5 The Comanche Village
The Norther did not blow itself out until noon of the next day. Then it ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. The wind stopped its shrieking and howling so suddenly that the silence, after so long a period of noise, was for awhile impressive. The clouds fell apart as if cut down the middle by a saber, and the sun poured through the rift.
It was like a fairy transformation scene. The rift widened so fast that soon all the clouds were gone beyond the horizon. The sky was a solid blue, shot through with the gold of the warm sun. The hail melted, and the ground dried. It was spring again, and the world was beautiful. Phil saw, felt, and admired. Bill Breakstone burst into song:
“From the looks of things now,” he continued, “you wouldn’t think it had been whistling and groaning around us for about twenty-four hours, trying to shoot us to death with showers of hail, but I’d have you to know, Sir Philip of the Untimely Cold and the Hateful Storm, that I have recorded it upon the tablets of my memory. I wouldn’t like to meet such a Norther when I was alone on the plains, on foot, and clad in sandals, a linen suit, and a straw hat.”
“Nor I,” said Phil with emphasis.
Now they lighted fires of buffalo chips which were abundant everywhere, and ate the first warm food that they had had since the day before at noon. Then they advanced four or five miles and encamped on the banks of a creek, a small stream of water flowing in a broad, sandy bed. Phil and some of the others scouted in a wide circle for Comanches, but saw no signs, and, as he had slept so late that day, the boy remained awake most of the night. There was a good moonlight, and he saw dusky slinking forms on the plain.
“Coyotes.” said Bill Breakstone. “At least, most of them are, though I think from their size that two or three of those figures out there must be timber wolves. If I’m right about ’em, it means that we’re not far from a belt of forest country.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Phil. “I’m getting tired of plains now, and I’d like to see trees and hills again, and also water that runs faster and that’s less muddy than these sluggish and sandy creeks.”
Bill Breakstone threw back his head and laughed with unction.
“That’s the way with fellows who were born in the hills.” he said. “Wherever you go, sooner or later you’ll pine for ’em again. I’m one of that lot, too.”
“Yes, it’s so,” admitted Phil. “I like the great plains, the vastness, the mystery, and the wonderful air which must be the purest in the world, that’s always blowing over them, but for a real snug, homey feeling give me a little valley in the hills, with a brook of green-white water about six inches deep running down it, and plenty of fine trees—oak, beech, hickory, elm, walnut, and chestnut—growing on the slopes and tops of the hills.”
“A pretty picture, Sir Philip of the Brook, the Hill, the Valley, and the Tree,” said Bill Breakstone, “and maybe we will see it soon. As I told you, timber wolves indicate trees not far off.”
But the chief event that day was buffaloes and not timber. They ran into a vast herd, traveling north with the spring, and killed with ease all they wanted. The bodies were cut up, and the wagons were filled with fresh meat. There was a momentary quandary about the hides, which they wished to save, a process that required immediate curing, but they were unwilling to stop for that purpose on the plain. Two of the scouts came in at sundown with news that the timber was only three or four miles ahead, and the whole train pushed forward, reaching it shortly after nightfall.
The wagons stopped just within the edge of the timber, but Phil, Breakstone, Arenberg, and Middleton rode on, the night being so clear and bright that they could see almost as well as by day. The first range of hills was low, but beyond lay others, rising perhaps two hundred feet above the level of the plain. The timber on all the hills and the valleys between was dense and heavy, embracing many varieties of hard wood, elm, hackberry, overcup, ash, pecan, and wild china. There were also the bushes and vines of the blackberry, gooseberry, raspberry, currant, and of a small fox grape, plentiful throughout the mountains of Texas. The fox grape grew on a little bush like that of the currant, and growing in abundance was another bush, from two to six feet in height, that would produce wild plums in the autumn.
“It’s a good country, a fine country,” said Bill Breakstone. “A man could live all the year around on the food that he would find in this region, buffalo and antelope on the plains, deer and maybe beaver in here, and all sorts of wild fruits.”
Phil nodded. He was reveling in the hills and timber. The moonlight fell in a vast sheet of silver, but the foliage remained a solid mass of dark green beneath it. A tremulous little wind blew, and the soft sound of fresh young leaves rubbing together came pleasantly. A faint noise like a sigh told of a tiny stream somewhere trickling over the pebbles. Phil opened his eyes as wide as he could and drew in great gulps of the scented air. Big bronze birds, roused by the tread of the horsemen, rose from a bough, and flew away among the trees. They were wild turkeys, but the lad and his comrades were not seeking game just then. Bill Breakstone, who was in advance, stopped suddenly.
“Come here, Sir Philip of the Hilly Forest,” he cried, “and see what uncle has found for his little boy.”
Phil rode up by his side and uttered a little gasp of admiration. As he sat on his horse, he looked into a ravine about two hundred feet deep. Down the center of the ravine dashed a little mountain river of absolutely clear water. It was not more than twenty feet wide, but very deep. As Breakstone said, “it ran on its side,” but it ran along with much murmur and splash and laughter of waters. Often as the swift current struck the stony sides of the ravine it threw up little cascades of foam like snow. The banks themselves, although of stone, were covered most of the way with clustering vines and short green bushes. The crest of the farther bank was wooded so heavily with great trees that they were like a wall. Farther down, the stream descended with increased swiftness, and a steady murmuring noise that came to them indicated a waterfall. The brilliant moonlight bathed the river, the hills, and the forest, and the great silence, brooded over them all. Middleton and Arenberg also came, and the four side by side on their horses sat for awhile, saying nothing, but rejoicing in a scene so vivid and splendid to them, after coming from the monotony of the great plains.
“I’d like to drop off my horse after a hot day’s ride,” said Bill Breakstone, “and have some of that river run over me. Wouldn’t that be a shower-bath for a tired and dusty man!”
“It’s likely to be ice-cold,” said Middleton.
“Why so?” asked Phil.
“Because it rises somewhere high up. There must be mountains to the northward, and probably it is fed most of the year by melting snows. I think Bill would have enough of his bath very quickly.”
“If I get a chance, and there is any way to get down to that stream, I may try it to-morrow,” said Bill threateningly.
“Meanwhile, we’ll ride back and tell what we’ve seen,” said Middleton.
“Isn’t there any danger of Indian ambush in the timber?” asked Phil.
“I don’t think so,” replied Middleton. “The Comanches are horse Indians, and keep entirely to the plains. The other tribes are too much afraid of the Comanches to remain near them, and in consequence the edge of a hilly stretch such as this is likely to be deserted.”
They rode back to the wagons and found that the cooking fires were already lighted, and their cheerful blaze was gleaming among the trees. Everybody else, also, was delighted at being in the timber, where clear water flowed past, and most of the wounded were able to get out of the wagons and sit on the grass with their comrades. Woodfall decided that it was a good place in which to spend a few days for rest, repairs, and the hunting of game, as they wanted other fresh meat besides that of the buffalo.
The next morning they began to cure the buffalo hides that they had already obtained. A smooth piece of ground, exposed all day to the rays of the sun, was chosen. Upon this the skin was stretched and pegged down. Then every particle of the flesh was scraped off. After that, it was left about three days under the rays of the sun, and then it was cured. Twenty-five skins were saved in this manner, and, also, by the same method of drying in the sun, they jerked great quantities of the buffalo meat.
But Middleton, Arenberg, Breakstone, and Phil turned hunters for the time. They found that the hill region was very extensive, timbered heavily, and abundant in game. They hunted wholly on foot, and found several places where the ravine opened out, at which they could cross the little river by walking, although the water rose to their waists.
They had great luck with the game, shooting a half dozen splendid black-tailed deer, a score of wild turkeys, and many partridges, quail, and grouse. Bill Breakstone, according to his promise, bathed in the river, and he did it more than once. He was also joined by his comrades, and, as Middleton had predicted, they found the water ice-cold. No one could stand it more than five minutes, but the effect was invigorating.
A great deal of work was done at the camp. The axles of wagons were greased, canvas ripped by wind or hail was sewed up again, clothing was patched, and the wounded basked in sun or shade. Two of these had died, but the rest were now nearly well. All except two or three would be fit to resume their duties when they started again.
Woodfall, knowing the benefit of a complete rest, still lingered, and Phil and his friends had much time for exploration. They combined this duty with that of the scouting, and penetrated deep into the hills, watching for any Comanches who might stray in there, or for the mountain tribes. Once they came upon several abandoned lodges, made partly of skins and partly of brush, but they were falling in ruins, and Bill Breakstone reckoned they were at least two years old
“Wichitas, Wacos, Kechies, and Quapaws live around in the hills and mountains,” he said, “and this, I take it, was a little camp of Kechies, from the looks of the lodges. Two or three groups of them may be lingering yet in this region, but we haven’t much to fear from them.”
Woodfall, intending at first to make the stay only four or five days, decided now to protract it to ten or twelve. The journey to Santa Fé was one of tremendous length and hardship. Moreover, a buffalo hunter, straying in, told them that the Comanches were very active all over the Texas plains. Hence the Santa Fé train would need all its strength, and Woodfall was anxious that every one of the wounded should be in fighting condition when they left the timber. Therefore the delay.
Phil was glad of the added stay in the hills. He was developing great skill as a hunter and a trailer, and he and his comrades wandered farther and farther every day into the broken forest region toward the north. Oftenest he and Bill Breakstone were together. Despite the difference in years, they had become brothers of the wilderness. In their scoutings they found available pathways for horses over the hills and among the great trees, and, starting one morning, they rode far to the north, covering thirty or forty miles. Phil was interested in some high mountains which showed a dim blue ahead, and Breakstone was carefully examining the rock formations. But as night came on they found that the hills were dropping down, and the mountains seemed to be about as blue and as far ahead as ever.
“I should judge from these signs.” said Breakstone, “that there is a valley or narrow plain ahead, between us and the mountains. But we’ll look into that to-morrow. It isn’t good to be riding around in the dark over hills and through thickets.”
They found a little grassy open space, where they tethered their horses, leaving them to graze as long as they wished, and, lighting no fire, they ate jerked buffalo meat. Then they crept into snug coverts under the bushes, wrapped their blankets about them, and fell asleep. Phil opened his eyes at daylight to find Breakstone already awake. The horses were grazing contentedly. The trees and bushes were already tipped with fire by the gorgeous Texas sun.
“Sir Philip of the Bushes,” said Bill Breakstone, “you just lie here and chew up a buffalo or two, while I go ahead and take a look. As I said last night, these hills certainly drop down into a plain, and I want to see that plain.”
“All right,” said Phil, “I’ll stay where I am. It’s so snug in this blanket on a cool morning that I don’t care to move anyhow, and I can eat my breakfast lying down.”
He drew out a freshly jerked strip of buffalo meat, and another very tender portion of a black-tailed deer that he himself had shot, and fell to it. Bill Breakstone, his rifle held conveniently at his side, slid away among the bushes. Phil ate contentedly. The sun rose higher. The morning was absolutely still. The horses seemed to have had enough grass, and lay down placidly on their sides. It occurred to Phil that he, too, had eaten enough, and he put the remainder of the food back in his hunter’s knapsack. Then he began to get drowsy again. It was so very still. He thought once of rising and walking about, but he remembered Breakstone’s advice to lie still, and, against his will, he kept it. Then his drowsiness increased, and, before he was aware of it he was asleep again.
When Phil awoke the second time, he threw off his blanket and sprang to his feet in surprise. The sun was high up in the blue arch. It must be at least ten o’clock in the morning, and Bill Breakstone had not come back. The horses were on their feet and were grazing again. They were proof that nothing had disturbed the glade. But Bill Breakstone was not there. Nor had he come back and gone away again. If he had done so, he would have awakened the boy. He had been absent three or four hours, and Phil was alarmed.
The boy stood up, holding his hand on the hammer of his rifle. This beautiful day, with its blue skies above and its green forest below, oppressed him. It was so still, so silent, and Bill Breakstone had vanished so utterly, just as if he had been turned into thin air by the wave of a magician’s wand! The boy was alone in the wilderness for the first time. Moreover, he felt the presence of danger, and the queer little shiver which often comes at such moments ran through his blood. But the shiver passed, and his courage rose. He had no thought of going back to the camp to report that Bill Breakstone was missing. No, he would find him himself. That was his duty to his comrade.
The boy waited a little longer, standing there in the shade with his rifle ready, and eyes and ears intent. He stood thus for a quarter of an hour, scarcely moving. The brilliant sunshine poured down upon him, bringing out every line of the strong young figure, illuminating the face which was thrown a little forward, as the blue eyes, gazing intently through the undergrowth, sought some evidence of a hostile presence. Finally the eyes turned to the horses which were grazing calmly in the full circle of their long lariats. Phil decided that such calm on their part signified the absence of any enemy. If either man or beast came near they would raise their heads.
Then Phil moved forward through the bushes, putting into use all his new skill and caution. The bushes closed softly behind him, and he entered a slope covered with great trees without undergrowth. His eyes could range forward several hundred yards, but he saw nothing. He advanced for a few minutes, steadily descending, and he was tempted to shout his loudest or fire off his rifle as a signal to the derelict Bill Breakstone that it was time for him to come back. But he resisted both temptations, and soon he was glad that he had done so. The slope was very gradual, and he traveled a full two miles before he came to the edge of the woods and saw before him the plain that Bill Breakstone had predicted. He took one look, and then, springing back, sank down in the covert of the bushes.
Before Phil lay a fairly level plain about a mile in width and of unknown length, as in either direction it parsed out of sight among the hills. In the center of it was a shallow but wide creek which perhaps flowed into the nameless river. The valley was very fertile, as the grass was already rich and high, despite the earliness of spring.
At the widest point of the valley stood a large Indian village, two hundred lodges at least, and Phil could not doubt that it was a village of the Comanches. Hundreds of ponies, grazing in the meadows to the north, and guarded by boys, proved that they were horse Indians, and no other tribe dared to ride where the Comanches roamed.
Phil could see far in the dazzling sunlight, and all the normal activities of human life, that is, of wild life, seemed to prevail in the Comanche village. Evidently the warriors had been on a great buffalo hunt. Perhaps they had struck at another point the same herd into which the train had run. Over a wide space buffalo hides were pegged down. Old squaws were scraping the flesh from some with little knives, while others, already cleaned, were drying in the sun. Vast quantities of buffalo meat were being jerked on temporary platforms. Little Indian boys and girls carried in their hand bones of buffalo or deer, from which they ate whenever they felt hungry. Everywhere it was a scene of savage plenty and enjoyment, although signs of industry were not wholly lacking, even among the warriors. Many of these, sitting on the grass, were cleaning their rifles or making new bows and arrows. Now and then one would make a test, sending into the air an arrow which some little boy was glad to run after and bring back. At another point a number of boys were practicing at a target with small bows and blunt-headed arrows. Two warriors on their ponies came up the valley, each carrying before him the body of a black-tailed deer. They were received with shouts, but soon disappeared with their spoils among the lodges, which were made universally of the skin of the buffalo. Down at the end of the village some warriors, naked to the breech cloth, danced monotonously back and forth, while an old man blew an equally monotonous tune on a whistle made of the bone of an eagle.
Phil, lying close in his covert, watched with absorbed eyes, and with mind and vision alike quick and keen, he took in every detail. The warriors were tall men, with intelligent faces, aquiline noses, thin lips, black eyes and hair, and but little beard. The hair grew very long, as they never cut it, and in many cases it was ornamented with bright beads and little pieces of silver. They wore deerskin leggins or moccasins, and a cloth of some bright color, bought from American Mexican traders, wrapped around the loins. The body from the loin cloth upward was naked, but in winter was covered with a buffalo robe. The women were physically very much inferior to the men. They were short and with crooked legs. Moreover, they wore their hair cut close, being compelled to do so by tribal law, the long-haired Comanche men and the short-haired Comanche women thus reversing the custom of civilization. Both men and women wore amulets. The Comanches, like most Indian tribes, were great believers in dreams, and the amulets were supposed to protect them from such as were bad.
Phil’s roving eye lighted upon a small frame structure built of slight poles, the only one in the village not of hides. Such a building was always to be found in every Comanche village, but he did not know until later that it was a combined medicine lodge and vapor bath house. It was spherical in shape, and securely covered with buffalo hides. When a warrior fell seriously ill, he was seated in his lodge, beside several heated stone ovens, on which water was thrown in profusion. Then, while a dense, hot vapor arose, the shaman, or medicine man, practiced incantations, while men outside made music on whistles or the Indian drums. The hot bath was often effective, but the Comanche ascribed at least a part of the cure to the medicine man’s incantations. Young Comanche men, also, often took a vapor bath before going on the war path, thinking that it had power to protect them from wounds.
Then Philip saw to the right a far larger building than that of the vapor bath, although it was made of dressed skins with just enough poles to support it. This was the medicine lodge of the Comanche village, a building used for important purposes, some of which Phil was to learn soon.
The boy did not doubt that his comrade had been taken, and, unless killed, was even now a captive in the Comanche village. He might be held in that huge medicine lodge, and the boy’s resolution strengthened to the temper of steel. He could not go back to the train without Bill Breakstone; so he would rescue him. He did not yet have any idea how, but he would find a way. There were depths of courage in his nature of which he himself did not know, and springing from this courage was the belief that he would succeed.
While he yet lay in the covert he saw a band of Indians, about a dozen in number, riding up the valley. They were apparently visitors, but they were welcomed with loud cries. The leader of the band, a large man with brilliant feathers in his hair, replied with a shout. Then a horseman rode forth to meet him. Even at the distance Phil recognized the horseman as Black Panther. He, too, was arrayed in his finest, and, as a great crowd gathered, the two chiefs slowly approached each other. When their horses were side by side, Black Panther leaned over in his saddle, put his head on the other’s shoulder, clasped his arms around his chest, and gave him a tremendous squeeze. The stranger returned the salute in kind, and then the two, amid great shouts of approval, rode among the lodges, disappearing from Phil’s sight.
Phil watched awhile longer, but he saw nothing except the ordinary life of the village. Then he went back to the glen in which the horses were tethered. They were still grazing, and Bill Breakstone had not returned. Phil led them down to a little brook, let them drink, and then, after some thought, took off the lariats, coiled them around the saddles, and turned the animals loose. He believed they would stay in the glen or near it, as the pasturage was good, and the water plentiful, and that they could be found when needed.
Having attended to the horses, he returned to the edge of the forest and sat himself down to think out the plan of his great adventure.
It was his intention to enter the Comanche village without detection, and, hard as such a task seemed to him, it was even harder in reality. No race more wary than the Comanches ever lived. Besides the boys who habitually watched the ponies, they had regular details of warriors as herdsmen. Other details served as sentries about the village, and the adjacent heights were always occupied by scouts. All these guards were maintained night and day. Phil could see some of them now patrolling, and, knowing that any attempt of his would be impossible in the daylight, he waited patiently for night. He had with him enough food to last for a day or two, and, choosing a place in the dense covert, he lay down. He called up now all the wilderness lore of Breakstone, Arenberg, Middleton, and the others in the train. He knew that he must restrain all impulsiveness until the appointed time, and that he must lie without motion lest the keen eyes of wandering warriors should see the bushes above him moving in a direction other than that of the wind. He also laid his rifle parallel with his body, in the position in which it could be used most quickly, and loaded the pistol. It was hardest of all to lie perfectly still. He wished to turn over, to crawl to a new place, and his bones fairly ached, but he restrained himself. Naturally a youth of strength and determination, his mind took the mastery over his body, and held it fast and motionless among the bushes.
It was well that he controlled himself so completely. Indians came near the edge of the woods, and once some boys passed, driving a herd of ponies. But he crouched a little closer, and they went on. The day was fearfully long. The high sun poured down a shower of vertical beams that reached him even in the shelter of the bushes. The perspiration stood out on his brow, and his collar clung to his neck. He envied the freedom of the Comanches in the villages and the easy way in which they went about the pleasure of savage life. More warriors, evidently hunters, came in. Some bore portions of the buffalo, and others were loaded with wild turkeys.
In these hard hours the boy learned much. He had passed safely through battle. But there one was borne up by the thrill and excitement of the charge, the firing and shouting and the comradeship of his fellows. Here he was alone, silent and waiting. Enduring such as that, his will achieved new powers. A single day saw the mental growth of a year or two.
The sun passed the zenith and crept slowly down the western heavens. Welcome shadows appeared in the east, and the far lodges of the Comanches grew misty. Phil thought now that the village would sink into quiet, but he noticed instead a great bustle, and many people going about. Squaws bore torches which made a bright core of flame in the increasing dusk, and Phil was quite sure now that something unusual was going to occur. It seemed to him that the whole population of the village was gathering about the great medicine lodge. It must be the beginning of some important ceremony, and the time to enter the Comanche village was propitious. He inferred that on such an occasion the guard would be relaxed, at least in part, and as he heard the sound of hundreds of voices chanting monotonously he prepared for his great adventure.
The twilight faded, and the night came in its place, thick and dark. The sound of many voices, some singing, some talking, came clearly through the crisp, dry air. The core of light before the medicine lodge increased, and, by its radiance, he saw dusky figures hastening toward it to join the great group gathered there.
Phil took off his cap and hid it in the bushes. He would be bareheaded like the Comanches, wishing to look as much like them as possible. Fortunately his hair had grown somewhat long, and his face was deeply tanned. Once he thought of stripping to the waist in Comanche fashion, but his body, protected from the sun, was white, and he would be detected instantly.
He spent a little time flexing and stretching his muscles, because, when he first rose to his feet, he could scarcely stand, and the blood, choked up in the arteries and veins, tingled for lack of circulation. But the stiffness and pain soon departed, and he felt stronger than ever before in his life. Then he started.
He advanced boldly into the plain, bent very low, stopping at times to look and listen, and, also, to rest himself. More than once he lay flat upon the ground and allowed his muscles to relax. Once he saw upon his right two Indian warriors standing upon a knoll. They were a part of the night guard, and their figures were outlined duskily against the dusky sky. Their faces were not disclosed. But Phil knew that they were watching—watching with all the effectiveness of eye and ear for which the Indian is famous. At this point he crawled, and, in his crawling, he was so nearly flat upon his stomach that his advance was more like a serpent’s than that of anything else.
He left the patrol behind, and then he saw another on his left, and much nearer to him, two more warriors, who did not occupy any knoll, but who merely walked back and forth on the flat plain. They were between him and the great fire, and he saw them very distinctly, tall men of light copper color, with high cheek-bones and long black hair. Both were armed with rifles, of which the Comanches were beginning to obtain a supply, and their faces in the glow of the firelight seemed very savage and very cruel to Phil. Now he flattened himself out entirely, and moved forward in a slow series of writhings, until he had passed them. There was an icy rim around his heart until he left these two behind, but when they were gone in the darkness his courage leaped up anew.
He now reached the eastern end of the village and crept among the lodges. They were all deserted. Their occupants had gone to witness the ceremony that was now at hand, whatever it might be. Not a woman, not a child was left. Phil stood up straight, and it was an immense relief to him to do so. It was a relief to the spirit as well as the body. He felt like a human being again, and not some creeping animal, a human being who stands upon his two feet, a human being who has a brain with which he thinks before he acts. It was strange, but this mere physical change gave him a further supply of courage and hope, as if he had already achieved his victory.
He passed between two lodges and saw a gleam beyond. It was the surface of the wide but shallow creek, showing through the dusk. The banks were five or six feet high, and there was a broad bed of sand extending on either side of the water.
Phil glanced up the stream, and saw that it flowed very close to the medicine lodge. An idea sprang up at once in his alert brain. Here was his line of approach. He dropped softly down the bank, taking his chance of quicksand, but finding instead that it was fairly firm to the feet. Then, hugging the bank, he advanced with noiseless tread toward the medicine lodge. Chance and his own quick mind served him well. His feet did not sink more than a few inches in the sand, and the bank continued at its uniform height of about six feet. He continued slowly, pausing on occasion to listen, because he could see nothing in the village. But occasional stray beams from the fires, passing over his head, fell upon the creek, lingering there for a moment or two in a red glow. Above him on the bank, but some distance back, the fires seemed to grow, and the monotonous beat of the singing grew louder. Phil knew that he was now very near the medicine lodge, and he paused a little longer than usual, leaning hard against the sandy bank with a sort of involuntary impulse, as if he would press his body into it to escape observation.
He looked up and saw two or three boughs projecting over the bank. Then the medicine lodge was some distance away, perhaps fifteen or twenty yards, and, therefore, the adventure would increase in peril! Another glance at the boughs reassured him. Perhaps there was a little grove between the creek and the medicine lodge, and it would afford him hiding! The largest of the boughs, amply able to support his weight, was not more than three or four feet above the bank, and, climbing cautiously the sandy slope, he grasped it and drew himself up. Then he slid along it until he came to the crotch of the tree, where he crouched, holding his rifle in one hand.
He was right in his surmise about the grove, although it was narrower than he had supposed, not more than seven or eight yards across at the utmost. But the trees were oak, heavy-limbed and heavy-trunked, and they grew close together. Nevertheless, the light from some of the fires showed through them, and at one side loomed the dark mass of the medicine lodge. As nearly as he could see, it was built directly against some of the trees. He crawled from his tree to the one next to it, and then to a third. There he stopped, and a violent fit of shuddering seized him. The trees were occupied already.
On boughs so near that he could touch them rested a platform of poles about eight feet long and four feet wide. The poles were tied tightly together with rawhide thongs, and over them were spread leaves, grass, and small boughs. Upon these couches rested two long figures wrapped tightly in buffalo hide. They were the bodies of the dead. Farther on were other platforms and other bodies. Phil knew what the dark objects were. He had read and heard too much about Indian life to be mistaken, and, despite his power of will over self, he shuddered again and again. He surmised that these might be temporary burial platforms, as they were usually put in isolated places away from the village, but here they were, and now it occurred to him that their presence would be to his advantage. Superstition is strong among the Comanches, and they would not walk under the trees that supported the burial platforms on their boughs.
He advanced from bough to bough until he came directly against the skin walls of the great medicine lodge. There he lay along a strong and horizontal bough with his body pressed close to the wall, and a human eye ten feet away would not have seen him. Just above Phil’s head was a place where two of the buffalo hides had not been sewn closely together, and the light from within shone out. He raised his head, widened the place with his knife, and looked down into the medicine lodge.
The boy beheld an extraordinary scene. From the roof of the lodge hung a joss or image, with the profile of a man, rudely carved from a split log. One side of the face was painted white, and the other black. Beneath it was a circular space about twenty feet in diameter, roped off and surrounded by a great crowd of people. Old squaws held aloft torches of pine or other wood that cast a ruddy light over eager and intense faces.
A great medicine dance was about to be held; and now the shaman, or chief medicine man, an old, dark Indian named Okapa, who for the present took precedence over both Black Panther and his visitor, who was the great chief Santana, was preparing to begin. Phil could see Okapa clearly as he stood alone in the center of the cleared circular space, carrying in his hands a short, carved stick, like a baton. It is hard to judge an Indian’s age, but Phil Bedford believed that this man must beat least seventy. Nevertheless, despite his deeply lined and seamed face, he was erect and strong. But it was a cruel face, with thin, compressed lips, a large hooked nose, and jet black eyes that smoldered with dark fire. It was a face to inspire fear, and it was all the more ominous when the light of many torches fell upon it, tinting it a deeper and darker red.
Okapa raised his hand. Save for the tense breathing of the multitude there was silence in the lodge. Phil, forgetful of all danger, pressed more closely against the buffalo skin to see.