Max Brand

Cheyenne Gold

Warsaw 2020

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 1

THE White Horse stood at the head of the Sacred Valley. He did not know that it was the special domain of the great god of the Cheyennes, Sweet Medicine. He did not know that even the air of this valley was holy, feared by man. He only knew that there was peace unutterable between the cliffs on either side, and the gateway between towering rocks through which the river slid out into the canyon beyond. He knew that this was not like any land through which he had ranged in the days of his wild, free running, before the man had found him.

The grass was more dense, more richly green. The trees were rolling clouds, immensely large, and the very water had a snowy taste of purity.

Where in the world, besides here, could there be found buffalo ignorant of guns and therefore fearless in their numbers, or mountain sheep who grew pig-fat in the meadows of the lowlands, or tall mountain goats who forgot the heights to which they had ascended, since they needed no safety guards of high climbing? Where could be found the herds of tall deer and the flashing disks of antelope who were fearless also?

The White Horse lifted its head to the wind, which ruffled his mane and sent a silken flash through the length of his tail. On that wind he read the story of a thousand odors, and all of them told him of peace. His own sides were sleeked over a little with peace, even by these few days of resting in the Sacred Valley. His nerves were as still as the waters of the little lake just below the waterfall.

Above the chanting of the cascade he heard a thin, shrill, commanding whistle, small as the cry of a hawk from heaven. He shook his head and answered at a gallop. He turned into a white streak of speed that flung his tail straight out behind him, and so he came to the still margin of the lake.

There Red Hawk awaited him. White men called him Rusty Sabin, but he looked more like his foster fathers, the Cheyennes. And Red Hawk was also known as the White Indian, because as a child he had been stolen by the Cheyennes and raised by them. As he sat on his heels clad in only a breechcloth, he washed the last pan of black mud. The eddy cleared the sediment away. With a quick, whirling motion he caused the cloud of soil to rise, to bubble over the side of the pan, and now the stream flowed clear and free into the dish. At the bottom there was a glittering remnant. He lifted the pan, poured the water out of it, and then into the cup of his hand transferred that remainder of golden bright pebbles and dust. It was very heavy. It was heavier than lead. He had washed more than a hundred dollars of virgin gold out of the lap of the earth in that single effort.

He poured the bright flash of it from one hand into the other; then he dropped the stuff into the mouth of the second buckskin sack. The other one was already full, and this one now was brimmed to the lips. He stuffed in a quantity of leaves and then sewed the mouth of the sack shut, using for a needle the slender, curving end of a rib and for a thread a bit of the sinew of a rabbit.

After that, he saddled the White Horse, who had been loitering around him sniffing at the sacks, biting gingerly at the long red hair of the master. He snorted when the weight of the sacks was lashed to the saddle. How many other horses had carried forty thousand dollars in gold on their proud backs? But the White Horse preferred the living weight of his master.

Then Rusty Sabin–whom all the Cheyennes knew as Red Hawk–pulled the moccasins onto his feet and tied about his waist the belt which supported the knife with the sixteen-inch blade on his left hip, the Colt revolver–that new and deadly weapon–on his right. To his own taste, the knife was the more significant weapon. He had made it in those old days when he had first been among white men. Now he had returned to the valley in search of gold and had found it. When he carried this load of wealth back and married Maisry Lester, he would settle down to a white man’s life in some eastern city, wearing hot, stiff, constraining clothes, a band of stifling cloth about his neck, polished and hard leather on his feet.

Every step that he took down the valley was a step towards the new life, a step away from the old.

He came to the mouth of the valley, the straight cliff on the one side, the standing rock, like a huge fist, on the other. The river ran with a hiss of speed through the middle, and the big trees leaned out far, on either side, shadowing the water, leaving only a narrow trail on one side of the stream.

When he came to the mouth of the gorge, Rusty Sabin halted and struck a small fire.

He said in the Cheyenne tongue, “White Horse, lie down in honor of the Great Spirit.” The white stallion instantly crouched like a dog. Rusty Sabin shook back his long hair and went on, “Sweet Medicine, I have come into your own house and taken something away from it. All my Cheyenne people think that this is very wrong. But I have come in under your eye. You see that I have not tried to steal anything away in the middle of the night, but I have remained day by day. I have killed none of the sacred cattle, the sheep, the goats, the buffalo. If you had been angry with me, surely you would not have taken the food from my hand. However, now I sit on my heels and talk with you, asking forgiveness for anything I have done that may be wrong. Give me a sign of favor or disfavor before I go away.”

He listened through a long moment. There was only the soft, ominous murmur of the water as it fled through the entrance to the valley. And then, high above him, he heard the scream of an eagle or a hawk. Hastily he looked up. It was an eagle. It was an unhappy omen. And he cried out:

“Sweet Medicine, are you sending me away like this? Are you giving me an angry word? Don’t you understand that this is our farewell? I never shall be able to come again. Speak to me kindly before I go far away to my own white people.”

He listened with a canted head, his hands turned up in supplication. But he heard nothing except the murmur of the sullen water. He stood up, at last, heavy of heart.

The white tepees of the Cheyennes, all made of the hides of cow buffalo, all well sewn, all well painted, all half sacred with the images which decorated them, rolled over a swell of the prairie not far from the bank of the stream.

As Rusty Sabin walked along, two miles away from the town, a crowd of the Indian boys on their wild ponies came racing, spied on him from a distance, and then charged down on him suddenly.

One of them carried a broken lance, leveled for mischief. Another had an old hatchet poised in his hands. At least three galloped with sharp arrows on the string, and every one of them had knives. So many mountain lions would have been less dangerous than this sudden flight of warriors-in-the-making; but Rusty Sabin walked straight on, without so much as lifting a hand.

That valley of young death came sweeping on until it was half a dozen paces away. Then it parted to the right hand and to the left. The White Horse pranced a little and crowded up close to his master. But Rusty Sabin walked on through the dust that had been beaten into his face and gave no sign.

A sudden uproar broke out of the Indian camp. From it thrust a volume of mounted children, first of all, like sparks before the flame, and after them came thundering the whole warrior weight of the encampment, braves painted and unpainted, dressed or half naked, just as they had risen from siesta, or from a feast, or from the philosophical smoking of a pipe. Each of them had grasped some sort of weapon, a rifle, a spear, bow and arrows; some brandished only knives, but as they came towards Rusty they shook the sky with their uproar. But whether young chiefs or common warriors without distinction, all of them acted like madmen determined to kill their enemy if possible. Some dropped down along the sides of their horses and aimed under the throat or over the neck of the pony arrow or rifle. Others dashed straight in with hatchets raised for the kill.

But the whole crowd split to right and left and with the howling of fiends gathered again in the rear of Red Hawk.

Again only one rider rushed up to Rusty Sabin. It was a young chief with more than one red-stained coup-feather in his headdress, and with a wide-bladed lance in his grasp. He landed on the bounding run, as the boy had done, and stood suddenly before Rusty Sabin, his hand raised in the air. He was a statue in gleaming copper, gloriously beautiful. He was in his early twenties, not a whit older than Rusty Sabin himself, and yet he carried himself with the unspeakable dignity of command.

Rusty paused and answered that salute with a lifted hand, in his turn.

“Ah, hai, Standing Bull!” he cried.

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