Sun and Sand Read online

  Tarlton, staring amazedly at this wild scene, was caught from the side and rudely jerked upon his face by a deerskin-clad frontiersman who snarled at him: “If an arrow will go through a buffalo, is your hide tough enough to turn its point, young man?”

  The Cheyenne charge was not the last. The Crows poured forward in a flood, and this time, half a dozen arrows were loosed by yelling, young braves. An arrow struck the bank not two feet from the head of Tarlton and buried itself almost to the feathers, and as the charge washed by, the young man laid hold on the arrow and had to tug twice before it came free. The frontiersman who had dragged him down now looked at him with a nod and a grin.

  “You’ll learn,” he said, “but it comes slow to greenhorns.”

  Tarlton started back to tell Quigley what he had seen, and on the way, he met Helen Meany, carrying two long rifles over the bend of her left arm. She went by him as though he were a bit of blowing mist. Tarlton followed her and touched her shoulder.

  “Are you blaming me?” he asked. She turned on him with flaming eyes.

  “How can you speak to me?” she cried at him. “How can you hold up your head when real men are around you?”

  Tarlton went on to Quigley and told him, quietly, what he had seen from the walls, and the trader twisted this way and that. Then he swore softly.

  “It looks almighty black,” he admitted. “They’re apt to whoop it up all day long, and at the close of the day, they’ll be boiling for a fight. What will keep them from swarming onboard us, like a lot of ants, when the dark comes?”

  “Couldn’t we light fires outside the palisade?” asked Tarlton.

  “And give them good light to shoot us by?”

  Tarlton was silent, and Quigley thoughtfully rubbed his head.

  “My hair has been mighty loose more times than one,” said Quigley. “But I dunno if it ever felt quite so much like fallin’ off my head as it does now.”

  Tarlton rose stiffly from his chair. He said: “I’ve read a bit in books about white men and Indians. And I’ve always heard that a dozen steady white men could split the charge of a thousand Indians.”

  “Aye, you’ve read of it in books,” said Quigley with a sneer. “They write a mighty lot of books about slaughterin’ Indians. But if the figgers was added up on the frontier, who would there be the most dead of? Indians or whites? Ask any man on the frontier, and he’ll tell you. And how long would this place last without water? And the last I heard, the water tanks wasn’t finished.”

  “No water here?” cried Tarlton. “But then the river is so near?”

  “That there river is so doggone’ far away,” said Quigley, “that the gent that tried to get to it would be turned into a porcupine, he’d be stuck so full of arrows before he ever got to it. Aye, there’d be so many feathers on him that he’d blow away in the wind.”

  “Well, then,” said Tarlton, “a good, determined stand, all together, and a sally out . . .”

  “With women and children, and lumberin’ wagons, and no chance to hunt meat, and every step we took dogged by a flock of those redskins? It would be a pretty march.”

  Tarlton looked blankly at him. “Is it as bad as that?” he asked.

  “I don’t say that we’re all scalped yet,” said Quigley, “but, if you was to pick out the three orneriest fightin’ tribes in the country, you couldn’t’ve picked ’em more exact than the Crows, the Piegans, and those Cheyennes. I’d rather fight any white man than a Cheyenne. They’re poison reptiles, them. You remember what I tell you. But I don’t say that we’re all scalped . . . I simply say that we’re wearin’ mighty loose hair.”

  He pointed up. “Go look around the palisade at the old-timers. You’ll always find some of the youngsters pining and aching for a fight. But if you see a grin on the face of a single old-timer, you come back here and tell me about it. It’ll take a mighty weight off of my mind. But right now, the way I feel, we’re gonna have our tongues hangin’ out for water in about two days. After that, we’ll march. And then God help us. The Indians will send out to every encampment within five hundred miles of us. They’ll come swarmin’ down. Where there is one red man now, there’ll be ten before the finish.”

  “Then why not start the march immediately . . . now?” asked Tarlton with enthusiasm.

  “What good is a little earlier start? They’ll ramp along a hundred mile a day . . . we’ll crawl ten with our wagons, if we got luck. They’ll be back with their tribes before we get well started, anyways. You go tell Duncan that I want to know what he intends doin’. But right now, I wouldn’t stack our chances ag’in’ the price of this here bottle of phosphorus that the fool of an agent sent out to me.” He took a small flask from his pocket and then hurled it across the room with an oath of disgust.

  Tarlton looked after it with blank eyes. Then suddenly he started up and took the flask. “You don’t want this, Quigley?”

  “I can get on right smart without it, son.”

  “I’ll take it, then,” said Tarlton.

  “What kind of a thought have you got about it?”

  “I don’t know,” said the gambler. “But the idea that I have might give us all one chance in a thousand.”

  “Which it would be a damn fine thing to add that extra chance,” said Quigley gravely. “Now, you go and find Duncan and ask him from me.”

  Tarlton went up to the old trader and found him in the center of the fort yard, surrounded by half a dozen of the elders, in a serious consultation, but he broke off the talk as he saw Tarlton approach.

  “We’ll have no luck,” he said, “while this thing is with us. As long as he’s with us, I know which way the stick will be floating. Have you come up here to give us good advice, young man?”

  Gloomy faces turned upon Tarlton. He said shortly that he had come from Quigley to ask what measures were to be taken.

  “Tell Quigley,” said Duncan, “that when we know, we’ll tell him, because every rifle in this here fort is going to be needed, whether the man that aims it is hurt or not. And those that can’t handle a rifle,” he said pointedly, “can sit back with the women and children and help to load.” Then, after pausing briefly, he added: “Tell Quigley it’s mostly up to what happens to Meany. If they murder him, they’ll want to murder the rest of us. But if they don’t taste blood . . . why, who knows?”

  With that most unsatisfactory answer, Tarlton returned to Quigley and found him philosophically puffing at his pipe.

  “It’s as I said,” said Quigley. “Will they kill Meany? Have they done it already? Who knows? Will they rush us tonight, or will they wait to starve us out? Oh, it’s a pretty game, and we’re settin’ in the middle of it.”

  Tarlton returned no answer. He was sitting with downward head, his chin resting on his fist, staring into a corner, and the other, recognizing the profound abstraction of the boy, said nothing more.

  The day went swiftly by, for it was the night the men in the fort dreaded. It was not until the sun hung on the very rim of the western sky, with swollen cheeks and a face of red gold, that Tarlton stood up and held out his hand to the wounded man.

  “Good bye,” he said. “I’m riding out.”

  “Aye, you’re apt to,” said the other with a grunt of laughter, and Tarlton went up to the yard of the fort.

  Two or three heavy columns of smoke were rising from the half-green wood of which the supper fires were built. On the walls were half a dozen men as sentinels. The rest were below in the yard, stirring in the tangle of wagons, moving slowly, like men who carried burdens.

  From her stall, Tarlton took the mare, saddled her, groomed her, fitted the bit into her mouth, and she nosed his shoulder fondly. Then he led her out, mounted, and rode up to the gate.

  Duncan stood beside it, smoking his long-stemmed pipe. “You’re goin’ out for a little canter, eh?” Duncan said with a sneer.

  “I am,” said Tarlton.

  “You fool,” said the trader. “I half believe that you would.”
/>   “I shall,” said Tarlton, “if you’ll open the gate enough to let me through.”

  “Why,” said the other, “have we got a hero, here? Have we got a bright young hero to rise up and shine for the camp?”

  “Will you open the gate?” asked Tarlton quietly.

  Duncan stared, and then suddenly he roared. “Open the gate! I’ll see the end of this bluff in about five seconds. Open the gate and let him out!”

  There was a murmur of surprise, but the gate was obediently thrust open, just enough to permit one horse to pass out. The men at the heavy, wooden levers stood grinning at Tarlton, perfectly sure that he would not be so mad as to ride out into the open danger of the field.

  He leaned, looked to the tightness of his cinch, and then pushed the mare deliberately through the gap and into the naked danger of the outdoors. There he rode straight down the slope toward the nearest encampment, which was that of the Crows, and right and left he saw groups of young braves who were circling the plain now rein in their horses and look toward him. In another moment, some of them began to drift cautiously up the slope, to cut off his return.

  XIII

  The sky was wild and grand. All toward the west, there was a clear arch, filled with the red-gold light, but from the east, a massive wall of darkness was riding up the heavens and already had reached the zenith. It was a thunderstorm of magnificent dimensions, putting down long arms of mist that turned purple, and gleaming sapphire and rosy gold as the sunset light streamed through them. They were like thin legs that strode forward, upholding the enormous weight of the storm above.

  Tarlton looked up calmly at this approaching crisis in the sky. There was a greater storm of anxiety and hope and excitement in his own heart.

  The river, reflecting the sunset on the one hand and the clouds on the other, was half crimson and half filled with thunderous masses of shadow, and the grass shuddered and parted as heavy blasts of wind struck it.

  Before him, the wandering parties of Indians separated to either side, as though they were anxious to give him an open passage, although he knew perfectly that they were simply striving to entice him forward and that the others were gathered at his back.

  But he would not look behind him or show the slightest apprehension. Only, when the mare stumbled heavily after putting her foot in a hole, he could look down and back and, by that glance, see the wall of the fort on that side lined with the slender, black silhouettes of the garrison that had swarmed up there to watch the progress of this wild adventure. He wondered, with a grim smile, if Helen Meany were among the rest and what her thoughts might be concerning the adventure? And, with that same backward glance, he saw the sudden sweep of young braves behind him, like arrows launched from many bows, and all aimed at him.

  If he turned his head toward them, he knew, suddenly, that an actual volley of feathered shafts would drive through his body. He went straight on, therefore, at a soft, jogging trot, his head high, his shoulders squared, in spite of the thunder of the hoofs beating behind him and the swift shudders that passed through his back.

  Before him, too, rapid riders were hurling themselves forward. They were nearer. They loomed suddenly before him, galloping wildly. Their yells tore the air, and he saw the gleaming of their weapons, spearheads, and arrows on the string.

  The sun was down. The west was a torrent of crimson, a wall of fire that seemed to be bursting out toward the plain, toppling from the crest, as water might topple.

  And then the pursuit was upon him.

  Terrific shouts tore at his ears. Arrows flashed past him. Spear points reached like lightning flashes across his shoulders, from either side, and descending hatchets made bright arcs of light glancing by his head.

  Yet not a blow struck home!

  Tarlton knew, then, that one instant of quailing would see his brains scattered in the grass. He, therefore, galloped forward, apparently unconcerned.

  Those from the rear, passing forward, slipped through the flying ranks of those charging from the west. And then the whole mass whirled with shouts and threatening weapons around Tarlton.

  This whirlwind parted, and through the midst of it appeared the broad shoulders and the ugly face of Rising Bird. The greeting between him and Tarlton was short and simple.

  “Come, brother,” said Rising Bird in the Blackfoot tongue, which he knew Tarlton understood. “The young men have been glad to see you. They have been showing you the edges of their knives and the points of their spears, to prove what friends the Crow nation can be. Come with me. There is a couch in my lodge prepared for you.”

  And he took Tarlton straight on and through the village to the center of it. A tangle of women, naked children, and howling dogs swarmed around them, but Rising Bird brushed these aside and took Tarlton into a tall lodge in the last circle, a lodge ornamented with the crescent moon in yellow on a background of red and black. The stars, too, appeared in staggering brilliancy upon that naïve painting.

  Inside, two squaws stood up to greet their lord and his guest. A boy of some eight years leaped in through the teepee flap and stood erect, hands clenched at his sides, his eyes flashing at Tarlton. That was the son. He looked like a bird of prey about to pounce. But the lord of the teepee pointed Tarlton to a couch. Leaning against a costly backrest, he prepared the inevitable pipe, and the white man smoked and passed it back.

  “It is good,” said Rising Bird, “that in one day two friends each can help the other. Which way will you ride away from this trouble?”

  “I must ride as an Indian,” said Tarlton, “and I ride for one night only.”

  “Brother,” said the Crow, “I wish to be your friend not for one day, but for your life. Do not stop with one night. I myself shall ride with you until you are clear of the young men, because they are like hungry hawks, pursuing and always on the wing. After I leave you, ride on and on.” He picked up a little dust from the floor of the teepee and tossed it into the air. “Trouble spreads more quickly than fire,” he said, as the dust fanned out and puffed in the drafty air.

  Tarlton could understand. “Has the fire gone far away?” he said.

  “All day,” answered the Crow chief, after a moment of hesitation, “as fast as a horse can run, trouble has flown off over the grass.”

  “Very well,” said Tarlton. “I would be happy to go from this place, but that I cannot do. I am going to stay near my white friends in the fort. I am not going to do any harm to the Indians, either. But first, I must change my clothes.”

  The chief looked earnestly at him, and as he paused, the weight of the thunderstorm struck the camp with a great crashing. It was a powerful blast that instantly sucked the flames of the fire out sideways, and from without, they heard the frantic yelling of unlucky squaws whose ill-secured teepees had been uprooted and sent flying by the gale, while the household possessions either were tumbled topsy-turvy or else floated far away.

  Rising Bird remained utterly unmoved by this commotion, except to look up calmly. Then he said: “The Sky People are very angry tonight, brother.”

  “They are angry with the Blackfeet,” Tarlton said readily enough, “because they have seen how the Blackfeet have taken a friend who came to them meaning them no harm, and how they have held him. Perhaps they already have murdered him?”

  “The trader?” said the Crow chief. “He is still alive.” He said it gloomily, with his eyes upon the ground. Then he looked up and added: “Why should the Sky People be angry because of what the Indians do to the white men? Do the whites make sacrifices to them?”

  Tarlton answered logically enough: “The truth is that the Sky People take note of goodness even to a dog. Then would they not watch goodness to other men?”

  Rising Bird shrugged, and his nostrils expanded a little. He said: “We are good friends, my brother. Let us talk of other things, and of what will make you happy. Your people are not my people, and our spirits are not your spirits.”

  Tarlton did not persist. But he said: “I want ver
y little. I want only a loincloth and moccasins. After that, I want two or three old robes and some help to cut them up so that they will fit over me and over my horse.”

  “Over you and your horse?” echoed the chief.

  “This is a stratagem,” said Tarlton. “It will do no harm to anyone. Last of all, I want the longest war spear that you own.”

  The chief pointed to it, extending high into the gloom of the tent, its point a glimmer of bright steel. “There are robes,” he said. “Take the best. They are not good enough for my friend.”

  But Tarlton picked out only the three oldest and most tattered robes, worn thin and hairless. These, with the help of the two squaws—while Rising Bird looked curiously on—were fashioned to make leg stalls for the mare and a shelter for her neck, head, and very tail, and a covering for Tarlton. It was a clumsy leather suit that could be fitted upon her. And yet it was roughed out so rapidly that the work did not take an hour.

  As the women worked, the men ate, until the preparations were complete. Then the squaws were sent out, Tarlton stripped, put on the loin strap, the moccasins, and the buffalo robe, which covered him to the heels.

  At that moment, a messenger came, spoke hastily to the Crow, and passed on.

  Said Rising Bird: “Brother, I am called to the tents of the Blackfeet to take counsel with them there. By my advice, this is your time to ride fast and to ride far. The mare will not fail you. Her legs are long. But take two more of my horses and change to them when the good mare grows tired.”

  “You are called to the Blackfeet,” suggested Tarlton, “to advise them about the life of Meany, the trader from the fort. Brother, speak to save his life.”