The warriors rose from their rush mats at dawn and ate flesh of the buffalo and deer and their favorite wa-nsa. d.i.c.k's arms were unbound, and he, too, was allowed to eat; but he had little appet.i.te, and when the warriors saw that he had finished they bound him again.

"What are you going to do to me?" asked d.i.c.k in a kind of vague curiosity.

No one gave any answer. They did not seem to hear him. d.i.c.k fancied that some of them understood English, but chose to leave him in ignorance. He resolved to imitate their own stoicism and wait. When they bound his arms again, and his feet also, he made no resistance, but lay down quietly on the rush mat and gazed with an air of indifference at the skin wall of the lodge. All warriors went out, except one, who sat in the doorway with his rifle on his knee.

"They flatter me," thought d.i.c.k. "They must think me of some importance or that I'm dangerous, since they bind and guard me so well."

His thongs of soft deerskin, while secure, were not galling.

They neither chafed nor prevented the circulation, and when he grew tired of lying in one position he could turn into another.

But it was terribly hard waiting. He did not know what was before him. Torture or death? Both, most likely. He tried to be resigned, but how could one be resigned when one was so young and so strong? The hum of the village life came to him, the sound of voices, the tread of feet, the tw.a.n.g of a boyish bowstring, but the guard in the doorway never stirred. It seemed to d.i.c.k that the Sioux, who wore very little clothing, was carved out of reddish-brown stone. d.i.c.k wondered if he would ever move, and lying on his back he managed to raise his head a little on the doubled corner of the rush mat, and watch that he might see.

Bound, helpless, and shut off from the rest of the world, this question suddenly became vital to him: Would that Indian ever move, or would he not? He must have been sitting in that position at least two hours. Always he stared straight before him, the muscles on his bare arms never quivered in the slightest, and the rifle lay immovable across knees which also were bare. How could he do it? How could he have such control over his nerves and body? d.i.c.k's mind slowly filled with wonder, and then he began to have a suspicion that the Sioux was not real, merely some phantom of the fancy, or that he himself was dreaming. It made him angry--angry at himself, angry at the Sioux, angry at everything. He closed his eyes, held them tightly shut for five minutes, and then opened them again. The Sioux was still there. d.i.c.k was about to break through his a.s.sumed stoicism and shout at the warrior, but he checked himself, and with a great effort took control again of his wandering nerves.

He knew now that the warrior was real, and that he must have moved some time or other, but he did not find rest of spirit. A shaft of sunshine by and by entered the narrow door of the lodge and fell across d.i.c.k himself. He knew that it must be a fair day, but he was sorry for it. The sun ought not to shine when he was at such a pa.s.s.

Another interminable period pa.s.sed, and an old squaw entered with a bowl of wa-nsa, and behind her came Lone Wolf, who unbound d.i.c.k.

"What's up now, Mr. Lone Wolf?" asked d.i.c.k with an attempt at levity. "Is it a fight or a foot race?"

"Eat," replied Lone Wolf sententiously, pointing of the bowl wa-nsa. "You will need your strength."

d.i.c.k's heart fell at these words despite all his self-command.

"My time's come," he thought. He tried to eat--in fact, he forced himself to eat--that Lone Wolf might not think that he quailed, and when he had eaten as much as his honor seemed to demand he stretched his muscles and said to Lone Wolf, with a good attempt at indifference:

"Lead on, my wolfish friend. I don't know what kind of a welcome mine is going to be, but I suppose it is just as well to find out now."

The face of Lone Wolf did not relax. He seemed to have a full appreciation of what was to come and no time for idle jests. He merely pointed to the doorway, and d.i.c.k stepped into the sunshine. Lying so long in the dusky lodge, he was dazzled at first by the brilliancy of the day, but when his sight grew stronger he beheld a mult.i.tude about him. The women and children began to chatter, but the warriors were silent. d.i.c.k saw that he was the center of interest, and was quite sure that he was looking upon his last sun. "O Lord, let me die bravely!" was his silent prayer.

He resolved to imitate as nearly as he could the bearing of an Indian warrior in his position, and made no resistance as Lone Wolf led him on, with the great thong following. He glanced around once for Bright Sun, but did not see him. The fierce chief whom they called Ite-Moga' Ju (Rain-in-the-Face) seemed to be in charge of d.i.c.k's fate, and he directed the proceedings.

But stoicism could not prevail entirely, and d.i.c.k looked about him again. He saw the yellow waters of the river with the sunlight playing upon them; the great village stretching away on either sh.o.r.e until it was hidden by the trees and undergrowth; the pleasant hills and all the pleasant world, so hard to leave.

His eyes dwelt particularly upon the hill, a high one, overlooking the whole valley of the Little Big Horn, and the light was so clear that he could see every bush and shrub waving there.

His eyes came back from the hill to the throng about him. He had felt at times a sympathy for the Sioux because the white man was pressing upon them, driving them from their ancient hunting grounds that they loved; but they were now wholly savage and cruel--men, women, and children alike. He hated them all.

d.i.c.k was taken to the summit of one of the lower hills, on which he could be seen by everybody and from which he could see in a vast circle. He was tied in a peculiar manner. His hands remained bound behind him, but his feet were free. One end of a stout rawhide was secured around his waist and the other around a sapling, leaving him a play of about a half yard. He could not divine the purpose of this, but he was soon to learn.

Six half-grown boys, with bows and arrows, then seldom used by grown Sioux, formed a line at a little distance from him, and at a word from Rain-in-the-Face leveled their bows and fitted arrow to the string. d.i.c.k thought at first they were going to slay him at once, but he remembered that the Indian did not do things that way. He knew it was some kind of torture and although he shivered he steadied his mind to face it.

Rain-in-the-Face spoke again, and six bowstrings tw.a.n.ged. Six arrows whizzed by d.i.c.k, three on one side and three on the other, but all so close that, despite every effort of will, he shrank back against the sapling. A roar of laughter came from the crowd, and d.i.c.k flushed through all the tan of two years in the open air. Now he understood why the rawhide allowed him so much play. It was a torture of the nerves and of the mind.

They would shoot their arrows by him, graze him perhaps if he stood steady, but if he sought to evade through fear, if he sprang either to one side or the other, they might strike in a vital spot.

He summoned up the last ounce of his courage, put his back against the sapling and resolved that he would not move, even if an arrow carried some of his skin with it. The bowstrings tw.a.n.ged again, and again six arrows whistled by. d.i.c.k quivered, but he did not move, and some applause came from the crowd.

Although it was the applause of enemies, of barbarians, who wished to see him suffer, it encouraged d.i.c.k. He would endure everything and he would not look at these cruel faces; so he fixed his eyes on the high hill and did not look away when the bowstrings tw.a.n.ged a third time. As before, he heard the arrows whistle by him, and the shiver came into his blood, but his will did not let it extend to his body. He kept his eyes fixed upon the hill, and suddenly a speck appeared before them. No, it was not a speck, and, incredible as it seemed, d.i.c.k was sure that he saw a horseman come around the base of the hill and stop there, gazing into the valley upon the great village and the people thronging about the bound boy.

A second and third horseman appeared, and d.i.c.k could doubt no longer. They were white cavalrymen in the army uniform, scouts or the vanguard, he knew not what. d.i.c.k held his breath, and again that shiver came into his blood. Then he heard and saw an extraordinary thing. A singular deep, long-drawn cry came from the mult.i.tude in unison, a note of surprise and mingled threat.

Then all whirled about at the same moment and gazed at the hors.e.m.e.n at the base of the hill.

The cavalrymen quickly turned back, rode around the hill and out of sight. Dozens of warriors rushed forward, hundreds ran to the lodges for more weapons and ammunition, the women poured in a stream down toward the river and away, the boys with the bows and arrows disappeared, and in a few minutes d.i.c.k was left alone.

Unnoticed, but bound and helpless, the boy stood there on the little hill, while the feverish life, bursting now into a turbulent stream, whirled and eddied around him.

Chapter XVIII The Circle of Death

The quiver in d.i.c.k's blood did not cease now. He forgot for the time being that he was bound, and stood there staring at the hill where three hors.e.m.e.n had been for a few vivid moments. These men must be proof that a white army was near; but would this army know what an immense Sioux force was waiting for it in the valley of the Little Big Horn?

He tried to take his eyes away from the hill, but he could not.

He seemed to know every tree and shrub on it. There at the base, in that slight depression, the three hors.e.m.e.n had stood, but none came to take their place. In the Indian village an immense activity was going on, both on d.i.c.k's side of the river and the other. A mult.i.tude of warriors plunged into the undergrowth on the far bank of the stream, where they lay hidden, while another mult.i.tude was gathering on this side in front of the lodges. The gullies and ravines were lined with hordes. The time was about two in the afternoon.

A chief appeared on the slope not far from d.i.c.k. It was Bright Sun in all the glory of battle array, and he glanced at the tethered youth. d.i.c.k's glance met his, and he saw the shadow of a faint, superior smile on the face of the chief. Bright Sun started to say something to a warrior, but checked himself. He seemed to think that d.i.c.k was secured well enough, and he did not look at him again. Instead, he gazed at the base of the hill where the hors.e.m.e.n had been, and while he stood there he was joined by the chiefs Rain-in-the-Face and Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses.

d.i.c.k never knew how long a time pa.s.sed while they all waited.

The rattle of arms, the shouts, and the tread of feet in the village ceased. There was an intense, ominous silence broken only, whether in fact or fancy d.i.c.k could not tell, by the heavy breathing of thousands. The sun came out more brightly and poured its light over the town and the river, but it did not reveal the army of the Sioux swallowed up in the undergrowth on the far bank. So well were they hidden that their arms gave back no gleam.

d.i.c.k forgot where he was, forgot that he was bound, so tense were the moments and so eagerly did he watch the base of the hill.

When a long time--at least, d.i.c.k thought it so--had pa.s.sed, a murmur came from the village below. The men were but scouts and had gone away, and no white army was near. That was d.i.c.k's own thought, too.

As the murmur sank, d.i.c.k suddenly straightened up. The black speck appeared again before his eyes. New hors.e.m.e.n stood where the three had been, and behind them was a moving ma.s.s, black in the sun. The white army had come!

Bright Sun suddenly turned upon d.i.c.k a glance so full of malignant triumph that the boy shuddered. Then, clear and full over the valley rose the battle cry of the trumpets, a joyous inspiring sound calling men on to glory or death. Out from the hill came the moving ma.s.s of white hors.e.m.e.n, rank after rank, and d.i.c.k saw one in front, a man with long yellow hair, s.n.a.t.c.h off his hat, wave it around his head, and come on at a gallop.

Behind him thundered the whole army, stirrup to stirrup.

Bright Sun, Rain-in-the-Face, and Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses darted away, and then d.i.c.k thought of the freedom that he wanted so much. They were his people coming so gallantly down the valley, and he should be there. He pulled at the rawhide, but it would not break; he tried to slip his wrists loose, but they would not come; and, although unnoticed now, he was compelled to stand there, still a prisoner, and merely see.

The hors.e.m.e.n came on swiftly, a splendid force riding well--trained soldiers, compact of body and ready of hand. The slope thundered with their hoofbeats as they came straight toward the river. d.i.c.k drew one long, deep breath of admiration, and then a terrible fear a.s.sailed him. Did these men who rode so well know unto what they were riding?

The stillness prevailed yet a little longer in the Indian village. The women and children were again running up the river, but they were too far away for d.i.c.k to hear them, and he was watching his own army. Straight on toward the river rode the hors.e.m.e.n, with the yellow-haired general at their head, still waving his hat. Strong and mellow, the song of the trumpet again sang over the valley, but the terrible fear at d.i.c.k's heard grew.

It was obvious to the boy that the army of Custer intended to cross the river, here not more than two feet deep, but on their flank was the deadly quicksand and on the opposite sh.o.r.e facing them the hidden warriors lay in the hundreds. d.i.c.k pulled again at his bonds and began to shout: "Not there! Not there! Turn away!" But his voice was lost in the pealing of the trumpets and the hoof beats of many horses.

They were nearing the river and the warriors were swarming on their flank, still held in leash by Bright Sun, while the great medicine man, Sitting Bull, the sweat pouring from his face, was making the most powerful medicine of his life. Nearer and nearer they rode, the undergrowth still waving gently and harmlessly in the light wind.

d.i.c.k stopped shouting. All at once he was conscious of its futility. n.o.body heard him. n.o.body heeded him. He was only an unnoticed spectator of a great event. He stood still now, back to the tree, gazing toward the river and the advancing force.

Something wet dropped into his eye and he winked it away. It was the sweat from his own brow.

The mellow notes of the trumpet sang once more, echoing far over the valley, and the hoofs beat with rhythmic tread. The splendid array of blue-clad men was still unbroken. They still rode heel to heel and toe to toe, and across the river the dense undergrowth moved a little in the gentle wind, but disclosed nothing.

A few yards more and they would be at the water. Then d.i.c.k saw a long line of flame burst from the bushes, so vivid, so intense that it was like a blazing bar of lightening, and a thousand rifles seemed to crash as one. Hard on the echo of the great volley came the fierce war cry of the ambushed Sioux, taken up in turn by the larger force on the flank and swelled by the mult.i.tude of women and children farther back. It was to d.i.c.k like the howl of wolves about to leap on their prey, but many times stronger and fiercer.

The white army shivered under the impact of the blow, when a thousand unexpected bullets were sent into its ranks. All the front line was blown away, the men were shot from their saddles, and many of the horses went down with them. Others, riderless, galloped about screaming with pain and fright.

Although the little army shivered and reeled for a moment, it closed up again and went on toward the water. Once more the deadly rifle fire burst from the undergrowth, not a single volley now, but continuous, rising and falling a little perhaps, but always heavy, filling the air with singing metal and littering the ground with the wounded and the dead. The far side of the river was a sheet of fire, and in the red blaze the Sioux could be seen plainly springing about in the undergrowth.

The cavalrymen began to fire also, sending their bullets across the river as fast as they could pull the trigger, but they were attacked on the flank, too, by the vast horde of warriors, directed by the bravest of the Sioux chiefs, the famous Pizi (Gall), one of the most skillful and daring fighters the red race ever produced, a man of uncommon appearance, of great height, and with the legendary head of a Caesar. He now led on the horde with voice and gesture, and hurled it against Custer's force, which was reeling again under the deadly fire from the other sh.o.r.e of the Little Big Horn.