The Talking Leaves | Page 4

the old, old times, or to poor, miserable, second-rate Indians, who
cannot buy anything better. The fierce and haughty Lipans and
Comanches, and other warlike tribes, insist on being armed as well as
the United States troops, and even better.
What could a cavalryman do with a lance?

About as much as an Indian with a sword; for that is one weapon the
red men could never learn the use of, from King Philip's day to this.
It was luncheon-time with that Lipan war-party, and they were hard at
work on their supplies of dried venison and cold roast buffalo-meat.
Their halt would not be a long one in a spot where there was no grass
for their horses, but they could hold a council while they were eating,
and they could listen to a speech from the short, broad, ugly-looking
old chief who now stood in the middle of the circle.
"To-la-go-to-de will not go back now till he has struck the Apaches. He
has come too far. The squaws of his village would laugh at him if he
rode through the mountains and came back to them with empty hands."
That was the substance of his address, put again and again in different
shapes, and it seemed to meet the approval of his listeners.
There is nothing a Lipan brave is really afraid of except ridicule, and
the dread of being laughed at was the strongest argument their leader
could have used to spur them forward.
Once, indeed, he made another sharp hit by pointing to the spot where
Murray and Steve were standing.
"No Tongue has the heart of a Lipan. He says if we go back he will go
on alone. He will take the Yellow Head with him. They will not be
laughed at when they come back. Will the Lipans let their squaws tell
them they are cowards, and dare not follow an old pale-face and a
boy?"
A deep, half-angry "ugh" went around the circle.
To-la-go-to-de had won over all the grumblers in his audience, and
need not have talked any more.
He might have stopped right there and proceeded to eat another slice of
buffalo-meat, but when an Indian once learns to be an orator he would

rather talk than eat, any day.
In fact, they are such talkers at home and among themselves, that
Murray had earned the queer name given him by the chief in no other
way than by his habitual silence. He rarely spoke to anybody, and so he
was "No Tongue."
The chief himself had a name of which he was enormously proud, for
he had won it on a battle-field. His horse had been killed under him, in
a battle with the Comanches, when he was yet a young warrior, and he
had fought on foot with a knife in each hand.
From that day forward he was To-la-go-to-de, or "The chief that fights
with two knives."
Any name he may have been known by before that was at once dropped
and forgotten.
It is a noteworthy custom, but the English have something almost
exactly like it. A man in England may be plain Mr. Smith or Mr.
Disraeli for ever so many years, and then all of a sudden he becomes
Lord So-and-So, and nobody ever speaks of him again by the name he
carried when he was a mere "young brave."
It is a great mistake to suppose the red men are altogether different
from the white.
As for Steve, his hair was nearer chestnut than yellow, but it had given
him his Indian name; one that would stick to him until, like
To-la-go-to-de, he should distinguish himself in battle and win a "war
name" of his own.
He and Murray, however they might be regarded as members of the
tribe and of that war-party, had no rights in the "Council." Only born
Lipans could take part in that, except by special invitation.
It happened, on the present occasion, that they were both glad of it, for
No Tongue had more than usual to say, and Yellow Head was very

anxious to listen to him.
"That peak yonder would be an awful climb, Steve."
"I should say it would."
"But if you and I were up there, I'll tell you what we could do; we could
look north and east into New Mexico, north and west into Arizona, and
south every way, into Mexico itself."
"Are we so near the border?"
"I think we are."
Something like a thunder-cloud seemed to be gathering on Murray's
face, and the deep furrows grew deeper, in great rigid lines and curves,
while his steel-blue eyes lighted up with a fire that made them
unpleasant to look upon.
"You lived in Mexico once?"
"Did I? Did I ever tell you that?"