"It's too late. That might have been done when she was a child, but now
she's a woman."
"And a mother." Then hurriedly, as though fearful that she would not
have the courage to express to Jim all her concern for Nat-u-ritch, she
said, "Jim, I wonder if we are treating her quite fairly?"
"I hope so." And in Jim's voice there was a prayer.
During the night many thoughts had haunted Diana. The soft little arms
that had clung to her the night before troubled her. What would their
loss mean to this child-woman of the woods? She decided to make one
more appeal to Jim and frankly lay before him the conflicting emotions
that had torn her since her arrival at the ranch.
"At first, Jim, I hated everybody, then I pitied you. Now I am thinking
of her." Jim listened intently. She laid her hand on his arm.
"Civilization has bred in people like you and me many needs and
interests. But this helpless child-mother has just her child and you,
and we are taking the child away. Oh, have you the right to sacrifice
her even for the child?"
Jim could not argue. He had made his decision when Petrie wrested from
him the concession to let the child go to be prepared for the life he
had no right to deny him.
"I have done the best I know how, Diana," he said, simply. "We must
leave the rest to God," and Diana knew that the words were the result of
his own bitter struggle and she could no longer doubt their wisdom.
She stood silent. Jim looked at her. Of their own love that had
endured all these years, neither spoke. It was Jim's moment of greatest
temptation. He longed to say something to her that might express what
he felt; but again he conquered himself.
"Will you take Hal?" was all he said. "I want you to get away before
the heat of the day."
And Diana left him.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
Jim waited anxiously for Tabywana, to enlist his services in protecting
Nat-u-ritch. Impatient of delay, he started towards the bunk-house. On
his way he met Bill, who informed him that Bud and his men had gone.
Tactfully, Bill avoided any reference to Bud's last threats, and Jim was
comforted with the news of the Sheriff's departure. It only remained
now for him to send Tabywana in search of Nat-u-ritch. He found the
Chief and Baco, and in a few words told Tabywana that Nat-u-ritch had
gone into the hills because he had decided to send the child away, that
she was very unhappy, and that he wished him to go to her. Unmoved, the
Indian listened, and only at the end of the words that Baco was
translating for him made answer that Jim had spoiled Nat-u-ritch, that
she must obey her master, and that he would insist upon her returning at
once. But Jim explained that he wished her to remain hidden a little
longer, until he was sure that the Sheriff had really left the
neighboring country, as he was fearful that Bud Hardy meant mischief.
Through Baco and Tabywana he would send her food and clothing, he added.
Gradually he made the Chief see that this way was the wisest, and
Tabywana left, breathing vengeance on Bud, and swearing that a war
should follow if the Sheriff dared to arrest Nat-u-ritch.
Jim found the boys assembled before the cabin on his return, while Bill
was directing the hitching of the horses to a wagon that was to carry
Diana and Hal to Fort Duchesne.
"Everything ready, Bill?" he said, bravely.
"Yes, sir, everything ready."
Jim called to Hal and Diana, who came from the house. He picked the boy
up in his arms and a sudden terror overcame him. He must be alone a
moment, to gain the courage necessary to face this last ordeal.
"Take him, Bill," he said, "while I go and get his bag," and he went
into the cabin.
The foreman nodded. He held the boy high up in his strong arms while
the men crowded around him. He must try to make it easy for the boss;
there must be no tears. Diana and Sir John, from under the porch where
they were standing, watched the men with the child, and during the years
that followed it was a memory that often recurred to them.
"Fellers," Bill began, as he enthroned Hal on his shoulder--"fellers,
he's agoin' to Duchesne--savvy? Gee whiz, don't I wish I was goin' to
see the soldiers and flags and drums and brass bands and everything!
Ain't he goin' for a fine time!"
The child answered with glee, "Sure," and the men's laughter rang out at
the child's use of their own mode of expression.
Carrying the bag, Jim came from the house. "It won't hurt anybody to
carry his belongings; it's almost empty."
Shorty sniffed as he peered into it. "'Tain't very full." Then he
threw into it the old jewel-box with the trinket which Jim had given
him. Jim saw and understood. The men had come for their final
leave-taking of the boy; they wished to prove that their animosity was
over, that they recognized that misfortune had come to them through no
fault of his.
"Hold on, Shorty." Jim tried to prevent the little fellow from getting
the valise, but Shorty took the bag out of his hand as he snapped:
"That's Hal's trunk, ain't it?"
"Yes, but--"
"It ain't yourn." Ever aggressive, Shorty finished, "You don't want to
fight the outfit the day your boy's agoin' away." And he pushed Jim
aside as he carried the valise over to Grouchy, who was holding up a
villainous-looking jack-knife to the child.
"Say, old man," the slow, lumbering ranchman labored, "you wanted this
for a long time. I wouldn't give it to you, 'cause I was afraid you
might cut yourself, but I've been a-savin' it for you. When you get
bigger, you can make things with it."
Grouchy threw the knife into the bag, while Shorty, deeply touched,
muttered, "That's the longest speech Grouchy ever pulled off." After
all, the box with its trinket had been a gift to him; he must give
something to the child that had been his very own.
"Say," he began, "I'm in on this; he's admired my saddle for a long
time."