CHAPTER X.

THE TELLING OF A STORY.

"But you promised! Yes, you did, Mr. Stuart--didn't he, Mrs. Hardy?

There, that settles it; so you see this is your evening to tell a

story."

The protracted twilight, with its cool grays and purples, had finally

faded away over the snow, long after the stars took up their watch for

the night. The air was so still and so chill that the bugle-call at

sunset had sounded clearly along the little valley from camp, and Fred

thought the nearness of sound made a house seem so much more home-like.

After the bugle notes and the long northern twilight, had come the

grouping of the young folks about the fire, and Fred's reminder that

this was to be a "story" night.

"But," declared Stuart, "I can think of none, except a very wonderful

one of an old lady who lived in a shoe, and another of a house

marvelously constructed by a gentleman called Jack--"

Here a clamor arose from the rebels in the audience, and from Fred the

proposal that he should read or tell them of what he was working on at

present, and gaining at last his consent.

"But I must bring down some notes in manuscript," he added, "as part of

it is only mapped out, and my memory is treacherous."

"I will go and get them," offered Fred. "No, don't you go! I'm afraid to

let you out of the room, lest you may remember some late business at

camp and take French leave. Is the manuscript on the table in your room?

I'll bring it."

And scarcely waiting either assent or remonstrance, she ran up the

stairs, returning immediately with hands full of loose sheets and two

rolls of manuscript.

"I confiscated all there was in reach," she laughed. "Here they are; you

pay no money, and you take your choice."

She was such a petite, pretty little creature, her witchy face alight

with the confidence of pleasure to come; and looking down at her, he

remarked:

"You look so much a spirit of inspiration, Miss Fred, that you had

better not make such a sweeping offer, lest I might be tempted to choose

you."

"And have a civil war on your hands," warned Rachel, "with the whole

camp in rebellion."

"Not much; they don't value me so highly," confessed Fred. "They would

all be willing to give me away."

"A willingness only seconded by your own." This from the gallant

Lieutenant on the settee. "My child, this is not leap-year, and in the

absence of your parent I--"

"Yes, I know. But as Captain Holt commands in papa's absence, I don't

see what extra responsibility rests on your shoulders. Now, Mr. Stuart,

all quiet along the Kootenai; go ahead."

"Not an easy thing to do," he answered ruefully, trying to sort the

jumbled lot of papers she had brought him, and beginning by laying the

rolls of manuscript on the table back of him, as if disposing of them.

"You have seized on several things that we could not possibly wade

through in one evening, but here is the sketch I spoke of. It is of

camp-life, by the way, and so open to criticism from you two veterans.

It was suggested by a story I heard told at the Fort."

Just then a wild screech of terror sounded from the yard, and then an

equally wild scramble across the porch. Everyone jumped to their feet,

but Rachel reached the door first, just as Aunty Luce, almost gray from

terror, floundered in.

"They's come!" she panted, in a sort of paralysis of fright and triumph

of prophecy. "I done tole all you chillen! Injuns! right here--I seed

'em!"

Hardy reached for his gun, the others doing the same; but the girl at

the door had darted out into the darkness.

"Rachel!" screamed Tillie, but no Rachel answered. Even Hardy's call was

not heeded; and he followed her with something like an oath on his lips,

and Stuart at his elbow.

Outside, it seemed very dark after the brightness within, and they

stopped on the porch an instant to guide themselves by sound, if there

was any movement.

There was--the least ominous of sounds--a laugh. The warlike attitude of

all relaxed somewhat, for it was so high and clear that it reached even

those within doors; and then, outlined against the background of snow,

Stuart and Hardy could see two forms near the gate--a tall and a short

one, and the shorter one was holding to the sleeve of the other and

laughing.

"You and Aunty Luce are a fine pair of soldiers," she was saying; "both

beat a retreat at the first glimpse of each other. And you can't leave

after upsetting everyone like this; you must come in the house and

reassure them. Come on!"

Some remonstrance was heard, and at the sound of the voice Hardy stepped

out.

"Hello, Genesee!" he said, with a good deal of relief in his manner;

"were you the scarecrow? Come in to the light, till we make sure we're

not to be scalped."

After a few words with the girl that the others could not hear, he

walked beside her to the porch.

"I'm mighty sorry, Hardy," he said as they met. "I was a little shaky

about Mowitza to-day, and reckoned I'd better make an extra trip over;

but I didn't count on kicking up a racket like this--didn't even spot

the woman till she screeched and run."

"That's all right," said Hardy reassuringly. "I'm glad you came, whether

intentionally or by accident. You know I told you the other day--"

"Yes--I know."

Rachel and Stuart had entered the house ahead of them, and all had

dropped back into their chosen points of vantage for the evening when

assurance was given that the Indians belonged to Aunty's imagination;

but for those short seconds of indecision Tillie had realized, as never

before, that they were really within the lines of the Indian country.

Aunty Luce settled herself sulkily in the corner, a grotesque figure,

with an injured air, eyeing Genesee with a suspicion not a whit allayed

when she recognized the man who had brought the first customs of war to

them--taking nocturnal possession of the best room.

"No need tell me he's a friend o' you all!" she grunted. "Nice sort o'

friend you's comin' to, I say--lives with Injuns; reckon I heard--umph!"

This was an aside to Tillie, who was trying to keep her quiet, and not

succeeding very well, much to the amusement of the others within

hearing, especially Fred.

Genesee had stopped in the outer room, speaking with Hardy; and,

standing together on the hearth, in the light of the fire, it occurred

to the group in the other room what a fine pair they made--each a piece

of physical perfection in his way.

"A pair of typical frontiersmen," said Murray, and Miss Fred was pleased

to agree, and add some praise on her own account.

"Why, that man Genesee is really handsome," she whispered; "he isn't

scowling like sin, as he was when I saw him before. Ask him in here,

Mrs. Tillie; I like to look at him."

Mrs. Tillie had already made a movement toward him. Perhaps the steady,

questioning gaze of Rachel had impelled her to follow what was really

her desire, only--why need the man be so flagrantly improper? Tillie had

a great deal of charity for black sheep, but she believed in their

having a corral to themselves, and not allowing them the chance of

smutching the spotless flocks that have had good luck and escaped the

mire. She was a good little woman, a warm-hearted one; and despite her

cool condemnation of his wickedness when he was absent, she always found

herself, in his presence, forgetting all but their comradeship of that

autumn, and greeting him with the cordiality that belonged to it.

"I shall pinch myself for this in the morning," she prophesied, even

while she held out her hand and reminded him that he had been a long

time deciding about making them a visit.

Her greeting was much warmer than her farewell had been the morning he

left--possibly because of the relief in finding it was not a "hostile"

at their gate. And he seemed more at ease, less as if he need to put

himself on the defensive--an attitude that had grown habitual to him, as

it does to many who live against the rulings of the world.

She walked ahead of him into the other room, thus giving him no chance

to object had he wanted to; and after a moment's hesitation he followed

her, and noticed, without seeming to look at any of them, that Rachel

stood back of Stuart's chair, and that Stuart was looking at him

intently, as if for recognition. On the other side, he saw the

Lieutenant quietly lay his hand on Miss Fred's wrist that was in shadow,

just as she arose impulsively to offer her hand to the man whom she

found was handsome when he had the aid of a razor. A beard of several

weeks' growth had covered his face at their first meeting; now there was

only a heavy mustache left. But she heeded that silent pressure of the

wrist more than she would a spoken word, and instead of the proffered

hand there was a little constrained smile of recognition, and a hope

given that Aunty Luce had not upset his nerves with her war-cries.

He saw it all the moment he was inside the door--the refined face of

Stuart, with the graciousness of manner so evidently acceptable to all,

the sheets of manuscript still in his fingers, looking as he stood there

like the ruling spirit of the cheery circle; and just outside that

circle, though inside the door, he--Genesee--stood alone, the fact

sharply accented by Miss Fred's significant movement; and with the

remembrance of the fact came the quick, ever-ready spirit of bravado,

and his head was held a trifle higher as he smiled down at her in

apparent unconcern.

"If it is going to make Aunty Luce feel more comfortable to have

company, I'm ready to own up that my hair raised the hat off my head at

first sight of her--isn't quite settled into place yet;" and he ran his

fingers through the mass of thick, dark hair. "How's that, Aunty?"

"Umph!" she grunted, crouching closer to the wall, and watching him

distrustfully from the extreme corner of her eye.

"Have you ever been scared so badly you couldn't yell, Aunty?" he asked,

with a bland disregard of the fact that she was just then in danger of

roasting herself on the hearth for the purpose of evading him. "No?

That's the way you fixed me a little while back, sure enough. I was

scared too badly to run, or they never would have caught me."

The only intelligible answer heard from her was: "Go 'long, you!"

He did not "go 'long." On the contrary, he wheeled about in Tillie's

chair, and settled himself as if that corner was especially attractive,

and he intended spending the evening in it--a suggestion that was a

decided surprise to all, even to Rachel, remembering his late

conservatism.

Stuart was the only one who realized that it was perhaps a method of

proving by practical demonstration the truth of his statement that he

was a Pariah among the class who received the more refined character

with every welcome. It was a queer thing for a man to court slights, but

once inside the door, his total unconcern of that which had been a

galling mortification to him was a pretty fair proof of Stuart's theory.

He talked Indian wars to Hardy, and Indian love-songs to Hardy's wife.

He coolly turned his attention to Lieutenant Murray, with whom his

acquaintance was the slightest, and from the Lieutenant to Miss Fred,

who was amused and interested in what was, to her, a new phase of a

"squaw man;" and her delight was none the less keen because of the

ineffectual attempts in any way to suppress this very irregular

specimen, whose easy familiarity was as silencing as his gruff curtness

had been the day they met him first.

Beyond an occasional remark, his notice was in no way directed to

Rachel--in fact, he seemed to avoid looking at her. He was much more

interested in the other two ladies, who by degrees dropped into a

cordiality on a par with that of Aunty Luce; and he promptly took

advantage of it by inviting Miss Fred to go riding with him in the

morning.

The man's impudence and really handsome face gave Fred a wicked desire

to accept, and horrify the Lieutenant and Tillie; but one glance at that

little matron told her it would not do.

"I have an engagement to ride to-morrow," she said rather hurriedly,

"else--"

"Else I should be your cavalier," he laughed. "Ah, well, there are more

days coming. I can wait."

A dead silence followed, in which Rachel caught the glance Genesee

turned on Stuart--a smile so mirthless and with so much of bitter irony

in it that it told her plainly as words that the farce they had sat

through was understood by those two men, if no others; and, puzzled and

eager to break the awkward silence, she tried to end it by stepping into

the breach.

"You have totally forgotten the story you were to tell us," she said,

pointing to the sheets of manuscript in Stuart's hand; "if we are to

have it to-night, why not begin?"

"Certainly; the story, by all means," echoed Fred. "We had it scared out

of our heads, I guess, but our nerves are equal to it now. Are you fond

of stories, Mr.--Mr. Genesee?"

"Uncommonly."

"Well, Mr. Stuart was about to read us one just as you came in: one he

wrote since he came up in these wilds--at the Fort, didn't you say, Mr.

Stuart? You know," she added, turning again to Genesee--"you know Mr.

Stuart is a writer--a romancer."

"Yes," he answered slowly, looking at the subject of their discourse as

if examining something rare and curious; "I should reckon--he--might

be."

The contempt in the tone sent the hot blood to Stuart's face, his eyes

glittering as ominously as Genesee's own would in anger. An instant

their gaze met in challenge and retort, and then the sheets of paper

were laid deliberately aside.

"I believe, after all, I will read you something else," he said,

reaching for one of the rolls of manuscript on the table; "that is, with

your permission. It is not a finished story, only the prologue. I wrote

it in the South, and thought I might find material for the completion of

it up here; perhaps I may."

"Let us have that, by all means," urged Tillie.

"What do you call it?"

"I had not thought of a title, as the story was scarcely written with

the idea of publication. The theme, however, which is pretty fairly

expressed in the quotation at the beginning, may suggest a title. I will

leave that to my audience."

"And we will all put on our thinking-caps and study up a title while you

tell the story, and when it is ended, see which has the best one to

offer. It will be a new sort of game with which to test our

imaginations. Go on. What is the quotation, to begin with?"

To the surprise of the listeners, he read that old command from

Deuteronomy, written of brother to brother:

"Thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray;

thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother.

"And with all lost things of thy brother's, which he hath lost

and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise.

"In any case thou shalt deliver him the pledge again when the

sun goeth down."

Stuart ceased after those lines, and looked for comment. He saw enough

in the man's face opposite him.

"Oh, go on," said Rachel. "Never mind about the suggestions in that

heading--it is full of them; give us the story."

"It is only the prologue to a story," he reminded her; and with no

further comment began the manuscript.

Its opening was that saddest of all things to the living--a

death-bed--and that most binding of all vows--a promise given to the

dying.

There was drawn the picture of a fragile, fair little lady, holding in

her chilling fingers the destiny of the lives she was about to leave

behind--young lives--one a sobbing, wondering girl of ten, and two boys;

the older perhaps eighteen, an uncouth, strong-faced youth, who clasped

hands with another boy several years younger, but so fair that few would

think them brothers, and only the more youthful would ever have been

credited as the child of the little woman who looked so like a white

lily.

The other was the elder son--an Esau, however, who was favorite with

neither father nor mother; with no one, in fact, who had ever known the

sunny face and nature of the more youthful--an impulsive, loving

disposition that only shone the brighter by contrast with the

darker-faced, undemonstrative one whom even his mother never understood.

And the shadow of that misunderstanding was with them even at the

death-bed, where the Jacob sobbed out his grief in passionate protests

against the power that would rob him, and the Esau stood like a statue

to receive her commands. Back of them was the father, smothering his own

grief and consoling his favorite, when he could, and the one witness to

the seal that was set on the three young lives.

Her words were not many--she was so weak--but she motioned to the girl

beside the bed. "I leave her to you," she said, looking at them both,

but the eyes, true to the feeling back of them, wandered to the fairer

face and rested there. "The old place will belong to you two ere many

years--your father will perhaps come after me;" and she glanced lovingly

toward the man whom all the world but herself had found cold and hard in

nature. "I promised long ago--when her mother died--that she should

always have a home, and now I have to leave the trust to you, my sons."

"We will keep it," said the steady voice of Esau, as he sat like an

automaton watching her slowly drifting from them; while Jacob, on his

knees, with his arms about her, was murmuring tenderly, as to a child,

that all should be as she wished--her trust was to be theirs always.

"And if either of you should fail or forget, the other must take the

care on his own shoulders. Promise me that too, because--"

The words died away in a whisper, but her eyes turned toward the Esau.

He knew too bitterly what it meant. Though only a boy, he was a wild

one--people said a bad one. His father had pronounced him the only one

of their name who was not a gentleman. He gambled and he drank; his home

seemed the stables, his companions, fast horses and their fast masters;

and in the eyes of his mother he read, as never before, the effect that

life had produced. His own mother did not dare trust the black sheep of

the family, even though he promised at her death-bed.

A wild, half-murderous hate arose in him at the knowledge--a hate

against his elegant, correctly mannered father, whose cold condemnation

had long ago barred him out from his mother's sympathy, until even at

her death-bed he felt himself a stranger--his little mother--and he had

worshiped her as the faithful do their saints, and like them, afar off.

But even the hate for his father was driven back at the sight of the

wistful face, and the look that comes to eyes but once.

"We promise--I promise that, so help me God!" he said earnestly, and

then bent forward for the first time, his voice breaking as he spoke.

"Mother! mother! say just once that you trust--that you believe in me!"

Her gaze was still on his face; it was growing difficult to move the

eyes at will, and the very intensity of his own feelings may have held

her there. Her eyes widened ever so little, as if at some revelation

born to her by that magnetism, and then--"My boy, I trust--"

The words again died in a whisper; and raising his head with a long

breath of relief, he saw his father drop on his knees by the younger

son. Their arms were about each other and about her. A few broken,

disjointed whispers; a last smile upward, beyond them, a soft, sighing

little breath, after which there was no other, and then the voice of the

boy, irrepressible in his grief, as his love, broke forth in passionate

despair, and was soothed by his father, who led him sobbing and

rebellious from the bedside--both in their sorrow forgetting that third

member of the family who sat so stoically through it all, until the

little girl, their joint trust, half-blind with her own tears, saw him

there so still and as pathetically alone as the chilling clay beside

him. Trying to say some comforting words, she spoke to him, but received

no answer. She had always been rather afraid of this black sheep--he was

so morose about the house, and made no one love him except the horses;

but the scene just past drew her to him for once without dread.

"Brother," she whispered, calling him by the name his mother had left

her; "dear brother, don't you sit there like that;" and a vague terror

came to her as he made no sign. "You--you frighten me."

She slipped her hand about his neck with a child's caressing sympathy,

and then a wild scream brought the people hurrying into the room.

"He is dead!" she cried, as she dropped beside him; "sitting there cold

as stone, and we thought he didn't care! And he is dead--dead!"

But he was not dead--the physician soon assured them of that. It was

only a cataleptic fit. The emotion that had melted the one brother to

tears had frozen the other into the closest semblance to stone that life

can reach, and still be life.

The silence was thrilling as Stuart's voice ceased, and he stooped for

the other pages laid by his chair.

A feeling that the story on paper could never convey was brought to

every listener by the something in his voice that was not tears, but

suggested the emotion back of tears. They had always acknowledged the

magnetism of the man, but felt that he was excelling himself in this

instance. Tillie and Fred were silently crying. Rachel was staring very

steadily ahead of her, too steadily to notice that the hand laid on

Genesee's revolver at the commencement of the story had gradually

relaxed and dropped listless beside him. All the strength in his body

seemed to creep into his eyes as he watched Stuart, trusting as much to

his eyes as his ears for the complete comprehension of the object in or

back of that story. In the short pause the author, with one sweeping

glance, read his advantage--that he was holding in the bonds of sympathy

this man whom he could never conquer through an impersonal influence.

The knowledge was a ten-fold inspiration--the point to be gained was so

great to him; and with his voice thrilling them all with its intensity,

he read on and on.

The story? Its finish was the beginning of this one; but it was told

with a spirit that can not be transmitted by ink and paper, for the

teller depended little on his written copy. He knew it by heart--knew

all the tenderness of a love-story in it that was careless of the future

as the butterflies that coquette on a summer's day, passing and

repassing with a mere touch of wings, a challenge to a kiss, and then

darting hither and yon in the chase that grows laughing and eager, until

each flash of white wings in the sun bears them high above the heads of

their comrades, as the divine passion raises all its votaries above the

commonplace. Close and closer they are drawn by the spirit that lifts

them into a new life; high and higher, until against the blue sky there

is a final flash of white wings. It is the wedding by a kiss, and the

coquettings are over--the sky closes in. They are a world of their own.

Such a love story of summer was told by him in the allegory of the

butterflies; but the young heart throbbing through it was that of the

woman-child who had wept while the two brothers had clasped hands and

accepted her as the trust of the dying; and her joyous teacher of love

had been the fair-haired, fine-faced boy whose grief had been so great

and whose promises so fervent. It is a very old story, but an

ever-pathetic one--that tragedy of life; and likewise this one, without

thought of sin, with only a fatal fondness on her part, a fatal desire

for being loved on his, and a season's farewell to be uttered, of which

they could speak no word--the emotions that have led to more than one

tragedy of soul. And one of the butterflies in this one flitted for many

days through the flowers of her garden, shy, yet happy, whispering over

and over, "His wife, his wife!" while traveling southward, the other

felt a passion of remorse in his heart, and resolved on multitudinous

plans for the following of a perfection of life in the future.

All this he told--too delicately to give offense, yet too unsparingly

not to show that the evil wrought in a moment of idle pastime, of joyous

carelessness, is as fatal in its results as the most deliberate act of

preconceived wickedness.

And back of the lives and loves of those two, with their emotional

impulses and joyous union of untutored hearts, there arose, unloved and

seemingly unloving, the quiet, watchful figure of the Esau.

Looking at his life from a distance, and perhaps through eyes of

remorse, the writer had idealized that one character, while he had only

photographed the others; had studied out the deeds back of every decided

action, and discovered, or thought he had, that it was the lack of

sympathy in his home-life had made a sort of human porcupine of him, and

none had guessed that, back of the keen darts, there beat a pulse hungry

for words such as he begged from his mother at the last--and receiving,

was ready to sacrifice every hope of his, present or future, that he

might prove himself worthy of the trust she had granted him, though so

late.

Something in the final ignoring of self and the taking on his own

shoulders the responsibilities of those two whom his mother had

loved--something in all that, made him appear a character of heroic

proportions, viewed from Stuart's point of view. He walked through those

pages as a live thing, the feeling in the author's voice testifying to

his own earnestness in the portrayal--an earnestness that seemed to gain

strength as he went along, and held his listeners with convincing power

until the abrupt close of the scene between those two men in the old New

Orleans house.

Everyone felt vaguely surprised and disturbed when he finished--it was

all so totally unlike Stuart's stories with which he had entertained

them before. They were unprepared for the emotions provoked; and there

was in it, and in the reading, a suggestion of something beyond all that

was told.

The silence was so long that Stuart himself was the first to lift his

eyes to those opposite, and tried to say carelessly:

"Well?"

His face was pale, but not more so than that of Genesee, who, surprised

in that intent gaze, tried to meet his eyes steadily, but failed,

faltered, wavered, and finally turned to Rachel, as if seeking in some

way his former assurance. And what he saw there was the reaching out of

her hand until it touched Stuart's shoulder with a gesture of approving

comradeship.

"Good!" she said tersely; "don't ever again talk of writing for

pastime--the character of that one man is enough to be proud of."

"But there are two men," said Fred, finding her voice again, with a

sense of relief; "which one do you mean?"

"No," contradicted Rachel, with sharp decision; "I can see only one--the

Esau."

Stuart shrank a little under her hand, not even thanking her for the

words of praise; and, to her surprise, it was Genesee who answered her,

his eyes steady enough, except when looking at the author of the story.

"Don't be too quick about playing judge," he suggested; and the words

took her back like a flash to that other time when he had given her the

same curt advice. "May be that boy had some good points that are not put

down there. Maybe he might have had plans about doing the square thing,

and something upset them; or--or he might have got tangled up in a

lariat he wasn't looking for. It's just natural bad luck some men have

of getting tangled up like that; and may be he--this fellow--"

Fred broke out laughing at his reasoning for the defense.

"Why, Mr. Genesee," she said gleefully, "an audience of you would be an

inspiration to an author or actor; you are talking about the man as if

he was a flesh and blood specimen, instead of belonging to Mr. Stuart's

imagination."

"Yes, I reckon you're right, Miss," he said, rising to his feet, with a

queer, half-apologetic smile; "you see, I'm not used to hearing folks

read--romances." But the insolent sarcasm with which he had spoken of

the word at first was gone.

The others had all regained their tongues, or the use of them, and

comment and praise were given the author--not much notice taken of

Genesee's opinion and protest. His theories of the character might be

natural ones; but his own likelihood for entanglements, to judge by his

reputation, was apt to prejudice him, rendering him unduly charitable

toward any other fellow who was unlucky.

"My only objection to it," said Tillie, "is that there is not enough of

it. It seems unfinished."

"Well, he warned us in the beginning that it was only a prologue,"

reminded her husband; "but there is a good deal in it, too, for only a

prologue--a good deal."

"For my part," remarked the Lieutenant, "I don't think I should want

anything added to it. Just as it stands, it proves the characters of the

two men. If it was carried further, it might gain nothing, and leave

nothing for one's imagination."

"I had not thought of that," said Stuart; "in fact, it was only written

to help myself in analyzing two characters I had in my head, and could

not get rid of until I put them on paper. Authors are haunted by such

ghosts sometimes. It is Miss Fred's fault that I resurrected this one

to-night--she thrust on me the accidental remembrance."

"There are mighty few accidents in the world," was Genesee's concise

statement, as he pulled on his heavy buckskin gloves. "I'm about to cut

for camp. Going?" This to the Lieutenant.

After that laconic remark on accidents, no further word or notice was

exchanged between Stuart and Genesee; but it was easily seen that the

story read had smoothed out several wrinkles of threatened discord and

discontent. It had at least tamed the spirit of the scout, and left him

more the man Rachel knew in him. Her impatience at his manner early in

the evening disappeared as he showed improvement; and just before they

left, she crossed over to him, asking something of the snows on the Scot

Mountain trail, his eyes warming at the directness of her speech and

movement, showing to any who cared to notice that she spoke to him as to

a friend; but his glance turned instinctively from her to Stuart. He

remembered watching them that day as they rode from camp.

"But what of Davy?" she repeated; "have you heard any word of him?"

"No, and I'm ashamed to say it," he acknowledged; "I haven't been to see

him at all since I got back. I've had a lot of things in my head to keep

track of, and didn't even send. I'll do it, though, in a day or so--or

else go myself."

"I'm afraid he may be sick. If the snow is not bad, it's a wonder he has

not been down. I believe I will go."

"I don't like you to go over those trails alone," he said in a lower

tone; "not just now, at any rate."

"Why not now?"

"Well, you know these Indian troubles may bring queer cattle into the

country. The Kootenai tribe would rather take care of you than do you

harm; but--well, I reckon you had better keep to the ranch."

"And you don't reckon you can trust me to tell me why?" she said in a

challenging way.

"It mightn't do any good. I don't know, you see, that it is really

dangerous, only I'd rather you'd keep on the safe side; and--and--don't

say I can't trust you. I'd trust you with my life--yes, more than that,

if I had it!"

His voice was not heard by the others, who were laughing and chatting,

it was so low; but its intensity made her step back, looking up at him.

"Don't look as if I frighten you," he said quickly; "I didn't come in

here for that. You shouldn't have made me come, anyway--I belong to the

outside; coming in only helps me remember it."

"So that was what put you in such a humor. I thought it was Stuart."

"You did?"

"Yes; I know you don't like him--but, I think you are prejudiced."

"Oh, you do?" And she saw the same inscrutable smile on his face that

she had noticed when he looked at Stuart.

"There--there," she laughed, throwing up her hand as if to check him,

"don't tell me again that I am too anxious to judge people; but he is a

good fellow."

"And you are a good girl," he said warmly, looking down at her with so

much feeling in his face that Stuart, glancing toward them, was startled

into strange conjectures at the revelation in it. It was the first time

he had ever seen them talking together.

"And you're a plucky girl, too," added Genesee, "else you wouldn't stand

here talking to me before everyone. I'll remember it always of you.

Tillikum, good-night."

PART FOURTH

ONE SQUAW MAN

CHAPTER I.

LAMONTI.

The next morning awoke with the balmy air of spring following the

sunrise over the snow--a fair, soft day, with treachery back of its

smiles; for along in the afternoon the sky gathered in gray drifts, and

the weather-wise prophesied a big snow-fall.

All the morning Genesee wrote. One page after another was torn up, and

it was the middle of the afternoon before he finally finished the work

to his satisfaction, did it up in a flat, square package, and having

sealed it securely, called Kalitan.

"You take this to the express office at the station," he said; "get a

paper for it--receipt; then go to Holland's--to the bank store; give

them this," and he handed a slip of written paper. "If they give you

letter, keep it carefully--so," and he took from his shirt-pocket a

rubber case the size of an ordinary envelope. Evidently Kalitan had

carried it before, for he opened a rather intricate clasp and slipped

the bit of paper into it.

"All good--not get wet," he said, picking up the larger package. "The

Arrow fly down; come back how soon?"

"Send this," pointing to the package, "the first thing in the morning;

then wait until night for the stage from Pacific that brings the

mail--may be if road is bad it will not come till next morning."

"Kalitan wait?"

"Yes, wait till the stage comes, then ask for letter, and keep your eyes

open; watch for bad whites. Klahowya!"

Watching Kalitan start off with that package, he drew a long breath of

relief, like a man who had laid down some burden; and leaving the avenue

and the camp behind, he struck out over the trail toward Hardy's, not

even stopping to saddle a horse. He was going to have a "wau-wau" with

Mowitza.

He had barely entered the stable door when Tillie came across the yard,

with a shawl thrown over her head and looking disturbed.

"Oh, is it you, Mr. Genesee?" she said, with a little sigh of

disappointment; "I thought it was Hen or one of the others come back.

Did you meet them?"

"Yes; going up the west valley after stock."

"The west valley! Then they won't get back before dark, and I--I don't

know what to do!" and the worried look reached utter despair as she

spoke.

"What's up? I can ride after them if you say so."

"I don't know what to say. I should have told Hen at noon; but I knew it

would put him out of patience with Rachel, and I trusted to her getting

back all right; but now, if the snow sets in quickly, and it threatens

to, she may get lost, and I--"

"Where is she?"

"Gone to Scot's Mountain."

An energetic expletive broke from his lips, unchecked even by the

presence of the little woman who had seemed a sort of Madonna to him in

the days a year old. The Madonna did not look much shocked. She had an

idea that the occasion was a warrant for condemnation, and she felt

rather guilty herself.

"One of the Kootenai tribe came here this morning, and after jabbering

Chinook with him, she told me Davy MacDougall was sick, and she was

going to ride up there. Hen was out, and she wouldn't listen to Miss

Fred and me--just told us to keep quiet and not tell him where she was,

and that she would get back for supper; so we haven't said a word; and

now the snow is coming, she may get lost."

Tillie was almost in tears; it was easy to see she was terribly

frightened, and very remorseful for keeping Rachel's command to say

nothing to Hardy.

"Did that Indian go with her?"

"No; and she started him back first, up over that hill, to be sure he

would not go over to the camp. I can't see what her idea was for that."

Genesee could--it was to prevent him from knowing she was going up into

the hills despite his caution.

"There is not a man left on the place, except Jim," continued Tillie,

"or I would send them after her. But Jim does not know the short-cut

trail that I've heard Rachel speak of, and he might miss her in the

hills; and--oh, dear! oh, dear!"

Genesee reached to the wooden peg where his saddle hung, and threw it

across Mowitza's back.

In a moment Tillie understood what it meant, and felt that, capable as

he might be, he was not the person she should send as guardian for a

young girl. To be sure, he had once before filled that position, and

brought her in safety; but that was before his real character was known.

Tillie thought of what the rest would say, of what Stuart would think

for she had already bracketed Rachel and Stuart in her match-making

calendar. She was between several fires of anxiety and indecision, as

she noted the quick buckling of straps and the appropriation of two

blankets from the hanging shelf above them.

"Are you--can you get someone to go for me--from the camp?" she asked

hurriedly. He turned and looked at her with a smile in his eyes.

"I reckon so," he answered briefly; and then, seeing her face flushed

and embarrassed, the smile died out as he felt what her thoughts were.

"Who do you want?" he added, leading Mowitza out and standing beside

her, ready to mount.

She did not even look up. She felt exactly as she had when she told Hen

that she knew she was right, and yet felt ashamed of herself.

"I thought if you could spare Kalitan--" she hesitated. "She knows him,

and he has been with her so often up there, no one else would know so

well where to look for her--that is, if you could spare him," she added

helplessly.

"The chances are that I can," he said in a business-like way; "and if I

was you I'd just keep quiet about the trip, or else tell them she has an

Indian guide--and she will have. Can you give me a bottle of brandy and

some biscuits?"

She ran into the house, and came back with them at once. He was mounted

and a-waiting her.

"Kalitan has left the camp--gone over that hill;" and he motioned rather

vaguely toward the ridge across the valley. "I'll just ride over and

start him from there, so he won't need to go back to camp for rations.

Don't you worry; just keep quiet, and she'll come back all right with

Kalitan."

He turned without further words, and rode away through the soft flakes

of snow that were already beginning to fall. He did not even say a

good-bye; and Tillie, hedged in by her convictions and her anxiety, let

him go without even a word of thanks.

"I simply did not dare to say 'thank you' to him," she thought, as he

disappeared. And then she went into the house and eased Fred's heart and

her own conscience with the statement that Kalitan, the best guide

Rachel could have, had gone to meet her. She made no mention of the

objectionable character who had sent Kalitan.

By the time of sunset, Scot's Mountain was smothered in the white cloud

that had closed over it so suddenly, and the snow was still falling

straight down, and so steadily that one could not retrace steps and find

tracks ten minutes after they were made. Through the banked-up masses a

white-coated unrecognizable individual plowed his way to MacDougall's

door, and without ceremony opened it and floundered in, carrying with

him what looked enough snow to smother a man; but his eyes were clear of

it, and a glance told him the cabin had but one occupant.

"When did she leave?" was the salutation MacDougall received, after a

separation of six weeks.

"Why, Jack, my lad!"

"Yes, that's who it is, and little time to talk. Has she been here?"

"The lass--Rachel? She has that--a sight for sore eyes--and set all

things neat and tidy for me in no time;" and he waved his hand toward

the clean-swept hearth, and the table with clean dishes, and a basket

with a loaf of new bread showing through. "But she did na stay long wi'

me. The clouds were comin' up heavy, she said, and she must get home

before the snow fell; an' it snows now?"

"Well, rather. Can't you see out?"

"I doubt na I've had a nap since she left;" and the Old man raised

himself stiffly from the bunk. "I got none the night, for the sore pain

o' my back, but the lass helped me. She's a rare helpful one."

"Which trail did she take?" asked Genesee impatiently.

He saw the old man was not able to help him look for her, and did not

want to alarm him; but to stand listening to comments when every minute

was deepening the snow, and the darkness--well, it was a test to the man

waiting.

"I canna say for sure, but she spoke o' the trail through the Maples

being the quickest way home; likely she took it."

Genesee turned to the door with a gesture of despair. He had come that

way and seen no sign of her; but the trail wound above gulches where a

misstep was fatal, and where a horse and rider could be buried in the

depths that day and leave no trace.

At the door he stopped and glanced at Davy MacDougall, and then about

the cabin.

"Are you fixed all right here in case of being snowed in?" he asked.

"I am that--for four weeks, if need be; but does it look like that out?"

"Pretty much. Good-bye, Davy;" and he walked back and held out his hand

to the old man, who looked at him wonderingly. Though their friendship

was earnest, they were never demonstrative, and Genesee usually left

with a careless klahowya!

"Why, lad--"

"I'm going to look for her, Davy. If I find her, you'll hear of it; if I

don't, tell the cursed fools at the ranch that I--that I sent a guide

who would give his life for her. Good-bye, old fellow--good-bye."

Down over the mountain he went, leading Mowitza, and breaking the path

ahead of her--slow, slow work. At that rate of travel, it would be

morning before he could reach the ranch; and he must find her first.

He found he could have made more speed with snow-shoes and without

Mowitza--the snow was banking up so terribly. The valley was almost

reached when a queer sound came to him through the thick veil of white

that had turned gray with coming night.

Mowitza heard it, too, for she threw up her head and answered it with a

long whinny, even before her master had decided what the noise was; but

it came again, and then he had no doubt it was the call of a horse, and

it was somewhere on the hill above him.

He fastened Mowitza to a tree, and started up over the way he had come,

stopping now and then to call, but hearing no answer--not even from the

horse, that suggested some phantom-like steed that had passed in the

white storm.

Suddenly, close to him, he heard a sound much more human--a whistle; and

in a moment he plunged in that direction, and almost stumbled over a

form huddled against a fallen tree. He could not see her face. He did

not need to. She was in his arms, and she was alive. That was enough.

But she lay strangely still for a live woman, and he felt in his pocket

for that whisky-flask; a little of the fiery liquor strangled her, but

aroused her entirely.

"Jack?"

"Yes."

"I knew if I called long enough you would come; but I can only whisper

now. You came just in time."

"How long have you been here?"

"Oh, hours, I think. I started for the gulch trail, and couldn't make it

with snow on the ground. Then I tried for the other trail, but got lost

in the snow--couldn't even find the cabin. Help me up, will you? I guess

I'm all right now."

She was not, quite, for she staggered woefully; and he caught her

quickly to him and held her with one arm, while he fumbled for some

matches with the other.

"You're a healthy-looking specimen," was the rather depreciating verdict

he gave at sight of the white, tired face. She smiled from the pillow of

his shoulder, but did not open her eyes; then the match flickered and

went out, and he could see her no more.

"Why didn't you stay at home, as I told you to?"

"Didn't want to."

"Don't you know I'm likely to catch my death of cold tramping here after

you?"

"No," with an intonation that sounded rather heartless; "you never catch

cold."

The fact that she had not lost her old spirit, if she had her voice, was

a great point in her favor, and he had a full appreciation of it. She

was tired out, and hoarse, but still had pluck enough to attempt the

trip to the ranch.

"We've got to make it," she decided, when the subject was broached; "we

can make it to-night as well as to-morrow, if you know the trail. Did

you say you had some biscuits? Well, I'm hungry."

"You generally are," he remarked, with a dryness in no way related to

the delight with which he got the biscuits for her and insisted on her

swallowing some more of the whisky. "Are you cold?"

"No--not a bit; and that seems funny, too. If it hadn't been such a

soft, warm snow, I should have been frozen."

He left her and went to find the mare, which he did without much

trouble; and in leading her back over the little plateau he was struck

with a sense of being on familiar ground. It was such a tiny little

shelf jutting out from the mountain.

Swathed in snow as it was, and with the darkness above it, he felt so

confident that he walked straight out to where the edge should be if he

was right. Yes, there was the sudden shelving that left the little plot

inaccessible from one side.

"Do you know where we are, my girl?" he asked as he rejoined her.

"Somewhere on Scot's Mountain," she hazarded; the possessive term used

by him had a way of depriving her of decided opinions.

"You're just about the same place where you watched the sun come up

once--may be you remember?"

"Yes."

He had helped her up. They stood there silent what seemed a long time;

then he spoke:

"I've come here often since that time. It's been a sort of a church--one

that no one likely ever set foot in but you and me." He paused as if in

hesitation; then continued: "I've wished often I could see you here

again in the same place, just because I got so fond of it; and I don't

know what you think of it, but this little bit of the mountain has

something witched in it for me. I felt in the dark when my feet touched

it, and I have a fancy, after it's all over, to be brought up here and

laid where we stood that morning."

"Jack," and her other hand was reached impulsively to his, "what's the

matter--what makes you speak like that now?"

"I don't know. The idea came strong to me back there, and I felt as if

you--you--were the only one I could tell it to, for you know nearly all

now--all the bad in me, too; yet you've never been the girl to draw away

or keep back your hand if you felt I needed it. Ah, my girl, you are one

in a thousand!"

He was speaking in the calmest, most dispassionate way, as if it was

quite a usual thing to indulge in dissertations of this sort, with the

snow slowly covering them. Perhaps he was right in thinking the place

witched.

"You've been a good friend to me," he continued, "whether I was near or

far--MacDougall told me things that proved it; and if my time should

come quick, as many a man's has in the Indian country, I believe you

would see I was brought here, where I want to be."

"You may be sure of it," she said earnestly; "but I don't like to hear

you talk like that--it isn't like you. You give me a queer, uncanny

feeling. I can't see you, and I am not sure it is Jack--nika

tillikum--I am talking to at all. If you keep it up, you will have me

nervous."

He held her hand and drew it up to his throat, pressing his chin against

the fingers with a movement that was as caressive as a kiss.

"Don't you be afraid," he said gently; "you are afraid of nothing else,

and you must never be of me. Come, come, my girl, if we're to go, we'd

better be getting a move on."

The prosaic suggestion seemed an interruption of his own tendencies,

which were not prosaic. The girl slipped her fingers gently but

decidedly from their resting-place so near his lips, and laid her one

hand on his arm.

"Yes, we must be going, or"--and he knew she was smiling, though the

darkness hid her--"or it will look as if there are two witched folks in

our chapel--our white chapel--to-night. I'm glad we happened here, since

the thought is any comfort to you; but I hope it will be many a day

before you are brought here, instead of bringing yourself."

He took her hand, and through the white masses turned their faces down

the mountain. The mare followed meekly after. The stimulant of bread and

whisky--and more, the coming of this man, of whom she was so stubbornly

confident--had acted as a tonic to Rachel, and she struggled through

bravely, accepting little of help, and had not once asked how he came to

be there instead of the ranchmen.

Perhaps it was because of their past association, and that one night

together when he had carried her in his arms; but whatever he was to the

other people, he had always seemed to her a sort of guardian of the

hills and all lost things.

She did not think of his presence there nearly so much as she did of

those ideas of his that seemed "uncanny." He, such a bulwark of physical

strength, to speak like that of a grave-site! It added one more to the

contradictions she had seen in him.

Several things were in her mind to say to him, and not all of them

pleasant. She had heard a little of the ideas current as to his Indian

sympathies, and the doubt with which he was regarded in camp; and, while

she defended him, she many times felt vexed that he cared so little

about defending himself. And with the memory of the night before, and

feminine comments at the ranch after he had gone, she made an attempt to

storm his stubbornness during a short breathing-spell when they rested

against the great bole of a tree.

"Genesee, why don't you let the other folks at the ranch, or the camp,

know you as I do?" was the first break, at which he laughed shortly.

"They may know me the best of the two."

"But they don't; I know they don't; you know they don't."

"Speak for yourself," he suggested; "I'm not sure either way, and when a

man can't bet on himself, it isn't fair to expect his friends to. You've

been the only one of them all to pin faith to me, with not a thing to

prove that you had reason for it; it's just out-and-out faith, nothing

else. What they think doesn't count, nor what I've been; but if ever I

get where I can talk to you, you'll know, may be, how much a woman's

faith can help a man when he's down. But don't you bother your head over

what they think. If I'm any good, they'll know it sometime; if I'm not,

you'll know that, too. That's enough said, isn't it? And we'd better

break away from here; we're about the foot of the mountain, I reckon."

Then he took possession of her hand again, and led her on in the night;

and she felt that her attempt had been a failure, except that it showed

how closely he held her regard, and she was too human not to be moved by

the knowledge. Yes, he was very improper, as much so as most men, only

it had happened to be in a way that was shocking to tenderfeet lucky

enough to have families and homes as safeguards against evil. He was

very disreputable, and, socially, a great gulf would be marked between

them by their friends. But in the hills, where the universe dwindled to

earth, sky, and two souls, they were but man and woman; and all the

puzzling things about him that were blameful things melted away, as the

snow that fell on their faces. She felt his strong presence as a guard

about her, and without doubt or hesitation she kept pace beside him.

Once in the valley, she mounted Betty, and letting Mowitza follow, he

walked ahead himself, to break the trail--a slow, slavish task, and the

journey seemed endless. Hour after hour went by in that slow

march--scarcely a word spoken, save when rest was necessary; and the

snow never ceased falling--a widely different journey from that other

time when he had hunted and found her.

"You have your own time finding the trail for me when I get lost," she

said once, as he lifted her to the saddle after a short rest.

"You did the same thing for me one day, a good while ago," he answered

simply.

The night had reached its greatest darkness, in the hours that presage

the dawn, when they crossed the last ridge, and knew that rest was at

last within comparatively easy reach. Then for the first time, Genesee

spoke of his self-imposed search.

"I reckon you know I'm an Indian?" he said by way of preface.

"I don't know anything of the sort."

"But I am--a regular adopted son in the Kootenai tribe, four years old;

so if they ask you if an Indian guide brought you home, you can tell

them yes. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see, but not the necessity. Why should I not tell them you

brought me?"

"May be you know, and may be you don't, that I'm not supposed to range

far from camp. Kalitan was to go for you. Kalitan had some other work,

and sent a Kootenai friend of his. The friend's name is Lamonti. Can you

mind that? It means 'the mountain.' I come by it honest--it's a present

Grey Eagle made me. If they ask questions about your guide, just put

them off some way--tell them you don't know where he's gone to; and you

won't. Now, can you do that?"

"I can, of course; but I don't like to have you leave like this. You

must be half-dead, and I--Jack, Jack, what would I have done without

you!"

He was so close, in the darkness, that in throwing out her hand it

touched his face, one of the trivial accidents that turn lives

sometimes. He caught it, pressing it to his lips, his eyes, his cheek.

"Don't speak like that, unless you want to make a crazy man of me," he

muttered. "I can't stand everything. God! girl, you'll never know, and

I--can't tell you! For Christ sake, don't act as if you were afraid--the

only one who has ever had faith in me! I think that would wake up all

the devil you helped put asleep once. Here! give me your hand again,

just once--just to show you trust me. I'll be worth it--I swear I will!

I'll never come near you again!"

The bonds under which he had held himself so long had broken at the

touch of her hand and the impulsive tenderness of her appeal. Through

the half sob in his wild words had burst all the repressed emotions of

desolate days and lonely nights, and the force of them thrilled the

girl, half-stunned her, for she could not speak. A sort of terror of his

broken, passionate speech had drawn her quickly back from him, and she

seemed to live hours in that second of indecision. All her audacity and

self-possession vanished as a bulwark of straws before a flood. Her

hands trembled, and a great compassion filled her for this alien by

whose side she would have to stand against the world. That certainty it

must have been that decided her, as it has decided many another woman,

and ennobled many a love that otherwise would have been commonplace. And

though her hands trembled, they trembled out toward him, and fell softly

as a benediction on his upturned face.

"I think you will come to me again," she said tremulously, as she leaned

low from the saddle and felt tears as well as kisses on her hands, "and

you are worth it now, I believe; worth more than I can give you."

A half-hour later Rachel entered the door of the ranch, and found

several of its occupants sleepless and awaiting some tidings of her. In

the soft snow they had not heard her arrival until she stepped on the

porch.

"I've been all night getting here," she said, glancing at the clock that

told an hour near dawn, "and I'm too tired to talk; so don't bother me.

See how hoarse I am. No; Kalitan did not bring me. It was a Kootenai

called Lamonti. I don't know where he has gone--wouldn't come in. Just

keep quiet and let me get to bed, will you?"

CHAPTER II.

A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF.

An hour before dawn the wind came, hurtling down through the mountains

and moaning along the valleys; before it drove the flying snow in great

chilly sheets, as it was lifted from the high places and spread in every

nook that would warrant its safe-keeping.

Through its fitful gusts Genesee walked into camp, his tracks filled by

the eager flakes as he left them. There seemed a strange alertness about

the place, for so early an hour--even through the commotion, blissful

and despairing, in his own breast, he noticed it as the guard hailed

him, and when he replied, he heard from that individual an excited

exclamation of astonishment.

"By jolly, if it ain't Genesee!"

"I reckon it is," he answered, and passed on, too tired, yet elated by

his night's work, to care whether or not his absence had been commented

on.

The door of the shack had barely closed on him when one of the several

lanterns that he had noticed floating like stars along the snow stopped

at his door, then a knock, and the entrance of a very wide-awake looking

corporal.

"You are to report to Captain Holt at once," was the message he brought.

"What's up?" and the boot that was half-way off was yanked on again.

"That's all the message I was given."

"The hell you say! Well, trot along."

His own frowning perplexity was no more decided than that of Captain

Holt, as he looked up to notice the entrance of the scout--and there was

little of friendliness in the look.

"You sent a man to say you wanted me."

"Yes, I sent a man about two hours ago to say I wanted you," was the

ironical reply. "You were not to be found. Have you any report to make?"

"Not that I know of," he said curtly. A sort of quiet antagonism had

always been felt between the chief of scouts and the new commander, but

this was the first time any expression had been given it, and Genesee's

intolerance quickly responded to the manner of the officer that had in

it both dislike and distrust.

"Then you refuse to tell me where you spent the night?"

The light in Genesee's eyes flashed sudden defiance.

"Yes; if it comes to that, and that's the way you put it, I do."

"You had better think twice before you give that answer," advised

Captain Holt, his face paling with anger at the insubordination; "and

another question to be put to you is, Where is the half-breed, your

runner?"

"I don't know as that concerns you, either," answered Genesee coolly.

"He is my Indian, and neither of us belonging to the United States Army,

we can leave camp when it suits us. But I don't mind telling you I sent

him to Holland's yesterday."

"For what purpose?"

"My own business."

"The same thing that took you from camp at three yesterday and kept you

out all night?"

"Just so."

"Then, since you refuse to answer a very necessary question, you

may--until I have an opportunity of investigating an absence that is, to

say the least, suspicious--you may consider yourself under arrest."

"What in--"

"For horse-stealing," finished the Captain calmly.

Genesee's hand dropped to his belt in a suggestive manner, and from the

door two guards stepped forward. He turned to look at them, and the

ridiculous idea of his arrest quelled the quick rage that had flashed up

in his face.

"You needn't have troubled yourself with these protectors," he remarked,

"for I reckon there isn't much I'd want to do that they would stop me

from; and as for you--this is a piece of dirty work for some end. I'm

ready to be put under arrest, just to see some fun when your commander

gets back. And now may be you'll just tell me whose horse I stole?"

"It is not one horse, but one-half the stock belonging to the company,

that was run off by your Kootenai friends last night," replied Captain

Holt grimly; "and as your disappearance was likely helpful to them, and

a matter of mystery to the command, you will be debarred from visiting

them again until the matter is investigated. Even the explanation is

more than your insolence deserves. You can go back to your quarters."

"It's an infernal lie!" burst out Genesee wrathfully. "No Kootenai

touched your stock. It's been some thieving Blackfeet and their white

friends; and if you interfere with the Kootenais, and try to put it on

their shoulders, you'll get yourself in trouble--big trouble."

"When I want your advice, I will ask for it," was the natural reply to

the contradiction and half threat. Genesee walked to the door with the

guards, and turning, came back.

"Captain Holt," with more of appeal in manner than one would look for in

him, "I'm ready to take my chances in this business, and I'm not trying

to give advice, but I'm going to ask you, on the reputation you know I

have in Indian matters, to be mighty careful what you do or what you let

the men do toward the Kootenai people. They're only waiting the Major's

return to send word to camp that their arms and fighting braves are

willing to help the troops against the Blackfeet if they're needed. I

know it. Their messenger is likely to come any day; and it will be a bad

thing for our cause if their friendliness is broken by this suspicion."

"Your cause?"

"No, I haven't got any," he retorted. "I'm not talking for myself--I'm

out of it; but I mean the cause of lives here in the valley--the lives

on both sides--that would be lost in a useless fight. It's all useless."

"And you acknowledge, then, that you don't consider the cause of the

whites as your own cause?" asked the Captain quietly.

"Yes!" he burst out emphatically, "I'll own up to you or anyone else; so

make me a horse-thief on that, if you can! I'd work for the reds quicker

than for you, if there was anything to be gained by fighting for them;

but there isn't. They'd only kill, and be killed off in the end. If I've

worked on your side, it's been to save lives, not to take them; and if

I've got any sympathies in the matter, it's with the reds. They've been

dogged to death by your damned 'cause.' Now you've got my ideas in a

nut-shell."

"Yes," agreed the Captain sarcastically, "very plainly expressed. To

establish entirely your sympathy with your red friends, it only remains

for you to be equally frank and report your movements of last night."

"Go to hell and find out;" and with this climax of insubordination, the

scout left the presence of the commanding officer and marched back to

his shack, where he took possession of the bunk and was sound asleep in

five minutes, and altogether undisturbed by the fact that a guard was

stationed at the door of the impromptu prison with orders to shoot him

if an attempt to escape was made.

Captain Holt's leniency with the scout, who simply ignored military rule

and obedience in a place where it was the only law, was, for him,

phenomenal.

The one thing in Genesee's favor was his voluntary return to camp; and

until he learned what scheme was back of that, the Captain was obliged,

with the thought of his superior officer in mind and the scout's

importance, to grant him some amenities, ignore his insolence, and

content himself with keeping him under guard.

The guard outside was not nearly so strong in its control of Genesee as

the bonds of sleep that held him through the morning and well-nigh high

noon. He had quickly summed up the case after his interview with Holt,

and decided that in two days, at most, the Major would be back, and that

the present commander would defer any decided movement toward the

Kootenais until then. As for the horses, that was a bad business; but if

they chose to put him under arrest, they plainly took from him the

responsibility of hunting for stock. So he decided, and in the freedom

from any further care, dropped asleep. Once a guard came in with some

breakfast, which he ate drowsily, and turned again to his pillow.

"When that fool, the commanding officer, concludes to let up on this

arrest, there's likely to be some work to do--I'll fortify myself while

I have the chance;" and that determination, added to his exhaustion,

served to make his rest a very deliberate affair, not to be disturbed by

trifles.

Several things occurred during that winter's morning that were far from

trifling; yet no sound of them came to him, not even when a shot on the

ridge echoed across the valley, and ten minutes later was followed by

several more, accompanied by yells, heard faintly, but clearly enough to

tell that a skirmishing party was having a shooting-match with someone

across the hills. In three minutes every horse left in camp was mounted

and scurrying fast as their feet could carry them through the drifts,

while the horseless ones, whose stock had been run off in the muffled

silence of the snow-storm, remained unwillingly behind.

At the end of the avenue Lieutenant Murray caught sight of Stuart and

Hardy, riding toward camp. There was a hallooed invitation to join,

another of acceptance, and the civilians joined the irregular cavalcade

and swept with them over the hill, where the sounds of shots were

growing fainter--evidently a retreat and a chase--toward which they rode

blindly.

Through all of it their chief of scouts slept unconcernedly; a solid ten

hours of rest was taken possession of before he aroused himself to care

whether it was daylight or darkness.

"Major come yet?" was the first query.

"No."

"Am I still under arrest?"

"Yes."

"Then bring me something to eat. Past chuck?"

On being informed that the midday meal had been ended two hours before,

his next query was whether anyone from the ranch had been to camp; but

the guard thought not--a reply most grateful to the prisoner.

"Suppose you tell me something about the horses being run off," he

suggested. "Oh, yes, I reckon I'm supposed to know all about it," he

added; "but, just to pass the time, suppose you tell me your side of

it."

There was not much to tell. Hardy's men had been riding around after

stray stock until late; had passed camp after ten o'clock. About one in

the morning the snow was falling thick; a little racket was heard in the

long shed where the horses were tied, and the sentry, thinking some of

Hardy's stray stock had wandered in there, tramped around with a light

to see what was wrong. He had barely reached the end of the corral when

someone from behind struck him over the head. In falling, his gun was

discharged; and when investigations were made, it was found that nearly

half the horses, about forty head, had been quietly run off through the

snow, and the exploded gun was all that saved the rest.

The trail was hot, and pursuit began, but the thieves evidently knew the

country, while the troops did not; and every moment lost in consultation

and conjecture was gained by the people ahead, until the wind rose and

the trail was buried in the snow.

The followers had only returned to camp a few minutes before Genesee was

reported back; but the man surmised that if the troops did not get the

horses, they were taking their pay out of the hides of the red-skins.

"How's that?" demanded Genesee, with the quick, perplexed frown that was

as much anxiety as displeasure.

"Well, a young cub of a Siwash came a-riding along to camp about noon,

as large as life and independent as a hog on ice, and Denny Claflin--you

know him, his horse was roped in by them last night--well, he called the

buck to halt, as he'd a perfect right to do, and got no more notice than

if the wind had whistled. Denny hates an Injun as the devil does holy

water, and being naturally riled over last night, he called to halt, or

he'd fire. Well, Mr. Siwash never turned his head, and Denny let him

have it."

"Killed him?"

"Dead as a door-nail. Right over the ridge north. Our boys were just

coming in, after skirmishing for signs from last night. They heard the

shot, and rode up; and then, almost before they saw them, some ambushed

Injuns burst out on them like all-possessed. They'd come with the young

one, who was sent ahead, you see. Well, there was a go-as-you-please

fight, I guess, till our men got out from camp, and chased them so far

they haven't showed up since. Some of us went out afoot to the ridge,

and found the dead buck. We buried him up there, and have been keeping

an eye open for the boys ever since."

"Did Captain Holt go?"

"You bet! and every other man that had a horse to go on; even that Mr.

Stuart and Hardy from the ranch went."

"And they haven't showed up?"

"Naw."

No more questions were asked, and the guard betook himself to his pipe

and enjoyment of the warm room, for intense cold had followed in the

wake of the snow.

And the prisoner? The man on watch eyed dubiously the dark face as it

lounged on the bunk. Aroused and refreshed by rest, he drifted away from

the remembrance of his prison by living over with tender eyes the

victory of the night before. Once he had seen it was possible for her to

care for him--that once of a year ago, before she knew what he was; but

lately--well, he thought her a plucky, cool-headed girl, who wouldn't go

back on a friend, and her stanchness had shown that; but the very frank

and outspoken showing had taken from him any hope of the warmer feeling

that had existed in the old days, when she had likened him to a

Launcelot in buckskin. The hope? His teeth set viciously as he thought

of it as a hope. What right had he for such a wish? What right had he to

let go of himself as he had done, and show her how his life was bound up

in hers? What a hopeless tangle it was; and if she cared for him, it

meant plainly enough that he was to repay her by communicating its

hopelessness to her.

If she cared! In the prosaic light of day he even attempted to tell

himself that the victory of the night might have been in part a

delusion; that she had pitied him and the passion she had raised, and so

had stooped from the saddle. Might it not have been only that? His

reason told him--perhaps; and then all the wild unreason in the man

turned rebel, and the force of a tumultuous instinct arose and took

possession of him--of her, for it gave her again into his arms, and the

laws of people were as nothing. She was his by her own gift; the rest of

the world was blotted out.

CHAPTER III.

"THE SQUAW WHO RIDES."

At the ranch a strange cloak of silence hung around the household in

regard to the horse-stealing. The men, hearing of the night raid, had

endeavored to keep it from the women for fear of giving them uneasiness,

but had not altogether succeeded. Jim had frustrated that attempt by

forgetting, and blurting out at the dinner table something about

Genesee's arrest.

"It isn't true; it can't be true!" and Rachel turned with such an appeal

in her tired eyes that Andrews dropped his own.

"It's true, Miss; he's accused of knowin' all about it, even if he

didn't help. It's supposed to be his Kootenai friends that did it, and

they say he's mighty close-mouthed over it; that tells against him. I

hope to God it ain't true, for he seemed a mighty good man; but he's

under guard at the camp; won't allow folks to see him, I

hear--leastwise, no Injuns."

Rachel glanced at the others, but found in their faces no strong

partisanship for Genesee. Tillie and Fred were regretful, but not

hopeful.

"It seems a shame that such a fine-looking fellow should be a squaw

man," said the Major's daughter; "but since he is one, there is not much

to be hoped of him, though papa did have a wonderful lot of faith in

this one."

Rachel's eyes lightened at the words. "What day do they look for your

father back?" she asked quickly.

"To-day or to-morrow, though this snow may hinder them some."

"Well, he can't get here any too soon," chipped in the loquacious Jim.

"I reckon they--"

Then his discourse was cut short by the toe of Andrews' boot under the

table. Although the horse-stealing was known at the ranch, and now the

suspicion of Genesee, yet there was one thing that Andrews and Ivans had

maneuvered to keep quiet, and that was the absence of Hardy and Stuart,

and the fact that hostile Indians had descended from the hills.

Apocryphal stories had been told Tillie of an early supper her husband

and guest had eaten at camp, and a ride they had taken after stock

overlooked the night before; and the hours dragged on, the night came,

and the two conspirators were gaining themselves the serious anxiety

they had endeavored to shield the women from, and Jim, once outside the

door, was threatened with instant annihilation if he let his tongue run

so far ahead of his wit again.

The ladies had decided not to tell Rachel about Genesee--Tillie had so

clear a remembrance of her stubborn friendliness for that outlaw; but

Jim had settled the question of silence, and all the weariness dropped

from her at thought of what that accusation meant to him--death. Once

she got up with the strong light of hope in her eyes, and running across

the snow in the dark, opened the door of the stable where Jim was

bedding the horses.

"Jim!" she called sharply; "when was it the stock was run off from

camp--what time?"

"Early this mornin'," answered that youth sulkily. He had just received

the emphatic warning against "tattling."

"This morning? What time this morning?"

"Oh, early; afore daylight."

Before daylight! She had gained a wild hope that it was during the time

they were together; but from Jim's vague suggestion they had returned

just about the time it had occurred--in time for it. She turned

hopelessly toward the house, then hesitated and came back.

"Jim."

"Well?"

"Is Mowitza here?"

"Yes, can't you see?"

But she could not see very clearly. Something in her eyes blinded her as

she thought of Mowitza and the glad days when they knew each other

first; and of Mowitza's master, and his voice as she had heard it

last--and the words! Oh, the despairing, exultant, compelling words! And

then, after he had gone from her, could it be so?

"Take good care of the mare, Jim, until--until he needs her."

When the girl re-entered the house, Tillie turned with a lecture to

deliver on the idiocy of going out without a wrap; it was not spoken,

for a glance into Rachel's eyes told she had been crying--something so

unusual as to awe the little woman into silence, and perplex her

mightily. Headstrong as the girl had been in her championship of

Genesee, Tillie had always been very sure that the cause was mainly

Rachel's contrariness; and to associate him with the tears never entered

her mind.

The evening wore on, and about the fire there were conjectures about the

protracted stay of Hardy and Stuart, and wonderment from Fred that not a

man had called from the camp all day and evening. Rachel sat silent,

thinking--thinking, and finding a glimmer of hope in the thought that

Major Dreyer would soon be back; there, she felt, would be no prejudiced

mind come to judgment.

At last they were startled by the sound of a step on the porch, and all

looked around, glad of the return of the two wanderers, when the door

opened, and there entered Kalitan--a very tired-looking Arrow, and with

something in his face that was more than fatigue--anxiety.

"Rashell Hardy?" he said, and deliberately walked into the other room,

intimating that she was to follow and the interview to be private--an

interview conducted in low tones and in Chinook, after which Rachel

asked Aunty Luce to give him some supper; for he was very tired, and

would not go on to camp until morning.

The night before had been one of wakefulness, because of Rachel's

absence, and all were sleepy enough to hunt beds early; and leaving a

lunch on the table for the absent ones, the hearth was soon

deserted--Ivans and Andrews, however, agreeing to sleep with one eye

open.

Both must have closed unawares, or else the moccasined feet that stole

out in the darkness must have been very, very light, and the other

figure beside him very stealthy; for no alarm was given, no ear took

note. It was late, past eleven o'clock, when the sentry challenged a

horse and rider coming as briskly and nonchalantly into camp as if it

had been eleven in the morning, and occasioning as much astonishment as

had Genesee, when it was seen to be Miss Hardy.

"Rather late to be out alone, Miss, ain't it?" asked the sentry, as she

stopped to chat with him of the continued absence of the men.

"Is it?" she laughed. "I don't know what you call late over here; but I

suppose we of the ranch would be considered night-owls. I rode over with

some mail that came late, and thought I'd hear if there was any news

before we went to bed. Who's in command?"

"Lieutenant Kennedy; but he turned in an hour ago."

"Good gracious! Do you folks go to bed with the sun? I have a magazine

for him, but he can wait for it, then, until to-morrow. Tell him I will

expect him over."

"Yes, Miss."

Just then from along the avenue sauntered a soldierly figure, who drew

near at the sound of voices.

"There comes Sergeant Kelp," remarked the sentry. "He's on night duty in

Kennedy's place."

Instantly the girl turned to the officer in charge.

"Well, I'm glad to find someone up and awake," she said, leaning over to

shake hands with him. "It helps to keep me from seeming altogether a

night-prowler. I came over to get the returns, if there were any. The

folks are getting anxious at the ranch."

"Naturally," answered the young fellow. "I would have called this

evening, but am on duty. Don't let the ladies worry if you can help it.

We are likely to hear from the men before morning. Every scout we had

went with them, and without horses we can't do much but just stay here

and wait; all the boys find it mighty hard work, too."

"You remind me of half my mission, Sergeant, when you speak of your

scouts. I brought over some mail, and everyone I wanted to see is either

away or asleep. How about your chief of scouts--is he asleep, too?"

It seemed to her that her heart ceased beating, the wind ceased blowing,

and the stars ceased twinkling above the snow, as she waited for his

disgusted reply.

"No; not by a good deal. I never saw such a crank as that fellow! When

everything was smooth sailing, that man would skulk around camp without

a word to speak to anyone, the surliest white man I want to see; but now

that he's jailed for horse-stealing, tied up and watched in the shack,

I'm blest if he doesn't put in the time singing. Yes, he does; been at

it ever since taps. I threatened to have him gagged if he disturbed the

boys; but they say he don't. Roberts is the only one who has to listen

to it; says he never heard so many Indian songs in his life. But it's a

mighty queer streak of luck for a man to be musical over."

Rachel laughed, and agreed. "I have a letter for him, too," she added.

"Look, here; I'd like to take it to him myself, and get to hear some of

those songs. Can I? I know it's rather late, but if he is awake, it

doesn't matter, I suppose; or is no one allowed to see him?"

"Indians only are tabooed, but none of them have shown up, not even his

runner, and I guess you can speak to him if you want to; it isn't a

thing most ladies would like to do, though," he added.

"I suppose not," she said good-humoredly, "but then, I've known the man

for something over a year, and am not at all afraid--in fact, I'd rather

like to do it and have something to horrify the ladies at the ranch

with. Think of it! An interview with a horse-thief--perhaps a duet with

him all alone in the middle of the night. Oh, yes, that's too good to

miss. But I must hurry up, or they will be sending someone after me."

At the door of the shack, however, she paused a moment in what might be

trepidation, her hand laid hesitatingly on the saddle, as if in doubt

whether to remount or enter the shanty, from which she could hear the

low refrain of a song of their cultus corrie--"Tsolo, tsolo!"

"The guard will not leave the door?" she whispered; and Sergeant Kelp

concluded that, after all, she was pretending to greater nerve than she

possessed.

"Never fear," he returned; "I will call him out to hold your horse, and

he won't stir from the door. By the way, I'll have someone to see you

home when you're ready to go. Good-night."

Then the guard was called out, and a moment later the visitor slipped

in, the prisoner never turning his head or noticing the exchange until

she spoke.

"Jack!"

He turned quickly enough.

"God A'mighty, girl! What are you doing here?"

She thought of the ears, possibly listening ears, on the other side of

the door, and her tone was guarded and careless, as it had been with the

Sergeant, as she laughed and answered in Chinook:

"To pay a visit; what else?"

She noticed with exultation that it was only rope he was tied with--his

hands and his feet, as he sat on the bunk--a plaited rope of rawhide;

strong enough when strengthened by a guard opposite and a loaded gun;

but without the guard and with a keen knife!

She checked him in the midst of a passionate protest against her coming.

"I am here, so that fact is settled," she said quietly. "I didn't come

for fun, and we haven't any time to lose. I brought you a letter; it is

in this," she said.

"You have seen Kalitan?"

He took from her the rubber case and extracted the letter from it, but

scarcely noticed it, his eyes were turned so anxiously to her face.

"Yes; and you had better read it," she advised, walking back to the

door.

"Rachel--"

"Read it; let them see you!" and she opened the door wide and stepped

out as if to make sure of the guard's presence.

"It's all right, Miss, I'm here," he whispered, looking past her to the

prisoner opening the letter and throwing the envelope in the fire. "I'll

not stir from here with the beast. Don't be uneasy;" and then she turned

back and closed the door. She had seen he was not close enough to

listen.

"Jack," she said, coming back to him, "you must get out of this. Mowitza

is at the door; I have brought the things you will need. Can you make a

dash for it and get away?"

He looked at her in utter amazement.

"I didn't know it until to-night," she continued; "this is your chance,

before the others get back--if they ever do get back! God help them!"

"What do you mean? Where are they?" And his hand, tied as it was, caught

her own quickly.

"They are in a death-trap, in that gully back of the Tamahnous ground.

You know where--right over the peak from the old mine. They've been

there since dark, hedged in by the Kootenais, who are only waiting for

daylight to come. Heaven help our men when it does come!"

"The Kootenais? It can't be them. They are not hostile."

"Not yesterday," she agreed bitterly, "but they are to-day. They sent a

messenger of good-will to camp this morning, the grandson of Grey Eagle.

He was shot down, almost in sight of camp, by one of the soldiers, and

the braves he had brought, the best in the tribe, attempted a rescue.

Our cavalry pursued them, and were led into that ravine. The Indians

knew the ground, and our men didn't. At the end of the narrow pass, the

reds rolled boulders down the mountain and closed it up, and then cut

off retreat; and there they are, waiting for daylight or starvation--God

knows what!"

"Who told you this?"

"Kalitan; he met an Indian trapper who had passed the gulch but a little

while before. He came directly to me. The whites here blame you for

helping the trouble--the beginning it, the--"

"You mean the horse stealing?" he said, looking at her curiously.

"Yes." Her eyes were on the floor; she did not see that scrutiny. "And

you must get out of here before word comes of those men penned up there.

There would be no waiting for trial then; they would shoot you."

"And that is what you came for?"

"Yes;" and she drew a sharp knife--an Indian knife--from her belt under

the shawl. "With a quick stroke, the severed the knotted cords and they

fell from his wrists; then she dropped on her knees, a flash, once,

twice, of the blade in the light, and he stooped and raised her.

"You are doing this for me," he said, drawing her to him, "without

knowing whether I deserve shooting or not?"

"Don't speak of that part of it!" she burst out. "When I let myself

think, I feel as if I am going crazy!"--then she stopped short. "And a

crazy woman just now would handicap you some. No, Jack, we need all of

our wits for to-night--here," and unfastening the belt from under her

shawl, she buckled it about him. It contained two loaded revolvers.

"It's the first time I've armed you as I've seen sweethearts or wives

do," she said, looking up at him. "It may be the last. I only ask one

thing--you will not, unless it is the last means of saving your own

life, turn one of these against my friends?"

Even then, the weakness of the man in him came uppermost.

"But if it is to save my own life?"

Her hands went quickly over her eyes, as if to shut out sight or

thought.

"Don't ask me--only go--and--take care of yourself!"

He caught the hands from her eyes, kissing her fiercely--exultantly.

"Then I am first to you--nearer than all the rest! My girl, you've

proved it to-night, and I'll show you! If you know how to pray, pray for

me to-night--for me and the men in that death-trap. Do you hear? I am

going now. Here is this letter; it will tell you all. If I never come

back, tell Prince Charlie he is right at last--that I believe him. He

will understand. My girl--mine--it is not an eternal good-bye. I will

come back if I live, and I will have to live long enough for that! Here,

just once, kiss me, my girl--my girl!"

The next instant she was flung from that embrace and fell with a faint

scream to the floor.