A Warriors Daughter | Page 3

cheat the hated enemy of their captive. In the
meanwhile low signals are given, and the war party, unaware of Tusee's
absence, steal quietly away. The soft thud of pony-hoofs grows fainter
and fainter. The gradual hush of the empty ravine whirrs noisily in the
ear of the young woman. Alert for any sound of footfalls nigh, she
holds her breath to listen. Her right hand rests on a long knife in her
belt. Ah, yes, she knows where her pony is hid, but not yet has she need
of him. Satisfied that no danger is nigh, she prowls forth from her place
of hiding. With a panther's tread and pace she climbs the high ridge
beyond the low ravine. From thence she spies the enemy's camp-fires.
Rooted to the barren bluff the slender woman's figure stands on the
pinnacle of night, outlined against a starry sky. The cool night breeze
wafts to her burning ear snatches of song and drum. With desperate
hate she bites her teeth.
Tusee beckons the stars to witness. With impassioned voice and
uplifted face she pleads:
"Great Spirit, speed me to my lover's rescue! Give me swift cunning for
a weapon this night! All-powerful Spirit, grant me my warrior-father's

heart, strong to slay a foe and mighty to save a friend!"
In the midst of the enemy's camp-ground, underneath a temporary
dance-house, are men and women in gala-day dress. It is late in the
night, but the merry warriors bend and bow their nude, painted bodies
before a bright centre fire. To the lusty men's voices and the rhythmic
throbbing drum, they leap and rebound with feathered headgears
waving.
Women with red-painted cheeks and long, braided hair sit in a large
half-circle against the willow railing. They, too, join in the singing, and
rise to dance with their victorious warriors.
Amid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to a post,
haggard with shame and sorrow. He hangs his dishevelled head.
He stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare earth at his feet. With jeers
and smirking faces the dancers mock the Dakota captive. Rowdy braves
and small boys hoot and yell in derision.
Silent among the noisy mob, a tall woman, leaning both elbows on the
round willow railing, peers into the lighted arena. The dancing centre
fire shines bright into her handsome face, intensifying the night in her
dark eyes. It breaks into myriad points upon her beaded dress.
Unmindful of the surging throng jostling her at either side, she glares in
upon the hateful, scoffing men. Suddenly she turns her head. Tittering
maids whisper near her ear:
"There! There! See him now, sneering in the captive's face. 'Tis he who
sprang upon the young man and dragged him by his long hair to yonder
post. See! He is handsome! How gracefully he dances!"
The silent young woman looks toward the bound captive. She sees a
warrior, scarce older than the captive, flourishing a tomahawk in the
Dakota's face. A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and brands him
for a victim of revenge. Her heart mutters within her breast, "Come, I
wish to meet you, vile foe, who captured my lover and tortures him
now with a living death."

Here the singers hush their voices, and the dancers scatter to their
various resting-places along the willow ring. The victor gives a
reluctant last twirl of his tomahawk, then, like the others, he leaves the
centre ground. With head and shoulders swaying from side to side, he
carries a high-pointing chin toward the willow railing. Sitting down
upon the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself with an outspread
turkey wing.
Now and then he stops his haughty blinking to peep out of the corners
of his eyes. He hears some one clearing her throat gently. It is
unmistakably for his ear. The wing-fan swings irregularly to and fro. At
length he turns a proud face over a bare shoulder and beholds a
handsome woman smiling.
"Ah, she would speak to a hero!" thumps his heart wildly.
The singers raise their voices in unison. The music is irresistible. Again
lunges the victor into the open arena. Again he leers into the captive's
face. At every interval between the songs he returns to his resting-place.
Here the young woman awaits him. As he approaches she smiles boldly
into his eyes. He is pleased with her face and her smile.
Waving his wing-fan spasmodically in front of his face, he sits with his
ears pricked up. He catches a low whisper. A hand taps him lightly on
the shoulder. The handsome woman speaks to him in his own tongue.
"Come out into the night. I wish to tell you who I am."
He must know what sweet words of praise the handsome woman has