their heads.