The Steel Box Read online

  This was the dream of Yellow Man. Let anyone who could interpret it.

  This strange story was received in silence. But when Yellow Man left the circle, a little later, Red Shirt remarked with a grunt: “My blood is cold, brothers, and I think that when we come to the lodge of Yellow Man, we will find the women and the children wailing in it.”

  There was no further comment, but all the braves had the same gloomy thought. Red Shirt insisted that this was a token that they should give up the attempt that they had in mind. Even if peace was not made with Roger Lincoln, it would be best to try nothing more, but to make the best and quickest way back to the village on the prairie.

  Standing Bull answered, logically enough, that a dream in which a village disappeared and a star shone through the ghost of a tree might mean a great deal to Yellow Man, but it hardly had significance for the rest of the party or their work. He had made up his mind. They would attempt what they had come for.

  That day, the storm still held, growing momently more violent. They could hear the roaring of the river, swollen with a great voice. And during the day, they went down to trade off their buffalo robes. Under the keen eye of Standing Bull and against his express admonition, they did not dare to take whiskey in exchange. And in the evening they went back to their camping grounds with a load of ammunition, a few knives, many trinkets and beads.

  When the darkness came on, Standing Bull made his further preparations. Two of the men were to keep the bulk of the horses at the edge of the woods, prepared to rush them into the prairie on a moment’s notice. The remaining four, and Standing Bull himself, were to go back with chosen ponies—and one extra mount—to the vicinity of the house of Samuel Brett.

  There, a pair of the warriors would keep the animals at the edge of the trees, taking what care they could that the ponies should not neigh or make any noise of tramping or fighting. Then, accompanied by Red Shirt and Rushing Wind—especially chosen for this purpose by Standing Bull as being the keenest of the band that accompanied him—the leader would go toward the house and try to take the girl from it, in silence if he could, by force and slaughter of the rest of the household if necessary.

  The others listened to the plan in silence. They saw that it was desperately bold. The explosion of a gun and a single shot would be enough to bring out the rest of the settlers, gun in hand. But not one of the braves would draw back from his leader in such a time of need. Certainly Rushing Wind and Red Shirt did not know fear.

  All was done as had been planned, the horses were established under the trees that stood nearest to the house, and then Standing Bull began to approach, taking the lead, as was his right and his duty.

  He went forward, crouching, shifting from bush to rock, and rock to bush, and gradually working his way closer. He had covered most of the distance when there was a snarl and then a furious barking just before him.

  He heard the rush of a dog through the darkness!

  XIV

  There was no better watchdog in the world than that borrowed man-killer that now was lunging at the Indian. His was a crossed breed. He was mastiff, boar hound, and wolf, mixed discreetly. He had the cutting power of a wolf, the wind of a hound, and the grip of a mastiff, together with the heart of the latter dog. He was as good as half a dozen armed guards to keep off strollers and the overcurious, because men do not like to face the danger of a dog bite. The bite may only break the skin, but the broken skin is apt to lead to hydrophobia. Who can tell?

  Standing Bull never had seen that dog before. He did not need to see him clearly, however, to realize what was coming. The monster charged through the whipping rain. Straight at him came the dog, with a savage, brutal intaken breath of satisfaction.

  At the last instant the Cheyenne twisted on his side. A snake could not have moved more quickly. The dog shot past, trying in vain to check its impetus, and, as it went on, Standing Bull drove his hunting knife through the heart of the creature.

  There was no sound. The dog fell limply, and Standing Bull wiped off the blade of the knife, listening intently as he did so.

  Nothing stirred in the house. He could only trust that the sudden cessation of the growling of the big animal would not rouse suspicions in the house. And so far nothing indicated that they were on their watch. They had consigned their safety into the keeping of one power. That power now was removed, and Standing Bull felt that perhaps swift success would crown his work.

  His two attending shadows drew close to him. They did not congratulate him on the deed he had just performed, but congratulation did not need to be spoken. Standing Bull felt that the very air was electric with the admiration of his friends.

  Therefore he went on swiftly to the door. It was the one weak point of the house, being thin and, as already noted, full of cracks. It was the hope of Standing Bull that a little work with a sharp knife might so enlarge one of the cracks that he could reach the latch bar and open the door without more ado.

  He worked rapidly, but with the greatest care. Even the squeak of a heavily pressed knife in wet wood might be enough to catch the ear of a sleeper and undo all that had been accomplished up to this point.

  Presently, when the soft wood had yielded sufficiently, he thrust the point of the blade through the crack and worked it upward. It clicked on iron, the iron stirred, and with a slight creak of the hinges, the door sagged inward.

  Big Standing Bull crouched on the threshold, his heart thundering in his breast like a charge of wild buffalo. But still nothing stirred in the interior. Neither the breath of fresh air entering, full of the dampness of the rain, nor the sound of the door turning on the hinges had been enough to disturb the slumberers—or were they waiting among the shadows all this while, smiling to themselves, their guns ready as soon as the door, like the mouth of a trap, had admitted sufficient victims?

  Even on the verge of entering, Standing Bull thought of all these things, and hesitated. But something had to be done. The rain beat like hammers on the surface of the ground. It rattled on his own broad shoulders so loudly that he could have sworn that a whole tribe would have been alarmed by such a noise.

  In through the door he went, and moved hastily to one side. The other two followed him. He could hear them breathing, and the faint creaking of a leather jacket as its wet folds were drawn tight at each inhalation.

  He got to his feet, but, when he made a step, the water squelched and hissed in his moccasins. He had to pause again, listening with the rigidity of a statue, and then he sat down and dragged off the moccasins. In his naked feet he proceeded with greater ease.

  First he went to the stove and from this took out a half-burned stick of wood. There was a glowing coal at one end, while the other end was cool enough to hold. The coal made a dim point of light that tarnished quickly in the open air, and then freshened to an amazing degree when blown upon.

  Standing Bull was satisfied. It would have been very well if he could have guessed in what room the girl was sleeping, but, since he did not know, he would have to look.

  All the doors stood open upon the big kitchen, in order that the fire might send its heat through all the chambers. This was partly an advantage and partly a great disaster. For though it meant that he would have no difficulty in opening the doors, every move that he made was now likely to strike upon the ears of all the sleepers.

  The two helpers went behind him. He had told them beforehand what he wanted them to do. He dared not entrust the actual kidnapping to them. He felt that the body of this slender white girl was so fragile that it would have to be touched with the greatest care.

  He stepped through the first doorway. It was like walking into the throat of a cannon. Then, blowing softly on the dying coal, he got from it the faintest of glows, yet enough to enable his straining eyes to distinguish the vast shoulders of the white hunter in the bed.

  Instantly he veiled the coal with his hand, and, as he stepped back toward the door, he was startled to hear a woman’s voice exclaim: “Sam! Oh, Sam!�
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  “Aye?” growled big Samuel Brett.

  “There’s something wrong!”

  “What could be wrong?”

  “I . . . don’t know . . . I just have a feeling. Sam, do get up and see if everything’s all right.”

  “Now, what’s ailin’ you?” asked Samuel Brett. “What could be wrong?”

  The Indian, in the darkness by the door, kept his hand on the haft of his knife. What the words meant, he could not understand. But his very blood was frozen with fear.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I do know. Nobody could get past that dog. It’s got eight legs and two heads. It can look both ways at once. I never seen such a dog. And if it found a man, it’d eat him.”

  “Suppose that he was knocked senseless . . .”

  “Supposin’ that the sky wasn’t blue, well, it might be green!”

  “You can bully all you please. I tell you, I got a feelin’ that there’s somebody in this house.”

  “Hey? What?” asked Samuel Brett in changed tones. “Well, I’ll get up and look around.”

  The bed squeaked as he sat up. But then the cool of the night air made him shiver. “I’m darned if I get up and catch a cold for the sake of pleasin’ the whim of a silly old woman. You go to sleep and leave me be.” He settled back with a groan of comfort into the warmness of the bed.

  Freed from the direct danger, Standing Bull drew once more into the kitchen. There were two other doorways. Into which one should he go next?

  He chose the middle one. A gesture in the dark placed both the Cheyennes on guard at the door of the white man’s room. Then Standing Bull proceeded into the next chamber. At the first flare of the coal beneath his breath he found himself looking into the same face that he had seen in the kitchen of the house—the same pale face, the same pale hair. But the eyes were not dim. They were sparkling and wide with incalculable terror as the girl sat up in the bed and supported herself with both shaking arms.

  How long had she been there, awake, listening, thinking that she heard a sound, denying that it could be so?

  Standing Bull went straight toward her and she shrank back against the wall. Her lips parted and her throat worked, but no scream would come. Time was short with Standing Bull and every instant in that house was of infinite danger to him; yet he dared not take her out into such a night clad only in a thin nightgown of cheap cotton.

  He pointed to the clothes that lay upon a chair and made a commanding gesture. She obeyed, her enchanted eyes of terror fixed on him, and her movements slow, like those of one whose body is numbed with deadly cold.

  He had drawn a knife that the fear of it might stimulate her and keep her from screaming for help. Under the dull glow of the coal, the blade of that knife seemed to run again with blood, and he could see her like a shadow among shadows dressing with stumbling hands and numb fingers from which the clothes slipped away.

  At last, at a sound in the next room, he could wait no longer. He caught up a heavy buffalo robe that covered the foot of the bed, and, throwing it around Nancy Brett, took her in his arms. Hers was like the weight of a child, thought Standing Bull. He strode to the door of the chamber.

  Inside the next room, Samuel Brett was rumbling: “Darn me if I can go to sleep. Where did you leave the candle? Eh?” There was a noise of fumbling. The man of the house began to mutter beneath his breath, impatiently.

  But Standing Bull with his burden went on toward the rear door, and, with Rushing Wind carefully opening it, he passed through and out into the night.

  There had been only one sound from his captive, and that, as they reached the open air, was a faint sigh. She became limp in his arms and he knew that she had fainted. So much the better.

  He began to run. Inside the house there was a sudden shout. The rear door was slammed shut with a great crash, as Red Shirt leaped through and swung the door to behind him. In another moment the whole settlement would be up.

  XV

  The shout of Samuel Brett was enough to have alarmed whole legions. And the ears to which that shout did not reach certainly were touched by the sound of rifle shots, as Brett ran from his house toward his horses. From every house men began to turn out, but for a time they were a little uncertain as to whether they should fly to the fort for protection, stand firm on the defense, or else act as aggressors.

  By now Standing Bull had reached his horses. He mounted. It was unfortunate that the girl had to be carried. But perhaps it was better to have her senseless than that with her screams she should guide the whites as with a flaming torch.

  The five galloped back to the main body of the horses at the edge of the wood—the whole body then rushed out across the plain beyond, and the thick curtain of the rain drew together instantly behind them.

  The care with which Standing Bull had distributed his forces from the start now began to tell, for there was no sign of sudden pursuit. He did not follow the river, but cut back across the hill, hoping that the enemy would hunt for the Cheyennes along the riverbanks, for that was the easiest course. In that direction the greatest number of miles could be made.

  Now, when the first rush of the flight was over, Nancy Brett recovered her senses with a groan. She was given no sympathy. They made the briefest of halts, during which she was clapped into a saddle and tied securely to it. A whip cracked on the haunches of the half-wild Indian pony. It pitched high into the air, and came down running, with the Indians rushing their own mounts beside it. So they dashed on into the night, and the cold whip of the rain in her face began to rouse Nancy Brett.

  It was so strange, so utterly incomprehensible, that her mind was in a whirl. She knew something about Indians and their ways. They might capture the daughter of a great and rich man and hold her for ransom. Or an Indian might even kidnap a woman with whom he was in love. But she was certain that neither of these motives appeared here.

  She was sure that she never had seen this monster of an Indian before. And as they tore on through the night and the dawn began to come nearer, she looked more curiously at her captor. No, she never had seen that homely profile before.

  When day came, they pitched camp—or rather made a short halt—at the bank of a stream. There the saddles were changed, the used horses turned into the herd, and the next best mounts requisitioned. In this way, they would shift the saddles half a dozen times in twenty-four hours of work, reusing the horses in turn. Standing Bull, regarding his captive, was amazed to find that she seemed to be bearing up against fatigue and fear very well indeed. There was more color in her face than there had been when she wept in the kitchen of the house of Samuel Brett.

  He wished that he possessed sufficient English to pronounce the name of the great white medicine man to whom he was bringing her. But he did not even know that name in the first place.

  She made no trouble, however. Her grave, blue eyes never stared at them. She seemed only watchful to do what was wanted of her. And Standing Bull wondered greatly. She acted, in fact, almost as an Indian girl would have acted at such a time as this.

  All the day they rode on under a gray sky. There were only the halts for the changing of saddles, and to eat a little dried meat at the same time. The girl was no longer tied to her horse, but the pony she rode was tethered to the saddle of Standing Bull. He watched her begin to droop as the afternoon wore away. When they at last halted on the edge of night, she almost fell from the saddle.

  “She must sleep,” said Red Shirt uneasily, and looked toward the northwestern horizon.

  “She must sleep,” answered Standing Bull. “But first she must eat.”

  She would have refused food. He commanded with a savage growl, and she choked down a few morsels in fear. Then, wrapped in a robe, she slept. The Indians already were sleeping, except Standing Bull. He needed no sleep. His heart was full of glory for the thing that he had done. He began to frame in his mind the song he would sing when he reappeared in the Cheyenne village. The notes of the chant ached in his throat and
the sweetness of fame among his fellows made the head of Standing Bull sway a little from side to side.

  The sky cleared during the night. When the clouds had blown down to the horizon, he roused his sleepy command. He touched the girl, and she sprang to her feet with a faint cry. In two minutes they were on their way again.

  So they pressed on until they were three days from Fort Kendry, and trouble for the first time overtook them. Had it not been for Nancy Brett, they could have made somewhat better time, and yet the horses hardly could have stood up to more work. They were growing very thin. Sometimes at a halt many of them were too weary to begin to graze.

  And while the party was in this condition, on the pale verge of morning, saddling for the day’s ride, Yellow Man was seen to throw up his hands, whirl, and fall without sound, while the sharp, small clang of a rifle struck at their ears. Glancing wildly about them, they could see a wisp of smoke rising above a small cluster of shrubs and trees nearby.

  “Take two men,” said Standing Bull to Red Shirt. “Take three if you will, and go back. If there is one man, bring us his scalp. If there are more, skirmish and delay them.”

  Red Shirt went instantly to execute the order. With Standing Bull and the girl remained only that capable young brave, Rushing Wind. And the three of them, with the larger body of the horses, struck away across the prairie. As they did so, they saw Red Shirt’s party approach the trees in a wide circle, and out from the trees rode a man on a fine, gray horse.

  Roger Lincoln!

  They knew well that it was he the instant the gray began to run. It was not likely that two gray horses on that prairie had the long and flowing gallop of the mare, Comanche. She drifted easily away toward the north, with the party of Red Shirt and his three braves hopelessly laboring in the rear.

  Glancing keenly at the girl, Standing Bull made sure by the light in her eye that she, too, had recognized the rescuer and that hope had come to her. So strong was that hope that it enabled her to endure a whole day of savage riding, and as the evening drew near they knew that the Cheyenne village was not far away. So great had their speed been that the party sent back to block Roger Lincoln had not been sighted again since first they disappeared. Perhaps the gray mare had failed, after all, and the four warriors now were blockading Roger Lincoln in some nest of rocks.