As Lawson predicted, the very violence of this outburst of racial hatred
was its cure. A reaction set in. The leaders of Brisbane's party, with
loud shouts, ordered their harriers back to their lairs, while the great
leader himself, oblivious to daylight or to darkness, was hurried home
to Washington. The Tetongs returned to their camps and hay-making, the
troops drilled peacefully each afternoon in the broiling heat, while
Curtis bent to his work again with a desperate sort of energy, as if by
so doing he could shorten the long, hot days, which seemed well-nigh
interminable after the passing of Elsie and her friends.
In a letter announcing their safe arrival in Washington, Elsie said:
"I am going to see the President about you, as soon as he
returns from the mountains. Papa is gaining, but takes no
interest in anything. He is pitifully weak, but the doctor
thinks he will recover if he will only rest. His brain is worn
out and needs complete freedom from care. Congress has
adjourned finally. I am told that your enemies expect to secure
a court-martial on the charge of usurping the authority of the
sheriff. Osborne says not to worry, for nothing will be done
now till the President returns, and he is confident that the
department will sustain you--the fact that the violence you
feared did actually take place has robbed your enemies of their
power."
Nevertheless, the fight against the Tetongs and himself went on with
ever-increasing rancor during July and August, and each Congressional
candidate was sharply interrogated as to his attitude towards the
removal bill. The anti-administration papers boldly said: "If we win
(and we will) we'll cut the comb of this bantam. We'll break his sabre
over his back."
To this the opposition made answer: "We're no lovers of the redman, but
Captain Curtis is an honorable soldier, doing his duty, and it will not
be easy for you, even if victorious, to order a court-martial."
This half-hearted defence gave courage to those who took the high ground
that the time for lynching had gone by. "The Tetongs have rights which
every decent man is bound to respect, no matter how much he personally
dislikes the redskin."
During the last days of August a letter came from Elsie, full of
comforting assurances, both public and private, being more intimate and
tender in tone than any that had preceded it, and full of sprightly
humor too. It began:
"MY DEAR SOLDIER,--I've been so busy fighting your enemies I
couldn't write a letter. I've met both the Secretary and the
commissioner--their desks are said to be full of screeds
against you--_and I've been to see the President_! He wasn't a
bit gallant, but he listened. He glowered at me (not unkindly)
while I told your story. I'm afraid I didn't phrase it very
well, but he listened. I brought out all the good points I
could think of. I said: 'Mr. President, Captain Curtis is the
most disinterested man in the Indian service. He is sacrificing
everything for his plans.' 'What are his plans?' he asked, so
abruptly that I jumped. I then spoke learnedly of irrigating
ditches and gardens; you would have laughed had you heard me,
and I said: 'If he is ordered back to his regiment, Mr.
President, these poor people will be robbed again.' 'Does Mr.
Blank, of New York, endorse Captain Curtis?' he asked. I didn't
see what this led to, but I answered that I did not know. 'He's
a friend of yours, isn't he?' he asked. 'Whom do you mean?' I
said, and my cheeks burned. Then he smiled. 'You needn't
worry,' he said, banging the table with his fist. 'I'll keep
Captain Curtis where he is if every politician in the State
petitions for his removal.' I liked his wooden cuss-word, and I
thanked him and jumped up and hurried home to write this
letter. The Secretary told Osborne that the bill for buying out
the settlers would certainly go through next winter, and that
your plans were approved by the whole department. So, you see,
you are master of the situation, and can plan as grandly as you
wish--the entire reservation is yours.
"It is still hot here, and now that my 'lobbying' is done, I am
going to the sea-shore, where papa is, and I know I shall wish
you were with me to enjoy it. I am so sorry for you and Jennie,
my heart aches for you. Think of it! The cool, beautiful ocean
will be singing me to sleep to-night. I wish I could send you
some fruit and some ices; I know you are longing for them.
"I wonder how it will all turn out? Will you be East this
winter? Perhaps I'll help you celebrate the opening of your new
gardens, next spring. Wouldn't you like me to come out and
break a bottle of wine over the first plough or water-gate or
something? If you do, maybe I'll come. If you write, address me
at the Brunswick, Crescent Beach. I wish you could come and see
me here--you look so handsome in your uniform."
The soldier's answer was not a letter, it was a packet! He began by
writing sorrowfully:
"DEAREST GIRL,--I fear I shall not be able to get away this
winter. There is so much here that requires my care. If the
bill passes, the people will be stirred up; if it doesn't pass,
the settlers will be uneasy, and I shall be most imperatively
necessary here. Nothing would be sweeter to me than a visit to
you at the beach. As a boy I knew the sea-shore intimately, and
to wall the sands with you would be to revive those sweet,
careless boy memories and unite them with the deepest emotions
of my life--my love for you, dear one. It almost makes me
willing to resign. In a sense it would be worth it. I _would_
resign only I know I am not losing the delight forever--I am
only postponing it a year.
"I have thought pretty deeply on my problem, dearest, and I've
come to this conclusion: When two people love each other as we
do, neither poverty nor riches--nothing but duty, should
separate them. Your wealth troubled me at first. I knew I could
not give you the comforts--not to say luxuries--you were
accustomed to, and I knew that my life as a soldier would
always make even a barrack a place of uncertain residence. I
must stand to my guns here till I have won my fight; then I may
ask for a transfer to some field where life would not be so
hard. If only there were ways to use your great wealth in
helping these people I would rejoice to be your agent in the
matter.
"I am a penniless suitor, but a good soldier. I can say that
without egotism. I think I could have acquired money had I
started out that way; of course I cannot do it now. Perhaps my
knowledge and training will come to supplement and give power
to your wealth. I must work. I am not one to be idle. If I go
on working--devising--in my own way, then my self-respect would
not be daunted, even though you were worth ten millions instead
of one. I am fitted to be the head of a department--like that
of Forestry, or Civil Engineering. After my work here is
finished I may ask for something of that kind, but I am
resolved to do my duty here first. I like your suggestion about
the water-gate. I hold you to that word, my lady. One year from
now, when my gardens are ready for the sickle, I will have the
criers announce a harvest-home festival, and you must come and
dance with me among my people, and then, perhaps, I will take a
little vacation, and return with you to the East, and be happy
with you among the joyous of the earth for a little season.
Beyond that I dare not plan."
The administration was sustained, and Brisbane's forces were beaten
back. The better elements of the State, long scattered, disintegrated,
and without voice, spoke, and with majesty, rebuking the cruelty, the
barbarism, and the blatant assertion of men like Musgrove and Streeter,
who had made the State odious. Even Winters, the sheriff, was defeated,
and a fairly humane and decent citizen put in his place, and this
change, close down to the people, was most significant of all. "Now I
have hope of the courts," said Curtis to Maynard.
If the Tetongs did not at once apprehend the peace and comfort which the
defeat of Brisbane's gang and the passage of the purchase bill assured
to them, they deeply appreciated the significance of the immediate
withdrawal of the settlers. They rejoiced in full-toned song as their
implacable and sleepless enemies drove their heavily laden wagons across
the line, leaving their farms, sheds, and houses to the government for
the use of the needy tribe.
The urgency of the case being fully pleaded, the whole readjustment was
permitted to be made the following spring, and the powers of the agent
and his employes were taxed to the uttermost. When the order actually
came to hand, Curtis mounted his horse and rode from camp to camp,
carrying the good news; calling the members of each band around him, he
told the story of their victory.
"Your days of hunger and cold will soon be over," he said. "The white
man has gone from the reservation. The water of the streams, the
ploughed fields, are all yours. Now we must set to work. Every one will
have good ground; all will share alike, and every one must work. We must
show the Great Father at Washington that we are glad of his kindness.
Our friends will not be ashamed when they come to see us, and look upon
our corn and wheat."
Every man, woman, and child did as they had promised. They laid hands to
the duties appointed them, and did so merrily. They moved at once to the
places designated. A mighty shifting of dwellings took place first of
all, and when this was finished they set to work. They built fences,
they dug ditches, they ploughed and they planted, cheery as robins. Even
the gaunt old women lifted their morose faces to the sun and muttered
unaccustomed thanks. The old men no longer sat in complaining council,
but talked of the wonderful things about to be.
"Ho! have you heard?" cried one. "Grayman lives in the house the white
man has left; Elk too. Two Horns sleeps in the house above Grayman, and
is not afraid. Ah, it is wonderful!"
The more thoughtful dwelt in imagination on the reservation completely
fenced, and saw the hills swarming with cattle as in the olden time it
swarmed with the wild, black buffalo. They helped at the gardens, these
old men, and as they rested on their hoes and listened to the laughter
of the women and children, they said one to the other: "Our camp is as
it was in the days when game was plenty. Every one is smiling. Our worst
days are over. The white man's road is very long, and runs into a
strange country, but while Swift Eagle leads we follow."
There was commotion in every corral, where long-haired men in leggings
and with feathered ornaments in their hats, were awkwardly breaking
fiery ponies to drive, for teams were in sharp demand. The young men who
formerly raced horses, for lack of other things to do, and in order not
to die of inertness, now became the hilarious teamsters of each valley.
Every person, white or red, who could give instruction in ditching and
planting, was employed each hour of the day. The various camps were as
busy as ant-hills, and as full of cheer as a flock of magpies.
Curtis was everywhere, superintending the moving of barns, the building
of cabins, and the laying out of lands. Each night he returned to his
bed so tired he could not lie flat enough, but happy in the knowledge
that some needed and permanent improvement had that day been made.
Lawson, faithful to his post, came on from Washington, and was a comfort
in ways less material than wielding a hoe. He went about encouraging the
people at their work, and his words had the quality of a poem.
"You see how it is!" he said. "You need not despair. It is not true that
the redmen are to vanish from the earth. They are now to be happy and
have plenty of food. The white people, at last, have found out the way
to help you."
Maynard got a short leave of absence, and came over to see "the hustle,"
as he called it, and to visit Jennie, who still refused to leave her
post, though she had practically consented to his proposal. "We will
see," she had said. "If George marries, then I will feel free to go with
you; but not now."
Maynard expressed the same astonishment as ever. "A man may fight a
people a lifetime and never really know 'em. Now I consider it
marvellous the way these devils work."
Calvin, after his recovery, came seldom to the agency. He recognized the
power and the fitness of Captain Maynard's successful courtship, and
though Jennie wrote twice inviting him to call, he did not come, and did
not even reply till she had almost forgotten her own letters. In a very
erratic and laborious screed he conveyed his regrets. "I'm powfle bizzy
just now. The old man is gone East, an' that thros all the work of the
ranch onto me. Ime just as mutch obliged." Jennie did not laugh at this
letter; she put it away with a sigh--"Poor boy!"