"Just inside our south line, about four miles from the school."
"I thought so," replied Curtis. "Your sheep were on the reservation. Are
you sure this man was murdered?"
"Him and the dog disappeared together, and hain't neither of 'em been
seen since."
"How long ago was this?"
"Just a week to-morrow."
"Have you made a search for him? Have you studied the ground closely?"
Streeter interposed. "We've done all that could be done in that line. I
_know_ he's killed. He told Cal about two weeks ago that he had been
shot at twice and expected to get wiped out before the summer was over.
There isn't a particle of doubt in my mind about it. The thing for you
to do is to make a demand--"
"I am not in need of instructions as to my duty," interrupted Curtis.
"Wilson, who is over from the Willow Creek?"
"Old Elk himself."
"Send him in. I shall take all means to help you find this herder,"
Curtis said to the ranchers, "but I cannot allow you to charge my people
with his death without greater reason than at present. We must move
calmly and without heat in this matter. Murder is a serious charge to
make without ample proof."
The Elk, smiling and serene, entered the door and stood for a moment
searching the countenances of the white men. His face grew grave as the
swift signs of his agent filled his mind with the story of the
disappearance of the herder.
"I am sorry; it is bad business," he said.
"Now, Crawling Elk, I want you to call together five or six of your best
trailers and go with these men to the place where the herder was last
seen and see if you can find any trace of him;" then, turning to
Streeter, he said: "You know Crawling Elk; he is the one chief against
whom you have no enmity. If Cole was murdered, his body will be found.
Until you have more proof of his death I must ask you to give my people
the benefit of the doubt. Good-day, gentlemen."
As they turned to go, two young reds were seen leaving the window. They
had watched Curtis as he signed the story to Crawling Elk. As the white
men emerged these young fellows were leaning lazily on the fence,
betraying no interest and very little animation, but a few minutes later
they were mounted and riding up the valley at full gallop, heavy with
news of the herder's death and Streeter's threats.
"Now, Elk," signed Curtis, "say nothing to any one but your young men
and the captain of police, whom I will send with you to bring me word."
After they had all ridden away, Curtis turned to Wilson and said, "I
didn't suppose I should live to see a sheep-man and a cattleman riding
side by side in this amicable fashion."
"Oh, they'll get together against the Indian, all right. They're mighty
glad of a chance to make any kind of common cause. That lazy herder has
jumped the country. He told me he was sick of his job."
"But the dog?"
"Oh, he killed the dog to keep him from being traced. There isn't a
thing in it, Major."
"I'm inclined to think you're right, but we must make careful
investigation; the people are very censorious of my policy."
Next morning Crawling Elk brought word that no trace of the man could be
found. "The grass is very dry," he explained, "and the trail is old. We
discovered nothing except some horses' hoof-marks."
"Keep searching till every foot of land is covered," commanded Curtis.
"Otherwise the white man will complain."
On Friday, just after the bell had called the people to resume work at
one o'clock, Crow, the police captain, rode into the yard on a pony
covered with ridges of dried sweat. His face was impassive, but his eyes
glittered as he lifted his hand and signed:
"The white man's body is found!"
"Where?" asked Curtis from the door-way.
"On the high ground near the spring. He has three bullet-holes in him.
Three cartridge-shells were found where the horses' hoof-marks were. The
ones who shot dismounted there and fired over a little knoll. There are
many white men over there now; they are very angry. They are coming
here--"
"Be silent! Come in here!" Once within the office, Curtis drew from Crow
Wing all he knew. He was just in the midst of giving his orders when
Wilson opened the door and said, quietly, though his voice had a
tremulous intensity:
"Major, step here a moment."
Curtis went to the door. He could not restrain a smile, even while a
cold chill went to his heart. Nothing could exceed the suddenness of the
change which had swept over the agency. As he had stood in the office
door ten minutes before, his ears had been filled with the clink-clank
of the blacksmiths' hammers, the shouts of drivers, and the low laughter
of young women on their way to the store. Crane's Voice was hitching up
his team, while Lost Legs and Turkey Tail were climbing to the roof of
the warehouse with pots of red paint. Peter Wolf was mending a
mowing-machine, and his brother Robert was cutting wood behind the
agency kitchen. All about he had observed groups of white-blanketed
Indians smoking cigarettes in the shade of the buildings, while a crowd
of nearly twenty others stood watching a game of duck-on-the-rock before
the agency store.
Now as he looked over the yards not a redman could be seen at his work.
On every side the people, without apparent haste, but surely, steadily,
and swiftly, were scattering. The anvil no longer cried out, the
teamsters were silent, all laughter had ceased, the pots of paint sat
scorching in the sun. There was something fiercely ominous as well as
uncanny in this sudden, silent dispersion of a busy, merry throng, and
Curtis, skilled in Indian signs, appreciated to the full the distrust of
the white man here expressed. He understood this panic. The settlers had
long threatened war. Now the pretext had come, and the sound of guns was
about to begin.
"Wilson," said Curtis, calmly, "if the settlers fire a shot they will
regret it. See Crane's Voice, if you can find him, and send him to me."
He turned to Crow and signed: "Go tell your people I will not let the
cowboys hurt them. Hurry! Call them all back. Tell them to go to work. I
will call the soldiers, if necessary, to keep the white man away. There
is no danger."
Crow was a brave and loyal man, and, weary as he was, hastened to carry
out his orders. The call for "assembly" was rung on the signal-bell, and
a few of the red employes responded. To them Curtis spoke reassuringly,
but his words were belied by Thomas Big Voice, the official interpreter,
who was so scared his knees shook.
Curtis sent Wilson to quiet the teachers and hurried immediately to the
studio, where Elsie was at work painting a portrait of old Chief Black
Bull. The old man sprang to his feet the instant he caught sight of his
agent's face.
"Friend, what is the matter?" he asked.