“All right,” he said at last, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to them.” King went to the car door with him, his hand on Zeb’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Rawlings. We’re just crossing their land. I give you my word—nobody is going to stay.”
“I’ll be going.”
“You seeing Julie?”
Zeb Rawlings looked up, his eyes cold and level. “Yes. Any comment?”
King smiled, that taunting smile that always seemed to be concealing so much.
“No, no! You’re a lucky man, that’s all.”
Zeb walked to his horse and paused there, making a business of tightening the cinch. He had a feeling that King had bested him, but with King one usually had that feeling, whether the issue had been lost or not. Stepping into the saddle, he turned to Jethro, who was waiting. “Can you get me a chance to talk to the chief?”
Jethro merely nodded, turning his horse away. Together they rode into the hills.
Chapter 16
Day had scarcely come when they rode into the village of Walks-His-Horses. At the first sight of it, Zeb Rawlings felt the skin tighten on the back of his scalp. There were at least two hundred lodges, which could mean close to five hundred warriors.
Dogs rushed out, yapping furiously, and an Indian stepped from one of the lodges.
“How safe are we?” Zeb asked. “Pa used to say if you came of your own accord into an Indian village you were safe as long as you stayed there.” “That’s true … generally.” Jethro chewed on the idea for a minute or so. “I’d say you are safe enough this time. Walks-His-Horses is a reasonable man, and smart enough to figure it is better to talk than to fight. It’s his young men you have to worry about—they want to count coups so they can stand tall among the squaws.”
Walks-His-Horses was a tall, powerfully built Indian of perhaps forty years. He had a large-boned, intelligent face and such dignity as only an Indian can have. He looked at them, then invited them into his lodge. When they were seated, Jethro began to speak slowly, in Arapahoe, of which Zeb knew only a few words. However, Jethro spoke in sign language as well, the graceful and fluent movements of his hands lending a weird touch to the moment. Slowly, other warriors began to enter the lodge. Jethro spoke to Zeb out of the side of his mouth. “Says there’s an Indian he knows who knows your pa … an Osage named Arrow-Going-Home. Says your pa had the name of being a great man, a great warrior and hunter.” “Heard pa speak of the Osage. They crossed the plains together back in ‘forty-four or ‘forty-five.”
Zeb could follow some of the talk, for he knew the sign language, which was universal among the tribes, although few Indians knew any tribal tongue but their own.
The lodge filled with warriors. The air became stifling. The pipe was lighted and it went slowly around the circle. Zeb pulled on it gravely, then passed it along.
“The old man is in good temper,” Jethro whispered, indicating a white-haired man of noble features who sat behind and to the right of Walks-His-Horses, “and that counts for plenty.”
The talk droned on, Jethro translating from time to time items that Zeb could not grasp.
Suddenly, Walks-His-Horses began to speak. His voice was low, but filled with somber power, and as he spoke his eyes moved from one to the other. “When I see you here in my lodge, I feel glad as do the ponies when first the green grass comes to the hills at the beginning of the year. My heart fills with joy that we can talk together as old friends, for I have no wish for trouble with my white brothers, least of all with you who speak to me here, my friend, and the son of the man known to all among Inuaina. “When first the white man came among us and spoke of blazing an iron trail for the Iron Horse, we were amazed and wished to see this thing, but at the same time we were frightened, for word had come to us that wherever the Iron Horse drew its wagons, there the white man came to hunt, not in dozens, but in hundreds, perhaps even thousands. These hunters we feared would kill the buffalo and leave the redman hungry, his squaws and papooses without food. “We heard the white man killed the buffalo and took only the skin, leaving the meat to rot beneath the sun while the children of the Indian died from hunger. “The white man promised the Iron Horse would not come close to our hunting grounds, but would take the other side of the hills. Now this has been changed and the Iron Horse and its wagons have come among us. We see the game frightened off into the far hills, where we must go with many dangers to find food. “Now the Iron Horse has come and my young men come to me and shout their anger. They shake the arrow of war and mix paint for their faces, and they bring their war ponies in from the grass.
“We do not wish to fight the white man, but our young men are angry. They demand war. They demand the iron trail be destroyed before it brings hunters to our hunting grounds.”
Zeb Rawlings was silent, choosing the words with which to reply. Why did he feel guilty before this old man? And before Walks-His-Horses? Had not Mike King given his word?
He spoke slowly, taking his time to make himself understood, and to allow for translation of those words he missed. “We look upon the Arapahoe as brothers, and your problems are our problems also. It is true the trail of the Iron Horse has been changed, for it cannot run everywhere as a pony can do. Where the trail is now the way is smooth for it, and it can run swiftly without cutting through hills or bridging streams.
“Many men will ride the Iron Horse’s wagons, but they are men who go far away to the land beside the blue waters where the sun sets. They will pass over your lands but they will not stop. The man who builds the iron trail has promised me this.”
The eyes of Walks-His-Horses burned into those of Zeb Rawlings. “Blue Coat, son of the man we know, I speak to you. I do not speak to the man who makes the iron trail. You sit in my lodge, you smoke the pipe, it is your voice I hear. “I do not smoke with the man who makes the iron trail. He does not sit in my lodge, he does not hear my voice. What do you say? What is it you will promise?” Lieutenant Zeb Rawlings hesitated, for he did not need to look around him to know his audience. The lodge was packed with warriors, many of them the young warriors who demanded war. From these he could feel bitter animosity. They were held back only by the authority of their chief … for how long? When they attacked, who would die? At first it would be lonely travelers, settlers, innocent people who had done nothing to invite the red rage that would sweep the plains. Only later would they attack the railroad. Innocent people would die unless he could stop this now, unless he could stop it here. Walks-His-Horses was an able man. He knew how fiercely the white man could retaliate, and he had come to know how ruthlessly they followed their enemies. The Indian way was to fight a great battle—one battle—and on the outcome would the decision rest. Not until the white man came did the Indian discover what a campaign meant. The Indian fought, then retired to his lodge; but the white man followed after, destroyed the Indian’s corn, his meat, and his lodge. He drove off the ponies and hounded the Indian until the snow was red with his bloody tracks. The chief knew this, as did the old man who sat at his elbow. The young men did not know, or they believed they could win. They did not understand that against the white man no victory was possible.
“What I have said,” Zeb Rawlings reiterated slowly, “is true. Men will ride the Iron Horse, but they go to the lands in the west where there is gold and silver. The man who makes the iron trail has given me his word. I give you my word. No one will stop. The hunting grounds of the Arapahoe will remain the hunting grounds of the Arapahoe.”
The sun was setting when the two rode out again upon the hill overlooking the still distant End of the Track. As they drew rein to give their horses a chance to catch their wind, a far-off train whistle blew. “That blamed whistle!” Jethro said irritably. “It’s like the crack of doom for all that’s natural.”