ON THE PLAINS
There is no place in the world which affords more cheerful solitude than
the prairie. One may be miles and miles away from human habitation and yet
there is an exhilaration in the very sunlight, in the long nodding grass,
in the dusty eddies of the breeze which is never actually still on the
plains. It is the suggestion of freedom in a great boundless space. It
grips the heart, and one thanks God for life. This effect is not only with
the prairie novice. It lasts for all time with those who once sniff the
scent of its delicious breath.
Dakota and the more southern Nebraska are not the finest examples of the
American plains, but they will do. What is better they will make one ask
for more, and that is an excellent sign.
It is curious to gaze out over this wonderful virgin grass-land and seek
for signs of other human beings. Not a speck in view, except perchance a
grazing steer or horse. Not a movement but the eddying whirls of dust, and
the nodding of the bowing grass heads as they bend to the gentle pressure
of the lightest of zephyrs. And yet no doubt there are human beings about;
aye, even within half a mile. For flat as those plains may seem they are
really great billows rolling away on every hand into the dim distance,
hiding men and cattle and houses in their vast, open troughs.
A little party of six had just appeared over the brow of a rising, which
was the last great wave toppling monstrously down toward that great
expanse of the shallow valley, in the midst of which flows the Missouri.
This tiny party, so meagre and insufficient-looking as they faced the
sun-bound plains, had just left the river route to strike in a more
westerly direction. As they topped the rise a great, wholesome love for
the wide world about them welled up in the heart of the woman who was
riding in the wagon, and found vent in a low, thrilling exclamation.
"Wonderful!" Then louder and with eyes sparkling: "Beautiful!"
A child of about eleven summers, with fair curling ringlets flowing
loosely beneath a wide, flat sun-hat, whose wide-open violet eyes stared a
little awe-struck at the vast world which greeted them, nestled closer to
the woman's side on the seat of the jolting wagon without comment, but
with a sharp little intake of breath. She had no words to add to her
mother's.
At that moment one of three men riding ahead detached himself from the
others and dropped back to the wagon, to speak to the woman and child. It
was easy to understand the relationship between them by the affectionate
smile that greeted him He was a tall man and much tanned by a life spent
largely in military camps in hot countries. He had the well-set-up figure
of a fighting soldier.
"Well, dearie," he said cheerfully to his wife, "how do you like the
prairie?"
The woman nodded.
"I'm so glad we came on by road, Landor. The hotel people were quite
bothersome about the restlessness of the Indians. I suppose that is a
bogey they thrust before all strangers. I am glad you did not change your
mind."
The man understood his wife's strong character, and her reply made him
feel as though his responsibilities had been suddenly increased. He looked
at his companions riding in scout fashion in front. They were pointing at
something on the horizon, and he followed the direction indicated.
At last he looked round and encountered the gaze of his wife's gray eyes.
"I thought you would be, Al," he said quietly. "You see the Indians are
always restless. Besides, if I----"
"Yes."
The man laughed happily.
"No not yet, dear. My secret must remain a little longer. You are a
wonder, Al. You have known that I have a secret for nearly two months, and
still you refrain from questioning me."
Alice shook her head, and stooped to readjust their daughter's hat. Her
action hid the smile at her husband's simplicity. A good wife learns many
things without questioning.
"You see I know I shall be told when it becomes expedient. How would you
like to make hay in these lovely open fields, Marjorie?" she asked the
violet-eyed child, gazing so steadfastly at this new world about her.
But Marjorie shook her head. She was a little overpowered.
"It's so big, mamma," she murmured, doubtfully.
At that moment one of the two horsemen ahead beckoned to the man a little
peremptorily, and he rode off. Then the child turned to her mother.
"What did you mean about the Indians, mamma?"
But the mother did not answer; she was watching her husband, who had just
joined the others, and she saw that all three were watching something that
looked like smoke on the northwestern horizon.
"Don't Indians eat people, mamma?" asked the child presently.
Her mother laughed shortly, and answered, "No." The answer came a little
more sharply than she usually spoke. Suddenly she leant forward and
touched the driver on the shoulder. He turned round instantly.
"What is that smoke on the horizon, Jim?" she asked.
The man looked into her steady gray eyes. Then he glanced down at the
beautiful child at her side, and, in a moment, his gaze came back to the
handsome dark face of the mother; but instantly he turned back to the
horses.
"Don't know," he threw back brusquely over his shoulder.
And the woman who learned so much without asking questions knew that he
lied.
The vehicle creaked on. The steady jog of the horses kept the neck-yoke
rattling in the harness with a sound that was almost musical. The sun was
very hot, and the sweat was caked in white streaks all over the
hard-working animals' flanks. Mother and child sat on in silence. Those
two pairs of lovely eyes were looking out ahead. The child interested, and
the mother thinking hard and swiftly. Curiously that smoke on the horizon
had set her thinking of her husband and child, but mostly of the child.
The driver chirruped at his horses as he had done from the start. He
munched his tobacco, and seemed quite at his ease. Only every now and then
his keen eyes lifted to the smoke. He was an old prairie hand.
The horsemen on ahead had halted where a higher billow of grass-land than
usual had left a sharp, deep hollow. A hundred yards to the right of the
trail there was a small clump of undergrowth. The men had dismounted. When
the wagon came up the husband stepped to its side.
"We are going to camp here, Alice," he said quietly. "There is good water
close by. We can spare the time; we have come along well."
Alice glanced at the faces of the others while he was speaking. One of the
men was a long-haired prairie scout; his keen black eyes were intent upon
her face. The other was a military "batman," a blue-eyed Yorkshireman. His
eyes were very bright--unusually bright. The teamster was placidly looking
round his horses.
"Very well," she answered, and passed little Marjorie out into her
father's arms. Then she sprang lightly to the ground.
Then the teamster drove the horses away into the brush, and the wagon was
hidden from view. The scout and the batman pitched two "A" tents, and the
mother noticed that they were so placed as to be utterly hidden in the
thick foliage. The horses were off-saddled, and, contrary to custom, were
tethered further still from the road, down by the water.
Little Marjorie went off with the men who were securing the horses, and
Alice stood watching her husband's movements. She was a beautiful woman of
that strong, dark Celtic type, so common in Ireland. Her strong supple
figure was displayed to perfection in a simple tweed suit with a jacket of
the Norfolk pattern. She stood for some moments watching with deep
contemplative eyes. Then she abruptly turned away.
"I will gather some fire-wood," she said deliberately to her husband.
He looked up from his work and their eyes met.
"Don't bother," he said; "we will use the oil stove."
And without further explanation the camp was arranged. There was no bustle
or excitement. Yet each member of that little party, with the exception of
the child, knew that the camp had been made in emergency--grave
emergency.
A hearty meal was partaken of. Then the man and the scout disappeared. The
others occupied themselves around the camp. The afternoon wore on. At tea
the scout and his companion reappeared. The wife still asked no verbal
questions. Her eyes told her all she wished to know.
During the evening meal little Marjorie made a discovery.
"Mamma," she exclaimed, "you've got a belt on like daddy's. What are
these?" And she fingered a revolver holster, of which her mother's belt
supported two.
It was the rough, long-haired scout who saved the woman a deliberate
falsehood.
"Guess them's playthings," he said, with a sombre laugh. "B't don't figger
they're fer kiddies to monkey with."
After supper the man and the scout again disappeared. Three hours later
the moon was high in the starlit sky. It was a glorious summer moon, and
the whole country was bright with its silvery light.
Two men were lying upon their stomachs conning the northwestern sky-line.
The scout at last spoke in his slow drawling way.
"Guess it's played out, Colonel," he said. "We're up agin it."
It didn't seem clear to what he referred, but the other understood him.
"Yes, they're working this way," he replied. "See, something has been
fired away to the right front. They may be working round that way and will
miss us here. What are our chances?"
"Nix," responded the scout decidedly. "Them critturs hev got to git around
this way. They're on a line that'll strike Fort Randall, wi' a heap more
military 'n they'll notion. They'll strike south an' sweep round sheer
through to Wyoming. We're dead in their line."
"Then we'd best get back and prepare. Mrs. Raynor and Marjorie will have
turned in; we can do it quietly."
"Yup."
They rose and returned to camp.
Colonel Raynor had intended to avoid his wife's tent. But Alice was
waiting for him on the outskirts of the camp. The scout saw her and
discreetly passed on, and husband and wife were left together.
"Well?"
The woman's tone was quite steady. She was used to a soldier's life.
Besides, she understood the man's responsibility and wished to help him.
And Landor Raynor, looking into the gray eyes that were to him the gates
of the heart of purest womanhood, could not resort to subterfuge.
"They will be on us before morning, dearest," he said, and it was only by
the greatest effort he could check a tide of self-accusation. But the
woman understood and quickly interposed.
"I feared so, Landor. Are you ready? I mean for the fight?"
"We are preparing. I thought of sending you and little Marjorie south with
Jim, on saddle horses, but----"
"No. I would not go. I am what you men call 'useful with a gun.'" She
laughed shortly.
There was a silence between them for some moments. And in that silence a
faint and distant sound came to them. It was like the sound of droning
machinery, only very faint.
The wife broke the silence. "Landor, we are old campaigners, you and I."
"Yes, Al."
The woman sighed ever so lightly.
"The excitement of the foreknowledge of victory is not in me to-night.
Everything seems--so ordinary."
"Yes."
"When the moment comes, Landor, I should not like to be taken prisoner."
"Nor shall you be, Al. There are four good fighting men with you. All old
campaigners like--you."
"Yes. I wasn't thinking of that." The gray eyes looked away. The man
shifted uneasily.
There was a prolonged silence. Each was thinking over old scenes in old
campaigns.
"I don't think I am afraid of much," the woman said slowly, at last.
"Certainly not of death."
"Don't talk like that, Al." The man's arm linked itself through his
wife's. The woman smiled wistfully up into the strong face bending over
her.
"I was thinking, dearest, if death faced us, little Marjorie and me, in
any form, we should not like it at the hands of an Indian. We should both
prefer it from some one we know and--love."
Another silence followed, and the sound of machinery was nearer and
louder. The man stooped down and kissed the upturned face, and looked long
into the beautiful gray depths he loved so well.
"It shall be as you wish, Al--as a last resource. I will go and kiss
Marjorie. It is time we were doing."
He had spoken so quietly, so calmly. But in his soldier's heart he knew
that his promise would be carried out to the letter--as a last resource.
He left the woman, the old campaigner, examining the revolvers which
looked like cannons in her small white hands.
* * * * *
One brief hour has passed. The peace of that lonely little trail-side camp
has gone. War, a thousand times more fierce than the war of civilized
nations, is raging round it in the light of the summer moon. The dead
bodies of three white men are lying within a few yards of the tent which
belongs to the ill-fated colonel and his wife. A horde of shouting,
shrieking savages encircle that little white canopy and its two remaining
defenders. Every bush is alive with hideous painted faces waiting for the
last order to rush the camp. Their task has been less easy than they
supposed. For the defenders were all "old hands." And every shot from the
repeating rifles has told. But now it is different. There are only two
defenders left. A man of invincible courage--and a woman; and behind them,
a little, awe-struck child in the doorway of the tent.
The echoing war-whoop sounds the final advance, and the revolvers of those
two desperate defenders crack and crack again. The woman's ammunition is
done. The man's is nearly so. He turns, and she turns to meet him. There
is one swift embrace.
"Now!" she says in a low, soft voice.
There is an ominous crack of a revolver, but it is not fired in the
direction of the Indians whom the man sees are within a few yards of him.
He sees the woman fall, and turns swiftly to the tent door. The child
instinctively turns and runs inside. The man's gun is raised with
inexorable purpose. His shot rings out. The child screams; and the man
crashes to the earth with his head cleft by a hatchet from behind.