And Shorty answered, as he flung his saddle into the wagon. "I'll bet
they 'ain't got nothin' to touch it in England."
Bill approvingly observed, "That's right; he's a cow-boy and needs a
real saddle."
Quietly Andy pressed forward and diffidently began, "Und say--und
say--und sure--the boy you know--und, by golly, he's got to have
something to remember old Andy by--fadder or no fadder." As he spoke he
drew from his belt his revolver, carefully emptied it, and held it up to
Hal, whose eyes gleamed with joy at this especially desired gift. "Maybe
dot don'd tickle him, eh?"
"Andy, is that sure for me?" Hal gasped.
"Sure," Andy said. "Und say, old man, it's a good one--und say, it's
the best ever; und, by golly, been a good frient to me, und come in
handy some day for you; und you remember old Andy by dot better than
anything."
Shorty opened the bag and dropped the revolver in. The German held out
his arms and in a trembling voice said, "Kiss me, you rascal," and the
boy jumped into his arms.
Bill, who had been listening and watching the men, was tugging at his
waistcoat. "And here's an old watch with a horse-hair chain--he's had
his eye on it for some moons. He'd 'a' had it before," he explained
confidentially to Jim, who was trying to prevent Bill from loosening it,
"only it belonged to my mother." He knelt down on the ground and opened
his arms. "And now, old man, give me a long hug. Don't ever forget your
side-partner." Bill felt he must be careful. The men were beginning to
move away, and surreptitiously to dig their knuckles into eyes that were
showing their emotion.
Elated and excited by what seemed play to him, Hal said, as he patted
the foreman, "Be good, Bill," and the men laughed as Bill answered:
"Sure I will--sure--sure."
The horses began to stamp impatiently as they grew restive under the
attack of the flies. Diana looked at Sir John. They must start
shortly, she knew; but who would make Jim realize that the final
farewell to the child must be spoken. Petrie, who through a feeling of
delicacy had kept away from Jim and the boy all morning, came to Sir
John and Diana with a whispered message from the driver, who was anxious
to make a start.
As though divining their thoughts, Jim went to Bill, who was still
holding Hal. He threw his arm around the big fellow's shoulder.
"Aren't you goin' to drive to the fort, Bill?"
"No, I think you need me more than he does."
"Oh, I'll be all right."
Jim's eyes searched the child's face. For the boy's sake he must
control the aching sense of desolation that beset him.
The cow-punchers silently made their way up to the wagon and began
adjusting its contents. No one noticed the dark, tragic face of
Nat-u-ritch peering out of the loft door down at the child and the
strangers that stood prepared to carry him away. Returning a short time
before from her hiding-place by another trail, she had eluded her
father, and crept into the barn while the men were absorbed in bestowing
their farewell gifts on the child. Hidden among the bales of straw, she
looked down on the scene. In her eyes was an almost fanatical calm, so
stoically did she watch the child. She seemed in some dumb way to have
reached a solution of her problem, but in conquering herself she had
paid heavily, and this abnormal expression of hopeless resignation which
her eyes held betrayed a terrible possibility.
Bill waited for Jim to speak. As he held the dark little face between
his hands, Jim softly whispered, "I wish his mother could see him once
before he goes; but nothing would ever reconcile her to it, I suppose.
"It's a heap sight better for her as it is," Bill brusquely said. "I
told Charley to drive like hell; the quicker they're out of sight the
better." Bill turned to the porch, where Sir John Applegate, Malcolm
Petrie, and Diana stood, and his glance told them that they must end the
strain and get away at once.
"Well, Jim," Sir John said, "our horses are tied to the corral;
everything is ready." He took Jim's hand in both of his. "Good-bye,
Jim; sorry you're not going with us."
"Good-bye, John," was all that Jim said.
Jim was conscious that the last moments he had dreaded were becoming a
tragic reality. There stood Diana ready to start on her journey; on the
other side of him Petrie advanced with out-stretched hand; while at the
back of the yard he could see the boys clustered around the wagon
waiting for the final moment. He realized that the sun was rising
higher and higher in the heavens and that it was growing hotter. He
must send them away. A strange veil, that dimmed all about him, seemed
to hang between him and his surroundings. Finally he turned to Petrie,
who stood on the other side of Bill. "Good-bye, Mr. Petrie." Jim held
his hand out to the lawyer, in front of the child, and in a low voice
said, "You've won your case against me; see that my boy gets all that is
coming to him."
Petrie gravely answered, "You may trust me, sir." Then he joined the
others at the wagon.
Jim stretched out his hands in silence to the boy. The child jumped from
Bill's shoulder and nestled against his father. Bill left them; only
Diana remained near Jim.
"And now, old man, kiss your daddy."
A troubled look crept over the child's face. It had all been great fun,
but now--he was growing frightened. His hold tightened around his
father's neck. Jim quickly saw that he must divert the boy's mind.
"Take good care of Cousin Diana, won't you?"
At this appeal the child, who was a masterful little fellow, used to
being treated as an equal by the men on the ranch, answered, "Sure."
And as Diana came to him he leaned down, smiled, and said, "I like you."
Diana smiled as she kissed him, and said, "And I love you, God bless
you!"
She could scarcely bear the look of pain in Jim's eyes as they went from
the boy's face to hers, then back again to the boy. In silence they
grasped each other's hands, then Diana walked over to Bill, who tenderly
helped her into the wagon.
Jim was alone with his boy. There was much that he wished to say, but
he dare not speak. He could see the wistful look beginning to return to
the child's face.
"Good," he said, lightly. "And now be off." Close he pressed the
child's face to his lips. "There's a brave boy--with a smile and
hurrah!"
How could he place the child in the wagon beside the waiting woman,
whose face was turned away to hide her pain! His voice dropped low and
almost broke. "Some day, when you have a son of your own, you'll know
what this means," they heard him whisper. "But no Wynnegate ever was a
quitter, and so we'll take things as they come."
Still no one turned to him. Diana felt the child being lifted in beside
her and the baby fingers fasten around hers. She turned her face to
Jim, but almost savagely he called:
"Drive on, and never look back."
And Charley, who had remembered Bill's words "to drive like hell," with
a crack and a slap let the impatient animals go. The men started after
the wagon.
"Give 'em a cheer, boys," Jim cried, and the place rang with their
shouts.
Petrie and Sir John galloped alongside the wagon, with Grouchy, Andy,
Shorty, and Bill following as fast as they could run. Cheer after cheer
sent back its echo, while Jim stood alone listening as he watched the
swaying, rumbling cart raise its cloud of dust, through which he could
barely see the men still running and hear the faint echoes of their
cries of "Good-bye, Hal."
Like a symbol of broken hope, he stood, a solitary figure in the dreary,
deserted place. His hands were still out-stretched towards the receding
wagon. The deep-tinted, rose-colored rocks glowed more and more
radiantly, until the blinding glare from the plains made Jim shield his
eyes.
"There they go"--he strained forward closer to watch the wagon--"down
into the ravine--out of sight--and out of my life forever."
As the dip in the land engulfed and shut out his last glimpse of the
travellers, he dropped inert and clinched his arms over his head, while
his heavy, dragging steps were the only sounds that broke the terrible
stillness that had fallen over the yard. Almost mechanically he reached
the bench and sank down upon it. Nat-u-ritch, from her hiding-place
above, could hear the sobs that came from the crushed and broken man.
*CHAPTER XXVII*
Nat-u-ritch stole down from the loft and crept to where Jim had stood.
Unconsciously she repeated the same picture of desolation he had made as
he stretched out his arms and strained his eyes to see the wagon
disappear down the ravine, which the Indian girl could now see far off,
like an ant on a hill, as it crawled up the dun-colored mound. Like
him, she folded her arms and stared ahead for a long time--even though
the blinding light blurred and made the landscape a chaotic meeting of
sky and earth.
But, unlike him, no sobs shook her tiny body; erect and resolute she
stood, then turned and noiselessly came down behind the weeping man. In
wondering pity she watched him, then crossed to the house and entered
it. She quickly returned with the small revolver in her hand; but her
soft-shod feet made no sound, and Jim, unconscious of her presence,
still sat with his head on his knees. As she caught sight of the tiny
moccasins the child had left lying on the bench, she wavered a moment,
but she only paused to pick them up and press them against her wildly
beating heart. She had but one thought--escape from the pain that
gnawed and tormented her.
Without the boy, and with the look she feared she must face daily in
Jim's eyes, she knew she could not endure life. There was no rebellion,
only acceptance of her fate, as she crept close behind Jim, the
moccasins covering the steel weapon. Worn out, Jim still remained with
head bowed, a physical stupor of fatigue almost dulling his sorrow.
Nat-u-ritch's quick ear heard the voices of the returning men, and she
darted across to the corral and disappeared behind the barn. But even
that did not arouse Jim.
Shorty, Andy, and Grouchy hurried after Bill, who was coming back to
look after Jim. Shorty grasped Bill's arm, wheeled him about, and
pointed in the direction the carriage had taken.
"What are they bringing them back for, Bill?" he asked.
Bill swore a mighty oath as he saw the wagon headed for the cabin, with
Bud and his posse surrounding it. He must prevent a meeting between Jim
and Bud if possible.
"Don't say a word," he whispered to the boys as he caught sight of Jim.
"We'll get him into the house."
He came down to Jim and tenderly laid his hand on his shoulder. "Jim,
old man, you haven't had any sleep; go in and rest awhile."
Jim looked up at Bill, who pulled him to his feet, then started to lead
him towards the cabin. He could fight the physical weariness no longer.
"Oh, I'll be all right soon, Bill."
Bill, as though humoring a child, said: "Sure. We've all got to get kind
of used to it. Sleep's the thing to put you right."
They reached the cabin door. Jim dully echoed, "Sleep--sure, sleep,
Bill." Then Bill closed the door on him.
"Shorty," he called, "you and Grouchy stand outside of that door, and
don't you let him out of there until we can get Bud Hardy away." He
meant to hurry and meet the wagon before it could reach the yard, but as
he spoke he heard the men and horses and knew that it was useless.
Andy, who had been watching farther down the road, ran towards him.
"Bill," he called, "Bud Hardy's here." As he spoke, Bud and his men
advanced, followed by Diana and the child, while Sir John and Petrie
stood close to them.
"Bud," Bill began, in a quick, low voice, "Jim ain't in any mood to be
trifled with to-day. What in hell do you mean by stopping these people
when I ordered you off the place?" He blurted out the words as though
fearful of the impulse that drove him to do bodily harm to the Sheriff.
With a sneer Bud answered, "I told you I would hold these people as
witnesses, and now I want Nat-u-ritch."
Before Bill could remonstrate, there was a hoarse cry from the house.
They heard Jim wildly saying, as he rushed to Bill:
"Where is it? Where is it? It's gone--gone! Who took it? Bill, did
you put that little gun back in the room as I told you?"
"That I did, boss."
As Jim stood in the yard he failed to see Diana or the child. He saw
only the great form of the Sheriff, with his men around him, and he knew
that mischief was afoot.
"You here, damn you!" He made a movement to reach Bud, but was
restrained by Shorty and Grouchy. Then he saw that the entire party had
been taken into custody. Before he could expostulate, a shot rang out.
"What was that!"
Bill ran to the barn. Jim followed him, but was stopped at the door by
Bill.
"Jim," he cried, "it's Nat-u-ritch."
Before either of them could reach the tiny form they saw Tabywana lean
over and pick up the child-woman in his arms. He had found her, but too
late.
Diana, holding the child and followed by Petrie and Sir John, drew back
into the corner of the porch. Bud and his men, who had lost their prey,
slunk away. Only his faithful men stood by Jim as Tabywana advanced,
carrying in his arms the dead Nat-u-ritch. From her hands dangled the
tiny baby shoes.
Tabywana held out the lifeless body to Jim. In death as in life, she
belonged to her master.
"Poor little mother! Poor little mother!" Jim whispered.
*CHAPTER XXVIII*
The fields were golden-tipped with mustard-flower, while a haze as
golden touched and glinted the green of the encircling hills. A riot of
vernal glory met Jim's eyes as he walked through the lanes that led to
the Towers.
Six months had passed since Diana and Hal had left him, and until now
the West with its memories had held him. He had written that he would
be with them on this day, but he wished to return quietly. Only Diana
and the child knew of his expected arrival.
The soft summer heat had brought into blossom every wild flower in glen
and roadway; the great trees seemed heavy with the fragrant breezes that
wafted through their leaves. As he had gone from home, so he wished to
return to it--alone. A tumult of emotions battled within him as he
approached the entrance to the Towers. He found the heavy doors opened
wide as though expectant of a visitor. As he stood on the threshold the
clock of the church-tower struck twelve. It was noon--the high noon of
his life.