A Prairie Love Story.
by Joseph K. Griffis.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
In one of the Indian outbreaks, not long after the American Civil War, the Kiowas carried with them into captivity a child too young to remember the mother they had killed. The boy was adopted by the Kiowas and, to all intents and purposes, grew up an Indian. That little child is now a clergyman, an evangelist and lecturer, and the story he here tells is the actual life-history of his Indian father, Zip-koh-eta.
The trees had leafed sixteen times since Tsilta first opened her eyes in her father's tepee. Her full, rounded form was that of a young antelope that dances in the sunshine when the grass is green and tender. Her face was a morning when the prairie flowers bloom and breathe their sweetest perfume. Her eyes were those of the fawn, her hair the veil of midnight. When she opened her full red lips and spoke, there was the music of the rill which laughs away its life among the flowers on the hill-side.
Red Scar was gaunt, wrinkled, and ugly, and had two wives. In other days he was good to look upon, and a warrior unafraid. In a fight with soldiers a bullet struck the end of his nose, ploughed a furrow across his cheek, and left a trail easy to read. Under the stress of excitement the scar would turn a deep crimson colour, hence his name. His visits to the lodge of Tsilta's father were frequent and prolonged; and he always lost in the gambling, for he saw nothing but Tsilta. He made many raids on the herds of the Cheyennes and therefore was rich.
One day the maiden saw him of the red scar point her father to a herd of fifty ponies. Her father wagged his forefingers across each other, and her heart sank, for she knew that she was given to ugly Red Scar in exchange for the ponies.
Zip-koh-eta (Big Bow) was young and handsome and brave. Tsilta had danced many times with him. The hug of his arms was strength, and his touch made glad her heart; for in him was enough. With hair veiling her face, Tsilta passed his lodge, and this told him the story. The young warrior in strong words said what he would do—there would be two swift horses at the crossing of the river, under the big tree, that very night. And then away—and away!
With lightness of step and brightness of eyes, Tsilta returned to her father's lodge. But when she looked into the face of Red Scar she shrank back as from an old, lean coyote and would have fled. But he caught her by the wrist and in a voice like a bear's growl said: "My wife." She turned an appealing face to her father, but he nodded and said simply: "His wife."
She obediently followed Red Scar to his new tepee, passing his old, weather-stained lodge, before the door of which sat his two hag-like wives, who turned away their faces as they passed on. Inside the new lodge he had erected for her she crouched down at the furthest side, like a wounded deer from the hateful-fanged wolf.
At night Red Scar made a mescal feast for his friends, at which he ate so many of the spirit beans that he slept a long time, and his lodge was empty for the whole night. When he awoke, Tsilta was sitting meekly by the fire. Zip-koh-eta was not seen in the camp that night.
When Red Scar sat down to gamble, one of the men looked at him slyly and said: "Red Scar has a wife." The bullet's trail on his face became a flame, but he replied nothing. A company of young roysterers passed by, and one of them in a voice filled with ridicule said: "Red Scar has a wife." There was a glistening of eyes and a flare of the scar, and that was all.
After dark, when all was still in the camp, there was the call of a whip-poor-will in the brush, and Red Scar saw his new wife raise her head with a quick start. Again and again there was the call. The tall, gaunt man rose and seized a rawhide lariat, clutched her arms and bound them behind her back.
"Red Scar has a wife," he snarled in her ear, his face like the western storm-cloud when the sun is setting. Binding her feet together he made the lariat fast to a lodge pole overhead, buckled his knife to his side and lay down to sleep.
Time passed. There was silence save for a sound like the breeze in the bushes where Tsilta lay against the wall. Outside from time to time there was the whip-poor-will's call, plaintively insistent until far into the night. Then there was a slight noise at the doorway of the lodge.
Red Scar crept like a shadow across the floor, listened a moment, hurled back the flap, and leapt outside. There was the sound of feet, a blow, a low gurgling, then quiet. The jealous husband returned to the fireside, threw on a handful of bark and sat down. His wife lay with her face to the wall. As the light grew stronger she saw a tiny stream of red creeping under the edge of the lodge and slowly make its way towards her face. A foot from her eyes it formed into a little pool.
The sun had walked up above the treetops when the husband and wife stepped outside the tepee, she following, as do all obedient wives. A blanket about his tall form hid his marred visage and reached to his mocassined feet. Tsilta's long black hair veiled her face. The whole camp was astir, for a big thing was to be done that day.
Red Scar strode on up the sloping hill with long, purposeful steps. Behind in a straggling procession came men, women, and children. On the summit of the hill the tall man halted and faced the slight, girlish figure. About them gathered the expectant people in a circle.
Red Scar let fall his blanket. A knife glittered in his hand. He took one step towards the shrinking girl; the women drew their blankets more tightly round their faces as they shot glances of approval at one another. The man stood straight as the arrow in his quiver, his great chest drinking in big gulps of the morning air, the scar on his face as a prairie fire on a distant slope when the ground is wet with rain. Tsilta stood as does the bruised flower wilting under the fierce glance of the summer sun.
"Tsilta!" The voice of Red Scar was harsh, guttural, and vulture-like, grating upon the perfumed breeze of the morning.
"Tsilta, by the law of the Kiowas, the wife whose feet walk in the crooked trail, must suffer one of two things. She may die by the hand of her husband, or he may cut her nose from her face."
The girl stood like an image of stone. The man seized her dishevelled hair and raised it from her face. Her soft eyes looked unflinchingly into his own and from the proud lips there came no sound. The knife glinted close to her face.
"No, not that! Let Tsilta die!" The quavering, plaintive voice had in it the shudder of autumn winds when the leaves are falling. She could not, she would not live to bear always the badge of dishonoured wifehood, undeserved as it was. The gibes and sneers of the women would be worse than death.
Red Scar thrust his knife into its scabbard and drawing his bow from its panther-skin cover placed one end upon the ground, his knee in the middle, and by a dexterous movement slipped the noose of the string into the notch; then, with well-accustomed hand, fixed a barbed arrow to the string.
The sun was flooding hill and valley with rare radiance; but darkness was upon the women's faces that looked upon the maiden. A flock of crows wheeled down among the trees near the river, and their cawing was the funeral chant of Tsilta. The mocking bird's song from the thicket was the taunting voice of dying hopes. A butterfly like a piece of a rainbow that had slid off the edge of a cloud, floated gently between the fierce faced, relentless man and the defenceless girl.
Red Scar thrust his left foot forward, the muscles of his right arm swelling into ridges as he drew the arrow to the head. Then came a clatter of feet, the flash of a horseman; Red Scar was hurled backwards to the earth; there was a shout of triumph, and Tsilta was swept from the ground by a circling arm—and they were gone.
"Zip-koh-eta!" shouted a hundred voices, as the daring rider whirled away. On and on, across flower-decked prairie and grass-grown rise, through wooded streams they sped.
On a high hill the young warrior halted and faced the back trail. In the distance were two oncoming horsemen. He dropped his precious burden to her feet. "Tsilta will wait here," he said, the battle-light gleaming in his handsome face as he strung up his bow. How masterful he appeared to Tsilta, as the war-gleam shot from his eyes and filled his face! In the lead of the other rode a tall, gaunt figure with a blood-coloured scar on his face. Straight towards him rode Zip-koh-eta.
As they met, the young warrior's horse swerved to the right, and as they passed there was the twang of a bow-string; Red Scar's horse reared and plunged headlong to the trail-side, where he lay with an arrow sticking in his side. Zip-koh-eta rode back to the waiting one, who placed one foot upon his and sprang lightly up behind him, and again they sped onward, the remaining pursuer nearer than before.
In a brush-lined ravine Zip-koh-eta whirled out of the trail and waited. Through the bushes the fast riding warrior came. As he drew abreast there was the well-timed music of a bow-string; from the horse's side came a spurt of blood, and he floundered among the bushes.
With a merry whoop that echoed among the cañons, the young warrior with the maiden at his back rushed on. Night came and they were alone in a wooded dell where a bubbling spring refreshed them. The tired horse cropped the tender grass; the stars kept watch.
"One sleep, and then Zip-koh-eta will go back and fight," he whispered, as they sat with his one robe around both their bodies.
"But Red Scar is strong and cunning, and he has had much fighting; and—if—he should kill Zip-koh-eta—" He gave a scornful laugh at her fears.
"Zip-koh-eta is a man! How won he his name? How had he acted when the scar faced one would have driven his arrow through her little body? No. He must go back and prove to all the men that he has a right to call Tsilta 'wife.'"
* * * *
The day was yet young when a man and woman on a single horse halted before the lodge of Satanta, chief of the Kiowas.
"By the law of the Kiowas, Zip-koh-eta asks for fairness in fight with Red Scar," said the man.
"The law of the Kiowas shall not be broken," answered the great chief. There was the beating of the council drum. The warriors quickly assembled. The aged Medicine Man arose and made known the law of the Kiowas touching the case of Red Scar and Zip-koh-eta.
Should a man steal another's wife and remain away one sleep and then return, he preserves his place and right of a warrior—the right to fight to the death with the offended husband. But should he be caught or should he kill one who pursued him, or should he not return, in any such case he shall be considered an outlaw and therefore worthy of death, and must suffer as a criminal.
Zip-koh-eta stood ready to meet in mortal combat the aggrieved Red Scar, who must fight or cease to be a member of the tribe, or, remaining, must cease to be a warrior. They must fight to the death at the pleasure of the victor.
"Now," said Satanta, when the Medicine Man had finished, "let the men meet in fight."
A prolonged "hoo-oo-o-oo-oh!" from every warrior announced the universal approval. It was Red Scar's right to choose the weapons. He, knowing the skill of the younger man in the use of the bow, chose the knife. That fight lingers yet in the memories of the Kiowas, and the prowess of one of the combatants is still sung by the camp fires and at the feasts.
The men faced each other, stripped to the skin save for a bit of buckskin about their loins. Red Scar seemed to have the advantage in brawn and weight, the muscles gathering in hard bunches and standing out in ridges with every movement of his seasoned body.
The younger man was still a sapling, but his strength and agility were well known among the young men of the tribe. The people stood in a great circle about the combatants. Tsilta was seated upon a robe beside the aged Medicine Man, her alert eyes, quick, heaving bosom and expectant attitude telling the tale of her deep concern.
The scar flamed out the deadly hatred in his heart as its owner fastened his piercing eyes upon the face of his youthful antagonist, who stood in easy attitude waiting for the word. A knife was handed to each one at the same time. Red Scar took his with a savage grab, and the fight was on. Zip-koh-eta went with a rush, but halted just out of reach of the other's knife, which described a circling sweep.
Again he approached, this time carefully, inch by inch, body crouching, and every nerve and sense alert. Almost within reach of his tall foe he halted and gave a backward spring—none too soon. The other stood in his tracks. Zip-koh-eta must go to him. He did go.
This time erect, feinting, side-stepping, and dancing away, light as a shadow, the gleaming knife of Red Scar playing in circles and thrusts above and around his face and body, but never touching the agile youth, who twisted, ducked, and glided in and out.
Not for a moment did Red Scar take his gleaming gaze from the face of the youth, and with great self-restraint waited for a favourable opportunity for one good thrust.
"Red Scar is a stiff-legged buffalo," laughed the youth tauntingly, as he straightened up out of reach. "He has chosen the place which his blood shall make red." There was no reply.
"He crept out into the darkness and stuck his knife into the back of his best friend. He is a coyote, who dares not fight in the day time."
Still no reply from the grim warrior. The supple youth lurched back just in time to avoid a vicious stab as Red Scar took one quick, advancing step. Then came the most insulting epithet that could possibly be applied to a Kiowa warrior. Zip-koh-eta thrust out his face while a sneering smile played over it. "Red Scar is a woman!"—he did not finish the sentence. He of the marred visage bounded forward, there was a swish of his knife which the other narrowly escaped; but before he could recover, the fingers of Zip-koh-eta closed upon his throat—a grape-vine twist of the leg, a thud on the ground, and Red Scar lay upon his back, with eyes starting from their sockets as he gasped for breath.
The knife was poised for the home thrust.
"Red Scar may live if he will say that he is a woman," hissed the voice of the victor.
No reply from the fallen man.
"Let Red Scar say that he has the heart of a woman, and he shall live," repeated the triumphant youth, planting his foot upon the heaving breast of the vanquished warrior.
The reply came guttural and firm:
"Red Scar is a man. He can die."
Zip-koh-eta lifted away his foot; admiration mingled with his smile of triumph. Throwing away his knife he beckoned to Tsilta. He took her by the hand and drew her to the centre of the circle. Then, turning defiantly to the assembled warriors, he said: "Men of the Kiowa, this woman has not violated her wifehood. She is a true woman. For three winters I have hoped that she would kindle the fire in my lodge. Red Scar had ponies. Her father gave her in exchange for them. Her husband was jealous, and killed his best friend in the darkness, thinking it was I who was prowling about his lodge. I have kept the law of the Kiowas. I have spoken no word to her that a Kiowa warrior need be ashamed of. I love her. Dare any one of you say that she shall not be my wife? If so, let him step out and meet me now and here with the knife."
He paused for the answer. A shout of applause burst from the men. He strode towards his lodge, Tsilta with light step following, her black hair floating behind like a stream of glory. At the door she turned in time to see Red Scar leap upon a horse and dash madly across the prairie, never to return.
* * * *
Years circled on. One day Zip-koh-eta, the great war chief of the Kiowas, returned from a raid into Texas. In his arms was a white baby boy. He placed the captive child against the bosom of Tsilta, who nursed him as her own, and the child's affections twined around her heart. He grew to young manhood under the sunshine of her love, and learnt to call her "mother." With pride he loved to call "father," Zip-koh-eta, who taught him the lore of the prairies and the art of war. I was that child.