Reel Life (Sep 1913 - Mar 1914)

Reel l/lte 7 Cottonwood, listening to Tall Pine's story — when a scout announced the coming of the white men. The sheriff and the colonel, with a half troop from the fort, rode forward. Peaceful salutations were exchanged — and the chief designated a half breed to act as interpreter. The sheriff made himself understood — but his appeal to the chief was fruitless. Heart-of-the-Storm refused to give up the young brave. "The law must be obeyed. Tall Pine is guilty of murder and must stand trial." The Indian gutteral sounded in argument and dissention. They rose and filed slowly by to hold council. "Dismount !" The Colonel spoke impatiently. Of course, there must be pow-pows and fool delays— though murder is murder. Still, it were better that they yielded peacefully — and Tall Pme — well, the colonel had always liked the young Navajo. He would see that his case was sifted as thoroughly as possible — Black Pete wasn't such a great loss, after all — and 'twas said, he had given the Indian provocation. Yet, of course, a white man was a white man — and these red devils must be made to fear the law. Meanwhile, the Navajos sat motionless, silent, in a circle before the tepees. Tall Pine stood in the centre — the inflections of his impassioned appeal were as the sombre rise and fall of the night wind — his indomitable spirit gleamed from his melancholy eyes, like the reflection of inextinguishable watch fires. He stood erect. The eagle plume — symbol of his prowess, tipping his statued height — glistened and silvered in the moonbeams. He stretched out his arms — his shadow — his other self — the brave that lived and fought after him in the Land of Shadows — fell blue and ghostly at his side. Lingering, perhaps, for its summons — for the call of the Great Spirit ing there, and was calm. Heartof-the-Storm listened, shrouded in unfathomable silence. When the brave ceased speaking, he slowly nodded — and all rose. He spoke a moment with the interpreter. Then, from the shadow of a tepee, a woman glided swiftly forward. She threw her arms around Tall Pine— lifting to him the tragic depths of her eyes. He took her gently by the shoulders — gazing at her without speaking. With a low murmur only— with dignity, not with pity — yet, conveying a richness of consolation deeper than pity— he put her hands off him— and pointed after the retreating figures of the others. Uttering a broken, inarticulate cry, she sprang upon him, clinging to him. He turned — frowning slightly— her hands slipped from his arm. Then, as he left her, she clasped her hands, with a sob— rocking herself, with a deep, shuddering moan— but so low, that if he heard her, it seemed to him only the night breeze, shivering through the sage brush. The Indian felt it wait The half breed brought the word of the chief to the sheriff: "Heart-of-the-Storm says, the white law means death. Tonight, we hold the Death Feast. Tall Pine will give himself up at dawn to-morrow." The colonel and the sheriff held a whispered consultation. Then, they bound the chief with an oath — and rode away. Long after the thud of their pony hoofs had died in the distance, Tall Pine stood motionless, with folded arms. Already the keening of the women was rising from the tepees — like a low wind wailing over the chaparral — mingling with the melancholy chanting of old men's voices, and the beating of tom-toms. Dark figures circled round the lodge fires — the Feast of Death was begun. Dawn stole dimly over the vast South West — the pale distances shifting to reveal a landscape unimaginable, unearthly. Here, and nowhere else in God's universe, temples not made with hands — the canons in their awful unreality — spellbind and confound the soul. On the rim of a cliff, the dissolving darkness unveiled the figure of a man — standing motionless as the castled silences beyond — his arms outstretqhed — his face turned to the faint glow in the east. Then, as the sun rose in a ball of fire — transforming to undreamed glory the ineffable peaks and battlements, and vast, vague ranges of the plain— as thougih a new universe swam out from behind the screen of creation, visibly into the atmosphere— the carven image of the Indian glistened like the god of a New Day — and Tall Pine lifted his voice in a last, impassioned salutation. "Farewell, O Sun, that brings me back my shadow! And you, the Four Corners of the World, whence the Steeds of the Wind are loosed ! Farewell, thousand-leagued plain that receives me to the ashes of my ancestors! Farewell, mountains resplendent — without name — the Dwellings of the Great Spirit ! Farewell, O my Tribe— O tepees and lodge fires— O Woman of mine, Red-Light-of-the-Morning, farewell — farewell! O Chief — O Braves and young Warriors, I am going to the Land of the Shadows — the white man's medicine is stronger than ours. O Good God, receive to your hunting and fighting the shadow of Tall Pine!" Then, turning his face to the settlement, five miles away, he strode into the valley. ***** The orderly was laying breakfast. The Colonel came in — sat down — then his eye fell on the empty place opposite. "Where's 'the boy?" "Haven't seen him, sir." "Call him." i Three minutes — and the orderly was back. "He's not in his