"If you can make the sacrifice, she must. They say Indians are stoics."
"I can understand the reason for it, Petrie, man. It will seem a
needless cruelty to her. She's almost as much of a child as Hal. I'll
try--I'll try."
Holding Hal by the hand, he walked to the cabin and called:
"Nat-u-ritch, Nat-u-ritch, come here, little woman. I want you."
*CHAPTER XXIII*
Nat-u-ritch, with slow impassiveness, obeyed. She came from the house
with hardly a glance at the stranger. She had changed but little; still
slender and childish in form, motherhood and the past five years seemed
to have left no mark upon her save, perhaps, for a more marked
wistfulness of expression, especially when she looked at Jim and the
boy. Her life was complete; physical deprivations or disappointments
mattered little to her. Taught by Jim the ways of civilization, she
tried to apply them to her surroundings, but it seemed to her a waste of
the golden hours when she might be following her master instead across
the plains or playing with her child. It was almost piteous to see how
she controlled the instincts of her savage desire for freedom, and in
her primitive way cared for the little cabin so as to please Jim.
Malcolm Petrie noticed at once the difference between Nat-u-ritch and
the other Indian women whom he had seen during the past days, and was
impressed by it.
Hal, at sight of his mother, quickly responded to her out-stretched
hand.
"Nat-u-ritch, this is my te-guin--my friend," and Jim indicated Petrie.
She inclined her head to the solicitor and said, "How?" As her eyes met
Petrie's shrewd glance an instinctive apprehension caused her to tighten
her arm about the child.
"Te-guin--big chief from out yonder--over the big water," Jim explained,
but her unflinching gaze made it difficult for him to go on. He
whispered to Petrie: "I don't know how to do it---I don't know how to do
it." Then he summoned all his courage, and with a forced smile said,
pleasantly, as though humoring a child, "Nat-u-ritch, te-guin--big
chief--come for little Hal."
She flung her arms about the sturdy little fellow, and a sharp
exclamation was her only answer.
"Pretty soon make Hal big chief. Touge wayno--te-guin--good
friend--take Hal long way off." A shudder ran through her. She began
to grasp what the stranger's presence meant. He was of her boy's
father's race, and for too long she had forgotten, what in the beginning
had so often troubled her, that Jim would some day want to return to his
own people. This had been her great fear, but his kindness all these
years had lulled to rest that ache of the early days.
While these thoughts tormented her, she could hear Jim still explaining.
"Long trail, heap long trail--over mountains, heap big
mountains--Washington."
She slipped the child to the other side of her, that he might be farther
away from the silent man who was bringing this woe to her, and her
clutch grew tighter at the word "Washington." Jim explained to Petrie,
"Washington means a lot to them." Then he came closer to Nat-u-ritch as
he said, impressively:
"Big Father--send for little Hal. Say make him big chief--te-guin cross
wide water--heap big boat--Hal see the rising sun. Pretty soon, some
day, Hal heap wickyup--heap cattle--heap ponies--pretty soon heap big
chief."
He waited the result of his words. He thought to appeal to her pride
and ambition for the boy; but she only shook her head and gazed at him
like an affrighted animal whose young is about to be torn from her.
Jim's fortitude began to desert him. "She doesn't understand. She
can't--she can't," he almost moaned, as he turned away, while his
clinched hands and the stiffening of his body showed the strain that was
proving almost too great for him. "This is a hard business, Mr.
Petrie," and Petrie could feel the vibrant emotion of these two victims
of fate. As Jim moved a step away, Nat-u-ritch, still holding the boy,
started forward and caught his arm as though to hold him back. Her mind
was in a daze--she could utter no word; but Jim understood the
pantomime.
"She thinks I'm going, too," he said, and hastened to explain away her
anxiety.
"No, Nat-u-ritch--Jim stay here always with you." Something of her
agony was relieved and she loosed her hold on him. "Always with you,"
Jim repeated tenderly, looking into the tragic eyes as she eagerly
followed every word. "Only little Hal."
As Nat-u-ritch fully grasped the meaning of the words, there broke from
her lips the one English word "No!" which rang out on the evening air
with a wild, dry sob of protest. It was the anguished cry of universal
motherhood. The Indian woman sank on her knees, with her arms about the
boy, her face buried on his breast. The crouching figure betrayed the
old savage instinct of the female covering her young from the ruthless
hand that would snatch it from her.
This time both men turned away. A purple gray light fell over the yard,
the last traces of the sun's glory disappeared, and the air grew chilly.
Jim was the first to speak. Kindly, but as a master who must have
obedience, he said; "Nat-u-ritch, I have taken counsel. My heart is
good. My word is wise. I have spoken. Go." He gently disengaged the
boy from her grasp. Nat-u-ritch looked long into Jim's eyes, and as she
met his immovable determination, without a struggle, and with a calmness
terrible to see, she released the child.
Jim lifted her to her feet. With her big, stricken eyes still fastened
on him, she stood silent for a moment; then the bent, half-stumbling
figure slunk past him. Jim dared not watch Nat-u-ritch, though he could
hear her heavy breathing and the flapping of her beaded robe against the
ground as she crossed to the stable. Once Petrie saw her sway, but she
had steadied herself before he could reach her. As she reached the
corral she stopped, and, turning, flung out her arms in appeal to Jim;
but his back was towards her, the child hidden in his embrace. Then he
heard the quick patter of her feet as she fled out into the night--away
from these aliens, back to the hills to abandon herself to her grief.
As Jim rose he resolved that when the boy had gone he would try to make
her understand that this sacrifice was forced upon them, that for the
child's sake they must both bear it, and in the future she should
receive even greater care and comfort from him.
"This is harder on her than on me, Petrie," he said, as he lifted Hal up
on the bench and knelt beside him.
"Where is she going?" Petrie asked, as he walked towards the corral
behind which she had disappeared.
"Out into the hills to fight it out alone. Mr. Petrie, this is going to
be hard on the boy, too. He is a shy little prairie bird and has been a
great pet."
He was thinking that perhaps he could arrange to let Nat-u-ritch have
the boy a little longer and keep Petrie with them awhile. "It would be
rough on him to leave us all so suddenly and go away with a perfect
stranger. Can't you stay here a week or two to let him get used to
you?" Jim proposed. "By that time you will have won his confidence."
Petrie answered, "I am sorry, but that is impossible. I have overstayed
my time some weeks. I left important business interests in London to
undertake this mission, and I must return at once."
"But," Jim pleaded, "It can't be as bad as that. Well, then, only a
week."
"I am sorry, but I have already used up all the time I can spare, in
finding you. If the boy goes with me it must be now." Petrie knew that
Diana was waiting for Jim's arrival; he must reach her with the news as
soon as possible. Every hour was of moment to them. She had been
persistent in her desire to accompany him, and two days had passed since
he left her at Fort Duchesne. He feared some complication might arise
from her woman's impatience, and as it was, he would not be able to
leave the ranch before daybreak. Night was already beginning to close
in on them.
Jim began to realize the wisdom of Petrie's decision. It would only
prolong the agony. He must make it easy for the boy; afterwards--well,
afterwards-- But he dared not picture the desolation which would be
his.
"Hal, my boy, my darling, I must tell you something. You know you want
to be a soldier like the ones you saw at Fort Duchesne. Remember? With
the yellow plumes and tassels and swords and things?"
The boy was growing sleepy, but at these words roused himself and
delightedly exclaimed, "Yes, yes!"
"Well, Mr. Petrie is going to make you one." Hal looked over in
approval at their visitor who was to make his dream come true. "Only,"
Jim continued, "you'll wear a fine red coat instead of a blue one, and
Mr. Petrie's going to make you a big, fine soldier man. So daddy's
going to let you go. Isn't that fine?"
"You, too, daddy?" the child questioned.
"No, dear; I can't go. When you go away there'll be nobody but me to
take care of little momie."
"I won't go alone," Hal protested.
"Yes, dear, if father wants you to," Jim persuaded.
But the child only cried, "I won't--I won't--I won't!" as he flung his
arms about his father's neck.
Jim felt it would be useless to argue further now. It was past the boy's
bedtime, so he only said, coaxingly, "Yes, yes, you will." A scheme to
help the boy to bear the separation began to formulate in his mind.
They should take him away while he was asleep, and he would send Big
Bill along with him for a few days if necessary.
"Now, old man, tell Mr. Petrie good-night."
The child did as he was bid.
Quite hopefully Jim went on talking to him as they crossed to the cabin.
"All right. And now daddy will undress you and hear your prayers, and
we'll have our usual romp, and then the sandman will come." Then, as
the sleepy child, yawning, drooped his head, Jim lifted him in his arms
and cried: "Kiss me, dear. Oh, don't ever forget your daddy!"
So engrossed was he that he failed to hear in the distance sounds that
told that visitors were arriving at the ranch. But Petrie, who was ever
alert, had been aware of the first clatter of the horses' hoofs, and now
turned in the direction from which came Big Bill's voice, high above all
the others, saying:
"Well, I guess not. Ain't none of us ever forgot that day at Maverick.
My, he'll be glad to see you!--Mr. Carston," he called.
But it was the triumphant call of "Jim, Jim!" that made him turn to see
Diana. In it was all the hope that had been buried so long--all the
loving joy which she meant to lavish on the man whose starved life had
been one long sacrifice for her She had imagined this moment--lived it
again and again, and now it was hers.
Gracious and beautiful she stood in the dim light, holding out her hands
in welcome. Behind her stood Sir John, while Petrie's face betrayed the
surprise that he felt, although he knew he had been fearing such an
occurrence. Jim saw them all. One hand still kept its hold on the
child, who at the voices had hidden behind his father; he raised the
other to his head. He simply spoke the name "Diana."
"Why, Jim, I don't believe you're glad to see us!" Diana cried, as he
made no attempt to take her hand.
"Oh yes," he answered. "I'm dazed, Diana--dazed." Then he turned in
appeal to Malcolm Petrie. "Petrie?" he questioned. It would have been
too cruel if this had taken place with Petrie's knowledge, but he could
not doubt the truth of the solicitor's words.
"This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you, Mr. Carston."
Diana smiled at Petrie. She had taken her own way in spite of his and
Sir John's remonstrance. But they could not understand her--Jim would.
What did they know of the Fairies' Corner--of the long torment she and
Jim had shared?
"We simply couldn't wait any longer, Jim. We've come to take you
home--you'll come home now, Jim, won't you? Come home?" And as she
spoke she meant all that the word implied in its completeness. She was
suing Jim to let her give him all that he had desired in the long ago.
"Home--home," Jim repeated. Was he always to be tortured by what he
never could have? His eyes fell on Hal, who was peering out from behind
him. As Diana saw the tiny figure in its strange garments, she
involuntarily exclaimed:
"Oh, what a dear boy!"
The child stared at her.
Smiling, she knelt before him. "Whose little boy are you, dear?" she
asked.
Hal glanced at his father and his look said, "Shall I go to the strange
lady?" Jim nodded his head. Shyly the child advanced towards her.
"Jim's boy," he said.
Diana was holding the child's hands in hers. At the words she lifted
her face to Jim and mechanically repeated, "Jim's boy?" Then she looked
from the dark head, with its curious foreign beauty, up to the man who
stood there with blanched face and sorrow-stricken eyes. Gradually she
began to comprehend the meaning of the boy's words. Again she mutely
questioned Jim.
He came to the boy and laid his hands on the little fellow's head.
"Yes, Diana. My boy--my son."
She had dropped the child's hands at his first word. She looked about
her, but everything was dim and ghostly in the dim light. She felt the
child's hand on her sleeve. She could see only Jim's eyes in the boy's
face inquiringly regarding her. Above him, Jim still stood, silent and
constrained. Petrie and Sir John, with Big Bill, had left them. Only a
moment did she waver, then with a quick, impetuous cry she caught the
boy to her heart, and in that cry was expressed all the starved
maternity of her barren life.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
Jim and Diana sat late into the night while she listened to the story of
his life in the West. Urged by Sir John, it was arranged that she should
leave the ranch the following day. Bitter as was her disappointment,
Diana accepted it without comment. Now her concern was chiefly for the
boy, and she eagerly awaited Nat-u-ritch's return, hoping she might help
the little woman to see the wisdom of making this sacrifice for her
child's advantage.
Down the hills towards midnight Nat-u-ritch stole, an elf-like creature,
with her clinking, beaded robe gleaming in the moonlight. Past the
men's dwelling she went, and on to the cabin for a last sight of her
sleeping boy. From his spying-ground Bill saw her, but made no effort
to detain her. He knew that the arrival of Jim's kinsmen had caused a
strange turmoil in his life, and made him forget that Bud Hardy might
still prove a menace to him. So Bill kept his faithful vigil; but once
fatigue caught him and he closed his tired eyes for a brief space. It
was just the moment that Kid Clarke, the Sheriff's watcher, had been
waiting for. Unobserved, he slipped away to follow the trail that
Nat-u-ritch had taken when she fled from the house in the afternoon.
Bud Hardy had cautioned him not to lose sight of the squaw, and to
report to him in the early dawn at the cabin. Like Bill, he saw
Nat-u-ritch make her way to the cabin and saw her return; then, as he
felt secure that she was safely out of the way, he lay in the loft near
the cabin and waited for Bud.
But Nat-u-ritch had not succeeded in seeing her child. As she peered
into the windows of the cabin she saw a beautiful woman and another
stranger seated near Jim. For a long time she watched him as he talked
to the woman, who now and then went to the door of the room in which the
child lay, and listened as though afraid that their voices might disturb
the boy. The woman's presence became an added complication in the
impending tragedy that engulfed Nat-u-ritch. She longed to creep into
the room and kneel beside Jim, to beg to be allowed just to be near him;
but she was afraid--afraid of the curious glances of the strangers.
Intently she watched the woman and saw the look on Jim's face as he
talked long and earnestly to her. How he had changed! She remembered
him as the young, strong, handsome buck whom she had met at the
bear-dance. For the first time she seemed to see the whitened hair, the
tired, patient eyes, and the marks of sorrow on his face. Once she saw
him lean forward and gently argue with the white woman. She dimly
understood the difference between his attitude towards this woman of his
own race and to her. Gradually a new pain was added to the hurt that
tried her endurance; she could not explain it, but Jim had never looked
at her like that. He treated her as he did little Hal, while he
regarded the woman with him as his equal. She began to sob piteously,
like a child who is suddenly asked to face something it cannot
understand. It was useless to remain there longer. Back she hurried to
the hills, more desolate than when she started to see her child.
Through the long hours that followed she made no effort to reason or to
control her emotions, but abandoned herself to her grief.
Just before daylight Tabywana crept silently along the road and hid
behind the wagon that stood near the house. He had been following Bud
Hardy, whose early visit to the cabin had aroused his suspicions.
Although Jim had dismissed his advice yesterday, the Chief was
determined to see him again as soon as daylight should come. He was
impatient to disclose to Jim the fear that tormented him for
Nat-u-ritch's safety. As he watched for the first faint streaks of
dawn, from his hiding-place Tabywana saw Bud Hardy emerge from the men's
quarters and steal towards the cabin. Bud tiptoed about the place, then
crossed to the loft and gave three short whistles. Almost immediately
Kid Clarke appeared and leaned out of the loft door.
"Well?" Bud called, as Clarke, dazed, rubbed his sleepy eyes.
"Nat-u-ritch has disappeared--her trail leads to the hills. Carston
hasn't been to bed at all. He went away about half an hour ago."