The woman nodded.
"Oh, you can stay. I no care."
Smith frowned; but McArthur, much pleased by her assent, told Tubbs to
saddle a horse at once, that he might lose no time in beginning his
investigations.
"If it were my good fortune to unearth a cranium of the Homo primogenus, I
should be the happiest man in the world," declared McArthur, clasping his
fingers in ecstasy at the thought of such unparalleled bliss.
"What did I tell you?" said Smith, accompanying Tubbs to the corral. "He's
tryin' to win himself a home."
"Looks that way," Tubbs agreed. "These here bug-hunters is deep."
The saddle blanket which Tubbs pulled from their wagon and threw upon the
ground, with McArthur's saddle, caught Smith's eye instantly, because of
the similarity in color and markings to that which he had folded so
carefully inside his own. This was newer, it had no disfiguring holes, or
black stain in the corner.
"What's the use of takin' chances?" he asked himself as he looked it
over.
While Tubbs was catching the horse in the corral, Smith deftly exchanged
blankets, and Tubbs, to whom most saddle blankets looked alike, did not
detect the difference.
Upon returning to the house, Smith found the Indian woman wiping breakfast
dishes for the cook. She came into the living-room when he beckoned to
her, with the towel in her hand. Taking it from her, he wadded it up and
threw it back into the kitchen.
"Don't you know any better not to spoil a cook like that, woman?" he
asked, smiling down upon her. "You never want to touch a dish for a cook.
Row with 'em, work 'em over, keep 'em down--but don't humor 'em. You can't
treat a cook like a real man. Ev'ry reg'lar cook has a screw loose or he
wouldn't be a cook. Cookin' ain't no man's job. I never had no use for
reg'lar cooks--me, Smith.
"All you women need ribbing up once in awhile," he added, as, laying his
hand lightly on her arm, he let it slide its length until it touched her
fingers. He gave them a gentle pressure and resumed his seat against the
wall.
The woman's eyes glowed as she looked at him. His authoritative attitude
appealed to her whose ancestors had dressed game, tanned hides, and
dragged wood for their masters for countless generations. The growing
passion in her eyes did not escape Smith.
In the long silence which followed he looked at her steadily; finally he
said:
"Well, I guess I'll saddle up. You look 'just so' to me, woman--but I got
to go."
She laid down the rags of her mat and "threw him the sign" for which he
had waited. It said:
"My heart is high; it is good toward you. Talk to me--talk straight."
He shook his head sadly.
"No, no, Singing Bird; I am headed for the Mexican border--many, many
sleeps from here."
She arose and walked to his side.
He felt a sudden and violent dislike for her flabby, swaying hips, her
heavy step, as she moved toward him. He knew that the game was won, and
won so easily it was a school-boy's play.
"Why you go?" she demanded, and the disappointment in her eyes was so
intense as to resemble fear. "What you do dere?"
He looked at her through half-closed eyes.
"Did you ever hear of wet horses?"
She shook her head.
"I deals in wet horses--me, Smith."
The woman stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"Down there on the border," he explained, "you buy the horses on the
Mexico side. You buy 'em when the Mexican boss is asleep in his 'dobe, so
there's no kick about the price. You swim 'em across the Rio Grande and
sell 'em to the Americano waitin' on the other side."
"You buy de wet horse?"
"No, by Gawd,--I wet 'em!"
"Why you steal?"
He looked at her contemptuously.
"Why does anybody steal? I need the dinero--me, Smith."
"You want money?"
He laughed.
"I always want money. I never had enough but once in my life, and then I
had too much. Gold is hell to pack," he added reminiscently.
"I have de fine hay-ranch, white man, de best on de reservation. Two, four
t'ousand dollars I have when de hay is sold. De ranch is big"--her arms
swept the horizon to show its extent. "You stay here and make de bargain
with de cattlemen, and I give you so much"--she measured a third of her
hand with her forefinger. "If dat is not enough, I give you so much"--she
measured the half of her hand with her forefinger. "If dat not enough, I
give you all." She swept the palm of one hand with the other.
Smith dropped his eyelids, that she might not see the triumph shining
beneath them.
"I must think, Prairie Flower."
"No, white man, you no think. You stay!"
Smith, who had arisen, slipped his arm about her ample waist. She pulled
aside his Mackinaw coat and laid her head upon his breast.
"The white man's heart is strong," she said softly.
"It beats for you, Little Fawn;" and he ran out his tongue in derision.
All the morning she sat on the floor at his feet, braiding the rags for
her mat, content to hear him speak occasionally, and to look often into
his face with dog-like devotion. It was there Susie saw her when she
returned from school earlier in the afternoon than usual, and was beckoned
into the kitchen by Ling.
"He's makin' a mash," said Ling laconically, as he jerked his thumb toward
the open door of the living-room.
All the girlish vivacity seemed to go out of Susie's face in her first
swift glance. It hardened in mingled shame and anger.
"Mother," she said sharply, "you promised me that you wouldn't sit on the
floor like an Injun."
"We're gettin' sociable," said Smith mockingly.
The woman glanced at Smith, and hesitated, but finally got up and seated
herself on the bench.
"Why don't you try bein' 'sociable' with the Schoolmarm?" Susie sneered.
"Maybe I will."
"And _maybe_ you won't get passed up like a white chip!"
"Oh, I dunno. I've made some winnings."
"I can tell that by your eyes. You got 'em bloodshot, I reckon, hangin'
over the fire in squaw camps. White men can't stand smoke like Injuns."
This needle-tongued girl jabbed the truth into him in a way which
maddened him, but he said conciliatingly:
"We don't want to quarrel, kid."
"You mean _you_ don't." Susie slammed the door behind her.
The child's taunt reawakened his interest in the Schoolmarm. He thought of
her riding home alone, and grew restless. Besides, the dulness began to
bore him.
"I'll saddle up, Prairie Flower, and look over the ranch. When I come back
I'll let you know if it's worth my while to stay."
Tubbs was sitting on the wagon-tongue, mending harness, when Smith went
out,
"Aimin' to quit the flat?" inquired Tubbs.
"Feller, didn't that habit of askin' questions ever git you in trouble?"
"Well I guess _so_," Tubbs replied candidly. "See that scar under my
eye?"
"I'd invite you along to tell me about it," said Smith sardonically,
"only, the fact is, feller, I'm goin' down the road to make medicine with
the Schoolmarm."
Tubbs's eyes widened.
"Gosh!" he ejaculated enviously. "I wisht I had your gall."
Before Smith swung into the saddle he pulled out a heavy silver watch
attached to a hair watch-chain.
"Just the right time," he nodded.
"Huh?"
"I say, if it was only two o'clock, or three, I wouldn't go."
"You wouldn't? I'll tell you about me: I'd go if it was twelve o'clock at
night and twenty below zero to ride home with that lady."
"Feller," said Smith, in a paternal tone, "you never want to make a break
at a woman before four o'clock in the afternoon. You might just as well go
and lay down under a bush in the shade from a little after daylight until
about this time. You wouldn't hunt deer or elk in the middle of the day,
would you? No, nor women--all same kind of huntin'. They'll turn you down
sure; white or red--no difference."
"Is that so?" said Tubbs, in the awed voice of one who sits at the feet of
a master.
"When the moon's out and the lamps are lit, they'll empty their sack and
tell you the story of their lives. I don't want to toot my horn none, but
I've wrangled around some. I've hunted big game and humans. Their habits,
feller, is much the same."
While Smith was galloping down the road toward the school-house, Susie was
returning from a survey of the surrounding country, which was to be had
from a knoll near the house.
"Mother," she said abruptly, "I feel queer here." She laid both hands on
her flat, childish breast and hunched her shoulders. "I feel like
something is goin' to happen."
"What happen, you think?" her mother asked listlessly.
"It's something about White Antelope, I know."
The woman looked up quickly.
"He go visit Bear Chief, maybe." There was an odd note in her voice.
"He wouldn't go away and stay like this without telling you or me. He
never did before. He knows I would worry; besides, he didn't take a horse,
and he never would walk ten miles when there are horses to ride. His gun
isn't here, so he must have gone hunting, but he wouldn't stay all night
hunting rabbits; and he couldn't be lost, when he knows the country as
well as you or me."
"He go to visit," the Indian woman insisted doggedly.
"If he isn't home to-morrow, I'm goin' to hunt him, but I know something's
wrong."
V
SMITH MAKES MEDICINE WITH THE SCHOOLMARM
Once out of sight of the house, Smith let his horse take its own gait,
while he viewed the surrounding country with the thoughtful consideration
of a prospective purchaser. As he gazed, its possibilities grew upon him.
If water was to be found somewhere in the Bad Lands the location of the
ranch was ideal for--certain purposes.
The Bar C cattle-range bounded the reservation on the west; the MacDonald
ranch, as it was still called, after the astute Scotch squawman who had
built it, was close to the reservation line; and beyond the sheltering Bad
Lands to the northeast was a ranch where lived certain friendly persons
with whom he had had most satisfactory business relations in the past.
A plan began to take definite shape in his active brain, but the head of a
sleepy white pony appearing above the next rise temporarily changed the
course of his thoughts, and with his recognition of its rider life took on
an added zest.
Dora Marshall, engrossed in thought, did not see Smith until he pulled his
hat-brim in salutation and said:
"You're a thinker, I take it."
"I find my work here absorbing," she replied, coloring under his steady
look.
He turned his horse and swung it into the road beside her.
"I was just millin' around and thought I'd ride down the road and meet
you." Further than this brief explanation, he did not seem to feel it
incumbent upon him to make conversation. Apparently entirely at his ease
in the silence which followed, he turned his head often and stared at her
with a frank interest which he made no effort to conceal. Finally he
shifted his weight to one stirrup and, turning in his saddle so that he
faced her, he asked bluntly:
"That look in your eyes--that look as if you hadn't nothin' to hide--is it
true? Is it natural, as you might say, or do you just put it on?"
Her astonished expression led him to explain.
"It's like lookin' down deep into water that's so clear you can see the
sand shinin' in the bottom; one of these places where there's no mud or
black spots; nothin' you can't see or understand. _Sabe_ what I mean?"
Since she did not answer, he continued:
"I've met up with women before now that had that same look, but only at
first. It didn't last; they could put it on and take it off like they did
their hats."
"I don't know that I am quite sure what you mean," the girl replied,
embarrassed by the personal nature of his questions and comments; "but if
you mean to imply that I affect this or that expression, for a purpose,
you misjudge me."
"I was just askin'," said Smith.
"I think I am always honest of purpose," the girl went on slowly, "and
when one is that, I think it shows in one's eyes. To be sure, I often fall
short of my intentions. I mean to do right, and almost as frequently do
wrong."
"You do?" He eyed her with quick intentness.
"Yes, don't you? Don't all of us?"
"I does what I aims to do," he replied ambiguously.
So she--this girl with eyes like two deep springs--did wrong--frequently.
He pondered the admission for a long time. Smith's exact ideas of right
and wrong would have been difficult to define; the dividing line, if there
were any, was so vague that it had never served as the slightest
restraint. "To do what you aim to do, and make a clean get-away"--that was
the successful life.
He had seen things, it is true; there had been incidents and situations
which had repelled him, but why, he had never asked himself. There was one
situation in particular to which his mind frequently reverted, as it did
now. He had known worse women than the one who had figured in it, but for
some reason this single scene was impressed upon his mind with a vividness
which seemed never to grow less.
He saw a woman seated at an old-fashioned organ in a country parlor. There
was a rag-carpet on the floor--he remembered how springy it was with the
freshly laid straw underneath it. Her husband held a lamp that she might
see the notes, while his other hand was upon her shoulder, his adoring
eyes upon her silly face. He, Smith, was rocking in the blue plush chair
for which the fool with the calloused hands had done extra work that he
might give it to the woman upon her birthday. Each time that she screeched
the refrain, "Love, I will love you always," she lifted her chin to sing
it to the man beaming down upon her, while upstairs her trunk was packed
to desert him.
Smith always remembered with satisfaction that he had left her in Red
Lodge with only the price of a telegram to her husband, in her shabby
purse.
"I like your style, girl." His eyes swept Dora Marshall's figure as he
spoke.
There was a difference in his tone, a familiarity in his glance, which
sent the color flying to the Schoolmarm's cheeks.
"I think we could hit it off--you and me--if we got sociable."
He leaned toward her and laid his gloved hand upon hers as it rested on
the saddle-horn.
The pupils of her eyes dilated until they all but covered the iris as she
turned them, blazing, upon Smith.
"Just what do you mean by that?"
There was no mistaking the genuineness nor the nature of the emotion which
made her voice vibrate. But Smith considered. Was she deeper--"slicker,"
as he phrased it to himself--than he had thought, or had he really
misunderstood her? Surprising as was the feeling, he hoped some way, that
it was the latter. He looked at her again before he answered gently:
"I didn't mean to make you hot none, Miss. I'm ignorant in handlin' words.
I only meant to say that I hoped you and me would be good friends."
His explanation cleared her face instantly.
"I am sorry if I misunderstood you; but one or two unpleasant experiences
in this country have made me quick--too quick, perhaps--to take offense."
"There's lots just lookin' for game like you. No better nor brutes," said
Smith virtuously, entirely sincere in his sudden indignation against these
licentious characters.
Yes, the Schoolmarm had rebuffed him, as Susie had prophesied, but the
effect of it upon him was such as neither he nor she had reckoned. As they
rode along a swift, overpowering infatuation for Dora Marshall grew upon
him. He felt something like a flame rising within him, burning him,
bewildering him with its intensity. She seemed all at once to possess
every attribute of the angels, from mere prettiness her face took on a
radiant beauty which dazzled him, and when she spoke her lightest word
held him breathless. As the mountain towers above the foothills, so, of a
sudden, she towered above all other women. He had known sensations--all,
he had believed, that it was possible to experience; but this one,
strange, overwhelming, dazed him with its violence.
Love frequently comes like this to people in the wilds, to those who have
few interests and much time to think. The emotional side of their natures
has been held in check until a trifle is sometimes sufficient to loose a
torrent which nothing can then divert or check.
She asked him to loop her latigo, which was trailing, and his hand shook
as he fumbled with the leather strap.
"Gawd!" he swore in bewilderment as he returned to his own horse, wiping
his forehead with the back of his gauntlet, "what feelin' is this workin'
on me? Am I gettin' locoed, me--Smith?"
"I'm glad I've found a friend like you," said the Schoolmarm impulsively.
"One needs friends in a country like this."
"A friend!" It sounded like a jest to Smith. "A friend!" he repeated with
an odd laugh. Then he raised his hand, as one takes an oath, and whatever
of whiteness was left in Smith's soul illumined his face as he added:
"Yes, to a killin' finish."
If Smith had met Dora among many, the result might have been the same in
the end, but here, in the isolation, she seemed from the first the centre
of everything, the alpha and omega of the universe, and his passion for
her was as great as though it were the growth of many months instead of
less than twenty-four hours. The depth, the breadth, of it could not
quickly be determined, nor the lengths to which it would take him. It was
something new to be reckoned with. To what extent it would control him,
neither Smith nor any one else could have told. He knew only that it now
seemed the most real, the most sincere, the best thing which had ever come
into his life.
Dora Marshall knew nothing of men like Smith, or of natures like those of
the men of the mountains and ranges, who paid her homage. Her knowledge of
life and people was drawn from the limited experiences of a small, Middle
West town, together with a year at a Middle West co-ed college, and as a
result of the latter the Schoolmarm cherished a fine belief in her worldly
wisdom, whereas, in a measure, her lack of it was one of her charms.
Susie, in her way, was wiser.
The Schoolmarm's attitude toward her daily life was the natural outcome of
a romantic nature and an imaginative mind. She saw herself as the heroine
of an absorbing story, the living of which story she enjoyed to the
utmost, while every incident and every person contributed to its interest.
Quite unconsciously, with unintentional egotism, the Schoolmarm had a way
of standing off and viewing herself, as it were, through the rosy glow of
romance. Yet she was not a complex character--this Schoolmarm. She had no
soaring ambitions, though her ideals for herself and for others were of
the best. To do her duty, to help those about her, to win and retain the
liking of her half-savage little pupils, were her chief desires.
She had her share of the vanity of her sex, and of its natural liking for
admiration and attention, yet in the freedom of her unique environment she
never overstepped the bounds of the proprieties as she knew them, or
violated in the slightest degree the conventionalities to which she had
been accustomed in her rather narrow home life. It was this reserve which
inspired awe in the men with whom she came in contact, used as they were
to the greater camaraderie of Western women.
In her unsophistication, her provincial innocence, Dora Marshall was
exactly the sort to misunderstand and to be misunderstood, a combination
sometimes quite as dangerous in its results, and as provocative of
trouble, as the intrigues of a designing woman.
"I reckon you think I'm kind of a mounted bum, a grub-liner, or something
like that," said Smith after a time.
"To be frank, I _have_ wondered who you are."
"Have you? Have you, honest?" asked Smith delightedly.
"Well--you're different, you know. I can't explain just how, but you are
not like the others who come and go at the ranch."
"No," Smith replied with some irony; "I'm not like that there Tubbs." He
added laconically, "I'm no angel, me--Smith."
The Schoolmarm laughed. Smith's denial was so obviously superfluous.
"There was a time when I'd do 'most any old thing," he went on, unmindful
of her amusement. "It was only a few years ago that there was no law north
of Cheyenne, and a feller got what he wanted with his gun. I got my share.
I come from a country where they sleep between sheets, but I got a lickin'
that wasn't comin' to me, and I quit the flat when I was thirteen. I've
been out amongst 'em since."
The desire to reform somebody, which lies dormant in every woman's bosom,
began to stir in the Schoolmarm's.
"But you--you wouldn't 'do any old thing' now, would you?"
Smith hesitated, and a variety of expressions succeeded one another upon
his face. It was an awkward moment, for, under the uplifting influence of
the feeling which possessed him, he had an odd desire to tell this girl
only the truth.
"I wouldn't do some of the things I used to do," he replied evasively.
The Schoolmarm beamed encouragement.
"I'm glad of that."
"I used to kill Injuns for fifty dollars a head, but I wouldn't do it
now," he said virtuously, adding: "I'd get my neck stretched."
"You've killed people--Indians--for money!" The Schoolmarm looked at him,
wide-eyed with horror.
"They was clutterin' up the range," Smith explained patiently, "and the
cattlemen needed it for their stock. I'd 'a' killed 'em for nothin', but
when 'twas offered, I might as well get the bounty."
The Schoolmarm scarcely knew what to say; his explanation seemed so
entirely satisfactory to himself.
"I'm glad those dreadful days have gone."
"They're gone all right," Smith answered sourly. "They make dum near as
much fuss over an Injun as a white man now, and what with jumpin' up
deputies at every turn in the road, 'tain't safe. Why, I heard a judge say
a while back that killin' an Injun was pure murder."
"I appreciate your confidence--your telling me of your life," said the
Schoolmarm, in lieu of something better.
She found him a difficult person with whom to converse. They seemed to
have no common meeting-ground, yet, while he constantly startled and
shocked, he also fascinated her. In one of those illuminating flashes to
which the Schoolmarm was subject, she saw herself as Smith's guiding-star,
leading him to the triumphant finish of the career which she believed his
unique but strong personality made possible.
It was Smith's turn to look at her. Did she think he had told her of his
life? The unexpected dimple deepened in Smith's cheek, and as he laughed
the Schoolmarm, again noting the effect of it, could not in her heart
believe that he was as black as he had painted himself.
"I wisht our trails had crossed sooner, but, anyhow, I'm on the square
with you, girl. And if ever you ketch me 'talkin' crooked,' as the Injuns
say, I'll give you my whole outfit--horse, saddle, blankets, guns, even my
dog-gone shirt. Excuse me."
The Schoolmarm glowed. Her woman's influence for good was having its
effect! This was a step in the right direction--a long step. He would be
"on the square" with her--she liked the way he phrased it. Already her
mind was busy with air-castles for Smith, which would have made that
person stare, had he known of them. An inkling of their nature may be had
from her question:
"Would you like to study, to learn from books, if you had the
opportunity?"
"I learned my letters spellin' out the brands on cattle," he said frankly,
"and that, with bein' able to write my name on the business end of a
check, and common, everyday words, has always been enough to see me
through."
"But when one has naturally a good mind, like yours, don't you think it is
almost wicked not to use it?"
"I got a mind all right," Smith replied complacently. "I'm kind of a
head-worker in my way, but steady thinkin' makes me sicker nor a pup. I
got a headache for two days spellin' out a description of myself that the
sheriff of Choteau County spread around the country on handbills. It was
plumb insultin', as I figgered it out, callin' attention to my eyes and
ears and busted thumb. I sent word to him that I felt hos-tile over it.
Sheriffs'll go too far if you don't tell 'em where to get off at once in
awhile."
The Schoolmarm ignored the handbill episode and went on:
"Besides, a lack of education is such a handicap in business."
"The worst handicap I has to complain of," said Smith grimly, "is the
habit people has got into of sending money-orders through the mail,
instead of the cash. It keeps money out of circulation, besides bein'
discouragin' and puttin' many a hard-workin' hold-up on the bum."