THE SENTENCE
The relief of the farm was really only the beginning of the campaign. It
meant that following on its heels the great northern posts were pouring
out their thousands of troops, and that a general advance was in progress.
It meant that now, at last, but, alas! too late to avert the awful
massacre of the white settlers, the force was adequate to the task of
subjugating the savages.
The flying column that had ridden to the rescue was a small band of picked
men, with a couple of light machine guns. It was composed of veteran
Indian fighters, who, fully understanding the desperate chances of thus
cutting themselves off from their supports, and riding into the very jaws
of death, were yet ready to do it again and again.
The Indians, believing this initial attack of white troops to be the
immediate advance guard of an overwhelming force, withdrew in something
very like panic. But with morning light they realized they had been
"bluffed" and at once returned to the attack.
For the defenders, however, all real anxiety was past. They knew that a
sweeping movement was in progress throughout the whole disturbed area,
and it was only a question of days before the Indians would be shepherded
back to their Reservations.
The mischief, however, was done, the country was devastated. The
prosperous farming region was laid waste, and the labor of years utterly
destroyed. Of the survivors of the awful holocaust the majority found
themselves utterly ruined; their homes destroyed; their possessions gone.
Many were wounded, and all were homeless. Their plight was pitiable.
While others showered their praise and thanks and rough compliments upon
the girl who had dared all to bring her friends the help they so sorely
needed; while old men and young rivaled each other in their admiration of
her reckless courage; while the women sought to minister to her, and wept
over her, Seth held aloof, working and organizing for the general comfort
and well-being with that everlasting thought for others which was so great
a part of his nature.
It was not that he was indifferent; it was not that he had no thanks to
tender. His heart was full, full to the brim with pride for this girl he
loved. Hers, he felt, had been the great foresight, hers the great courage
to carry out their only possible salvation. When his grave eyes had first
fallen upon the slight blanketed figure of the little white squaw he
recognized indeed the clever head which had done more than trust to rash
courage. It would have been impossible for him to love her more.
Nevertheless his was the first greeting when she had been discovered in
their midst. His had been the first hand to grip hers. But there was no
effusion. Nothing but what, to strange ears, might have sounded cold and
wanting.
"Thanks, little Rosie," was all he had said, while his hand held hers.
But, at that moment, the girl would rather have foregone life itself than
the glance he bestowed upon her out of his grave, dark eyes.
It was many days before any freedom from the fortress farm could be
enjoyed. But at last the time came round when the troops began to converge
upon the Reservations, and the shepherding process swept the Indians to
their homes, a dejected horde, hating but cowed for the moment. As before,
as always, their fierce fires of savagery were alight; they were only
burning low, for, as every plainsman knows, they are unquenchable.
It was late in the afternoon when the news of their freedom flew through
the camp. None but those who have passed through a similar ordeal can
realize the unutterable joy and thankfulness that filled each heart.
Though possessions had gone and many were absolutely ruined, still liberty
was theirs at last. Liberty with its boundless possibilities.
Seth was sitting alone, propped against the charred gate-post of the
stockade. He was smoking and resting, and incidentally thinking deeply
after a long day's work. There was much to think about. Rube was slowly
recovering under the careful hands of his devoted wife. Mrs. Rickards and
Rosebud had relieved the farmwife of all her duties that she might be free
to lavish her utmost care upon her staunch old friend and husband. The
future prospects of the farm were less involved than the affairs of most
of the farmers. The setback of the rebellion was tremendous, but years of
thrift had left White River Farm independent of a single year's crops.
Besides the farmhouse and buildings were intact.
But none of these things was in his mind just now. There was something
else which filled his heart with unutterable bitterness, which revealed
itself in the hard, thoughtful stare of his dark eyes as he gazed out upon
the wide encampment of soldiers spreading itself out in all directions.
Every now and then he shifted his gaze into a certain direction, only to
turn away with apparent indifference and let his eyes wander over every
chance object that attracted them. Once the Agent came to him and they
spoke for some moments in a low tone. Then he was again left to his
thoughts. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the twilight waned. He
remained at his post. There could be no doubt now that he was waiting with
some fixed purpose.
At last he turned decidedly in the direction in which he had been so
frequently glancing, and this time his movement was anticipatory. A dark
figure was approaching from among the tents. It was the scout, Jim Crow,
who came up and squatted at the white man's side. The two talked together
for a long time, and at last the Indian rose to depart.
"So," he said, in his pompous fashion, "I do these things. I, Jim Crow.
Good."
"You've done good work," Seth responded casually. "And you've been paid
for it, I guess. See you do this, sure."
He watched the Indian while he solemnly spat upon the ground.
"I, Jim Crow, have said." And with this vaunting claim to honesty the
scout abruptly turned and moved away.
A moment later Seth made his way slowly to a small outhouse. He raised the
latch of the door and passed within. There were two occupants. The Indian
Agent was sitting at a little table smoking and reading, and Nevil Steyne
was lying full length upon some outspread blankets upon the floor. This
place was the temporary abode of the three men. The farmhouse had been
given up to the women and children.
Seth took a seat. As he came in Parker closed his book and put it away.
From his blankets Nevil glanced up quickly, and continued to watch the
movements of both with expectant eyes. He was aware that permission had
been given for every one to leave the farm. Nor did he delude himself. He
knew that he was a prisoner.
Seth placed his chair so that he was in full view of the man on the
blankets. And his first words were addressed to him.
"Guess you're goin' to quit this farm," he said, calmly, but in a manner
which compelled his prisoner's attention. "I've thought a heap, an' that's
how I've got figgerin'. You're goin' to quit this night. That is ef you're
so minded."
He paused, but his grave eyes still surveyed the ungainly form, still
stared coldly into the lean unshaven face, into the shifty pale eyes.
Nevil made no response. He knew instinctively that this was only a prelude
to more that was to follow.
Parker watched Seth. In a measure he was mystified, for the plainsman had
never given him his full confidence with regard to Nevil. He suspected a
lot, but that was all.
"Guess I don't need to tell you a deal about yourself," Seth went on
presently. "I'll just mention that Nevil Steyne ain't your real name, an'
it wouldn't take me guessin' long to locate the other. That's as mebbe.
You're a skunk," he proceeded, without raising his voice. "You're wuss'n a
yaller dawg, but even a yaller dawg mostly has an option. That's how it is
wi' you, seein' you're o' that breed. I ain't no feelin' o' mercy for you
anyways, but I'll give you a chance. Ef you stay right here ther's the
courts as 'll hang you sure; ef you quit, ther's the Injuns as you've
lived by, an' as you fooled to suit your own dirty schemes. I don't see as
ther's a great choice for you. Your game's played, an' you're goin' to
cash in, an' it kind o' seems to me you've got to pay anyways. Wal, you'll
choose right now."
Nevil had sat up while the other was speaking. He gave no outward sign
beyond that one movement. Now he slowly rose to his feet and looked down
upon the set face of the arbiter of his fate a little uncertainly. He
turned from him to the Agent, who was looking on in no little puzzlement.
Then his eyes came back to the relentless face of Seth, and he seemed to
be struggling to penetrate the sphinx-like expression he beheld.
He scented danger, he knew there was danger. But even so his mind was made
up. He would not face the jury of his white brothers. He believed he
understood the Indians, and saw chances in this direction. But there was
the wonder why Seth had given him the chance. He had no time to debate the
question. His answer was needed.
"I'll go back to the Indians," he said, with a hateful laugh, in which
there was no semblance of mirth. "As you suggest, a yellow dog can always
run for it."
"Jest so. It ken allus run."
Then the full bitterness of his position swept over the renegade, and a
deep rage stirred the hatred he held for this man who had outwitted him at
every turn, and now was in a position to pronounce sentence upon him. And
his words came low with concentrated fury.
"Yes, blast you, you can sneer! But I tell you you're making a mistake. I
can twist the Indians around my finger. Bah, I care nothing for them! I
shall get clear and save myself, and, as sure as there's a hell for the
damned, you shall pay!"
But the man he addressed remained undisturbed. His manner was
imperturbable. He nodded gravely.
"Good," he said. "Now git--git quick!"
And the man who posed as Nevil Steyne passed out of the hut and out of the
fort, urged almost to precipitancy by the suggestion of Seth's final
command.
After his going silence reigned in the little corn shed. Parker had a
hundred questions to ask, but none of them came readily to his lips in
face of his companion's silence. In the end it was Seth who spoke first.
"Wal," he said, with a sigh, "that's settled." His words were an
expression of relief.
"I don't understand. You've let him go. You've given him a chance to get
away in safety after----"
"Yes," responded the other grimly, "a dawg's chance."
The answer silenced all further protest.
"Yes," Seth went on reflectively, "I've done with him, I guess; we all
have. Say, he's Rosebud's uncle."
"Ah!" Parker was beginning to understand. But he was not yet satisfied,
and his ejaculation was an invitation to the other.
Seth went on as though in soliloquy.
"Yes. He's gone, an' ther' ain't no tellin' where he'll finish. Ther's a
hell some'eres. Mebbe he ken twist 'em, the Injuns, around his finger,
mebbe he can't. I 'lows he goin' to face 'em. They'll deal out by him as
they notion justice, I guess."
"But he may escape them. He's slippery." Parker hated the thought of the
man going scot-free.
Seth shook his head.
"No," he said. "He'll face 'em. I've seen to that, I guess. Jim Crow
follers him wherever he goes. An' Jim Crow hain't no use for Stephen
Raynor."
"What do you think will happen?"
Parker looked up into the taller man's face as they stood in the doorway
of the hut.
Seth turned. His shoulders shrugged expressively as he moved out and
walked toward the farmhouse.