The Frontier, May 1926 — page 99: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

though they were frightened at some- thing,” Aletes finally managed to in- terrupt. “My mules whistled and snorted long before I saw the In- dians.”’ “Yes, I know,” sniggered Joe. “A mule is like some men—snort at their own shadder. I’ve seen men jes’ that way. Of course I smell Injuns, but what’s the use to bother about it with this bunch. All down, ’cept us, and it’s all I kin do to keep from steppin’ on both ears. Kin think, but the body wants to run ‘round in a circle. Mules scared—yes, a mule’s born scared, scared he won’t turn out to be a jack or a hoss, and winds up by bein’ noth- in’, Sometimes a mule is right and sometimes he ain’t. Bear in here, and a bear will give a mule the runnin’ ga- zimpoes. Mountain lion everywhere in here, and a mountain lion would make a mule leave his youngun—hold on, I’m goin’ too fur. A mule don’t have no younguns. I over-shot that time. I shore must be drunk! When a man my age gits up and claims mules have younguns, he’s shore drunk and should be knocked in the head and put to bed,” he snickered. He attempted a little skip, caught himself and resumed his walk-around. It seemed to Aletes that the inces- sant drone of Joe’s voice was actually rubbing his wound; at least the twing- ing and throbbing increased. He stepped farther back into the dark- ness, hoping the talkative frontiers- man would not follow. But the little man was not to be shaken off. The youth rested an elbow on his rifle, and settled down to endure the interminable monolog. For an infinitesimal fractioiu of a second, Aletes’ mind held the thought that he was dreaming. There had come, out of the night, a deadly, vi- cious swishing, and the shapes about the fire suddenly bristled with feath- ered shafts. He caught a glimpse of Mubsley’s legs jerking convulsively. Joe had disappeared. Don whirled and leaped blindly, with some thought of reaching his horse, picketed below the camp. But he had been staring at the fire, and the dark- ness was like a black curtain before him. He crashed into some bushes and went down on his knees. The next moment he was hurled flat on his back and his gun torn from his grasp. A hand clutched his throat and another his hair. He felt a heavy body across his legs. He heard a guttural com- mand. He felt his pistols drawn from their holsters and his knife from its FELLOW IRON sheath. Then he was hauled to his feet. He caught the racial reek of his captors. They were Indians—his mer- ciless enemies. His practical sense regained control, and he calmly faced the stark reality. This, then, was the end. They hustled him up to the fire. He now became aware that a tall, young warrior, with a slightly wounded arm, was glaring at him murderously. The Panther, sole survivor of the stoneslide massacre, and now possessor ot the double-barreled rifle, was eager to kill the young white man, but his chief had ordered that the captive be held for torture in the camp of the band. Since the chief was the relent- less Petuspa, the Panther did not dare to satisfy his blood-lust. Yet he pressed the muzzle of the double-bar- reled rifle against Aletes’ chest, and spoke bitter, taunting words. “Here is the white man who would not fight Miniomni,” he shouted to the warriors pressing in from all sides, “the white man who hid in the rock and struck like a snake. This is the cow- ard who would not fight Miniomni. This is He-whose-gun-speaks-two- times-quickly.” There came harsh, guttural respon- ses from the warriors, Their painted faces held only merciless hostility. A warrior threw some wood on the fire. Aletes shivered a little as he glimpsed the still forms bristling with arrows. This was the Indian’s night. He wondered if Joe had escaped. A superb figure swung into the fire- light, Petuspa, the war chief. He shouted an order at some warriors crowding eagerly around the kegs of alcohol, for he hated the white man’s mintwakan ska as bitterly as he hated its maker. He was one of the few chiefs who saw that alcohol was one of the white man’s strongest allies, With it he debauched and destroyed the In- dian. For a moment the warriors hesitated, then fiercely Petuspa repeated the order. Sullenly they threw the kegs on the fire. Many were the guttural exclamations of wonder as the blue flames leaped high. Facing death and torture, Aletes’ every sense was now abnormally keen. Suddenly the warriors jerked his hands behind him and bound his wrists. The strain on his wounded shoulder seemed intolerable, yet he found the strength to endure it without betray- ing his suffering to his captors. After stripping him of his personal belongings, it seemed to amuse Petuspa 89 to mount his captive on one of the mules that had carried the alcohol. The war chief saw something both comic and degrading in a mule. To the red aristocrat, the long-eared hy- brid was only fit for a white man to ride. VII Into the future I look, Hear ye, O my people; No more the buffalo, No more the village by the river, No more the children playing in the sun. Come now, ghosts, and tell me, Where is the Dakota? The dead come not back again, Where once a thousand war ponies stamped the ground, An old man talks to himself, Saith the spirits, Saith the spirits. —Song of the Medicine Man ) HE cruel hours ij from sunrise to mid-afternoon had gnawed deeply in- to Aletes’ reserve vitality, yet he had managed to hold a stoical front against the savage threats and menacing weapons of the young warriors, ever incited to new devilment by the relentless Panther, who found it easy to excite their ferocity by chanting of the valor of his comrade, Miniomni, and of the cowardice of the white man who had refused to face a Dakota in hand-to-hand combat. But for the discipline imposed by the stern Petuspa, a knife soon would have found the white youth’s heart, but un- der the chief’s baleful eye even the re- vengeful Panther did not dare go be- yond threats and weapon flourishing. Ere hoisting him on the mule, the Indians had bound his hands behind his back with rawhide thongs. The strained position made it impossible for him to favor his wounded shoul- der. The jolting, stiff-legged gait of the mule brought recurrent ripples of pain from his wound. Yet his dogged spirit held fast to the thought that he must endure without whimpering. After what seemed to him to be long centuries of pain, the war party ap- proached the camp. Warriors, squaws and children, yelping, screaming and _ howling, streamed out from the tepees to wel- come the victors. Every cur in the camp joined in the demoniac chorus, and even the fat papooses, left in their snug skin cradles by their excited mothers, added their vocal mites to COnniclboooKkS. com