go back down the path when Smith turned in his saddle and looked at Dora.
She was regarding him sorrowfully, her eyes misty with disappointment in
him; and Smith misunderstood. A rush of feeling swept over him, and he
burst out impulsively:
"Don't go back on me! I done it for you, girl! I done it to make _our
stake_!"
Dora stood speechless, bewildered, confused under the astonished eyes upon
her. She was appalled by the light in which he had placed her; and while
the others followed to the harness-house below, she sank limply upon the
door-sill, her face in her hands.
Smith sat on a wagon-tongue, swinging his legs, while they cleaned out the
harness-house a bit for his occupancy.
"Throw down some straw and rustle up a blanket or two," said Babe; and
McArthur pulled his saddle-blankets apart to contribute the cleanest
toward Smith's bed.
Something in the alacrity the "bug-hunter" displayed angered Smith. He
always had despised the little man in a general way. He uncinched his
saddle on the wrong side; he clucked at his horse; he removed his hat when
he talked to women; he was a weak and innocent fool to Smith, who lost no
occasion to belittle him. Now, when the prisoner saw him moving about,
free to go and come as he pleased, while he, Smith, was tied like an
unruly pup, it, of a sudden, made his gorge rise; and, with one of his
swift, characteristic transitions of mood, Smith turned to the Indians who
guarded him.
"You never could find out who killed White Antelope--you smart-Alec
Injuns!" he sneered contemptuously. "And you've always wanted to know,
haven't you?" He eyed them one by one. "Why, you don't know straight up,
you women warriors! I've a notion to tell you who killed White
Antelope--just for fun--just because I want to laugh, me--Smith!"
The Indians drew closer.
"You think you're scouts," he went on tauntingly, "and you never saw White
Antelope's blanket right under your nose! Put it back, feller"--he nodded
at McArthur. "I don't aim to sleep on dead men's clothes!"
The Indians looked at the blanket, and at McArthur, whom they had grown to
like and trust. They recognized it now, and in the corner they saw the
stiff and dingy stain, the jagged tell-tale holes.
McArthur mechanically held it up to view. He had not the faintest
recollection where it had been purchased, or of whom obtained. Tubbs
always had attended to such things.
No one spoke in the grave silence, and Smith leered.
"I likes company," he said. "I'm sociable inclined. Put him in the
dog-house with me."
Susie had listened with the Indians; she had looked at the blanket, the
stain, the holes; she saw the blank consternation in McArthur's face, the
gathering storm in the Indians' eyes. She stepped out a little from the
rest.
"Mister _Smith_!" she said. "_Mister_ Smith"--with oily, sarcastic
emphasis--"how did you know that was White Antelope's blanket, when you
never _saw_ White Antelope?"
XXII
A MONGOLIAN CUPID
With his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, Ralston leaned against
the corner of the bunk-house, from which point of vantage he could catch a
glimpse of the Schoolmarm's white-curtained window. He now had no feeling
of elation over his success. Smith was a victorious captive. Ralston's
heart ached miserably, and he wished that the day was ended and the
morning come, that he might go, never to return.
He too had seen the mist in Dora's eyes; and, with Smith's words, the
air-castles which had persistently built themselves without volition on
his part, crumbled. There was nothing for him to do but to efface himself
as quickly and as completely as possible. The sight of him could only be
painful to Dora, and he wished to spare her all of that within his power.
He looked at the foothills, the red butte rising in their midst, the
tinted Bad Lands, the winding, willow-fringed creek. It was all beautiful
in its bizarre colorings; but the spirit of the picture, the warm, glowing
heart of it, had gone from it for him. The world looked a dull and
lifeless place. His love for Dora was greater than he had known, far
mightier than he had realized until the end, the positive end, had come.
"Oh, Dora!" he whispered in utter wretchedness. "Dear little Schoolmarm!"
In the room behind the white-curtained window the Schoolmarm walked the
floor with her cheeks aflame and as close to hysteria as ever she had been
in her life.
"What _will_ he think of me!" she asked herself over and over again,
clasping and unclasping her cold hands. "What _can_ he think but one
thing?"
The more overwrought she became, the worse the situation seemed.
"And how he looked at me! How they all looked at me! Oh, it was too
dreadful!"
She covered her burning face with her hands.
"There isn't the slightest doubt," she went on, "but that he thinks I knew
all about it. Perhaps"--she paused in front of the mirror and stared into
her own horrified eyes--"perhaps he thinks I belong to a gang of robbers!
Maybe he thinks I am Smith's tool, or that Smith is my tool, or something
like that! Oh, whatever made him say such a thing! 'Our stake--_our_
stake'--and--'I done it for you!'"
Another thought, still more terrifying occurred to her excited mind:
"What if he should have to arrest me as an accomplice!"
She sat down weakly on the edge of the bed.
"Oh," and she rocked to and fro in misery, "if only I never had tried to
improve Smith's mind!"
The tears slipped from under the Schoolmarm's lashes, and her chin
quivered.
Worn out by the all night's vigil at her mother's bedside, and the
exciting events of the morning, Susie finally succumbed to the strain and
slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was almost supper-time when she
awakened. Passing the Schoolmarm's door, she heard a sound at which she
stopped and frankly listened. Teacher was crying!
"Ling, this is an awful world. Everything seems to be upside down and
inside out!"
"Plenty tlouble," agreed Ling, stepping briskly about as he collected
ingredients for his biscuits.
"Don't seem to make much difference whether you love people or hate 'em;
it all ends the same way--in tears."
"Plitty bad thing--love." Ling solemnly measured baking-powder. "Make
people cly."
Susie surmised correctly that Ling's ears also had been close to a nearby
keyhole.
"There'd 'a' been fewer tears on this ranch if it hadn't been for Smith."
"Many devils--Smith."
Susie sat on the corner of his work-table, and there was silence while he
deftly mixed, rolled, and cut his dough.
"Mr. Ralston intends to go away in the morning," said Susie, as the
biscuits were slammed in the oven.
Ling wagged his head dolorously.
"And they'll never see each other again."
His head continued to wag.
"Ling," Susie whispered, "we've got to _do_ something." She stepped
lightly to the open door and closed it.
* * * * *
There were few at the supper-table that night, and there was none of the
noisy banter which usually prevailed. The grub-liners came in softly and
spoke in hushed tones, out of a kind of respect for two empty chairs which
had been the recognized seats of Tubbs and the Indian woman.
Ralston bowed gravely as Dora entered--pale, her eyes showing traces of
recent tears. Susie was absent, having no heart for food or company, and
preferring to sit beside her mother for the brief time which remained to
her. Even Meeteetse Ed shared in the general depression, and therefore it
was in no spirit of flippancy that he observed as he replaced his cup
violently in its saucer:
"Gosh A'mighty, Ling, you must have biled a gum-boot in this here tea!"
Dora, who had drank nearly half of hers, was unable to account for the
peculiar tang which destroyed its flavor, and Ralston eyed the contents of
his cup doubtfully after each swallow.
"Like as not the water's gittin' alkali," ventured Old Man Rulison.
"Alkali nothin'. That's gum-boot, or else a plug of Battle Ax fell in."
Ling bore Meeteetse's criticisms with surprising equanimity.
A moment later the lights blurred for Dora.
"I--I feel faint," she whispered, striving to rise.
Ralston, who had already noted her increasing pallor, hastened around the
table and helped her into the air. Ling's immobile face was a study as he
saw them leave the room together, but satisfaction was the most marked of
its many expressions. He watched them from the pantry window as they
walked to the cottonwood log which served as a garden-seat for all.
"I wonder if it was that queer tea?"
"It has been a hard day for you," Ralston replied gently.
Dora was silent, and they remained so for some minutes. Ralston spoke at
last and with an effort.
"I am sorry--sorrier than I can tell you--that it has been necessary for
me to hurt you. I should rather, far, far rather, hurt myself than you,
Miss Marshall--I wish I could make you know that. What I have done has
been because it was my duty. I am employed by men who trust me, and I was
in honor bound to follow the course I have; but if I had known what I know
now--if I had been sure--I might in some way have made it easier for you.
I am going away to-morrow, and perhaps it will do no harm to tell you that
I had hoped"--he stopped to steady his voice, and went on--"I had hoped
that our friendship might end differently.
"I shall be gone in the morning before you are awake, so I will say
good-night--and good-by." He arose and put out his hand. "Shall I send
Susie to you?"
The lump in Dora's throat hurt her.
"Wait a minute," she whispered in a strained voice. "I want to say
something, too, before you go. I don't want you to go away thinking that I
knew anything of Smith's plans; that I knew he was going to steal cattle;
that he was trying to make a 'stake' for us--for _me_. It is all a
misunderstanding."
Dora was looking straight ahead of her, and did not see the change which
came over Ralston's face.
"I never thought of Smith in any way except to help him," she went on. "He
seemed different from most that stopped here, and I thought if I could
just start him right, if only I could show him what he might do if he
tried, he might be better for my efforts. And, after all, my time and good
intentions were wasted. He deceived me in making me think that he too
wanted to make more of his life, and that he was trying. And then to make
such a speech before you all!"
"Don't think about it--or Smith," Ralston answered. "He has come to his
inevitable end. When there's bad blood, mistaken ideals, and wrong
standards of living, you can't do much--you can't do anything. There is
only one thing which controls men of his type, and that is fear--fear of
the law. His love for you is undoubtedly the best, the whitest, thing that
ever came into his life, but it couldn't keep him straight, and never
would. Don't worry. Your efforts haven't hurt him, or you. You are wiser,
and maybe he is better."
"It's awfully good of you to comfort me," said Dora gratefully.
"Good of me?" he laughed softly. "Little Schoolmarm"--he laid a hand upon
each shoulder and looked into her eyes--"I love you."
Her pupils dilated, and she breathed in wonder.
"You _love_ me?"
"I do." He brushed back a wisp of hair which had blown across her cheek,
and, stooping, kissed her deliberately upon the mouth.
Inside the house a radiant Mongolian rushed from the pantry window into
the room where Susie sat. He carried a nearly empty bottle which had once
contained lemon extract, and his almond eyes danced as he handed it to
her, whispering gleefully:
"All light! Good medicine!"
The big kerosene lamp screwed to the wall in the living-room had long
since been lighted, but Susie still sat on the floor, leaning her cheek
against the blanket which covered the Indian woman. The house was quiet
save for Ling in the kitchen--and lonely--but she had a fancy that her
mother would like to have her there beside her; so, although she was
cramped from sitting, and the house was close after a hot day, she refused
all offers to relieve her.
She was glad to see McArthur when he tapped on the door.
"I thought you'd like to read the letter that came with the picture," he
said, as he pulled up a chair beside her. "I want you to know how welcome
you will be."
He handed her the letter, with its neat, old-fashioned penmanship, its
primness a little tremulous from the excitement of the writer at the time
she had penned it. Susie read it carefully, and when she had finished she
looked up at him with softened, grateful eyes.
"Isn't she good!"
"The kindest of gentlewomen--your Aunt Harriet."
"My Aunt Harriet!" Susie said it to herself rapturously.
"She hasn't much in her life now--_she's_ lonely, too--and if you can be
spoiled, Susie, you soon will be well on the way--between Aunt Harriet and
me." He stroked her hair fondly.
"And I'm to go to school back there and live with her. I can't believe it
yet!" Susie declared. "So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours
that I don't know what to think about first. More things have happened in
this little time than in all my life put together."
"That's the way life seems to be," McArthur said musingly--"a few hours at
a tension, and long, dull stretches in between."
"Does she know--does Aunt Harriet know--how _green_ I am?"
McArthur laughed at her anxiety.
"I am sure," he replied reassuringly, "that she isn't expecting a young
lady of fashion."
"Oh, I've got clothes," said Susie. "Mother made me a dress that will be
just the thing to wear in that--what do you call it?--train. She made it
out of two shawls that she bought at the Agency."
McArthur looked startled at the frock of red, green, and black plaids
which Susie took from a nail behind the door.
"The colors seem a little--a little----"
"If that black was yellow, it _would_ look better," Susie admitted. "I've
got a new Stetson, too."
"It will take some little time to arrange your affairs out here, and in
the meantime I'll write Aunt Harriet to choose a wardrobe for you and send
it. It will give her the greatest pleasure."
"Can I take Croppy and Daisy May?"
"Daisy May?"
"The pet badger," she explained. "I named her after a Schoolmarm we
had--she looks so solemn and important. I can keep her on a chain, and she
needn't eat until we get there," Susie pleaded.
Trying not to smile at the mental picture of himself arriving in the staid
college town, with a tawny-skinned child in a red, green, and black frock,
a crop-eared cayuse, and a badger on a chain, McArthur ventured it as his
opinion that the climate would be detrimental to Daisy May's health.
"You undoubtedly will prefer to spend your summers here, and it will be
pleasant to have Croppy and Daisy May home to welcome you."
Susie's face sobered.
"Oh, yes, I must come back when school is over. I wouldn't feel it was
right to go away for always and leave Dad and Mother here. Besides, I
guess I'd _want_ to come back; because, after all, you know, I'm half
Injun."
"I wish you'd try and sleep, and let me sit here," urged McArthur kindly.
Susie shook her head.
"No; Ling will stay after awhile, and I'm not sleepy or tired now."
"Well, good-night, little sister." He patted her head, while all the
kindliness of his gentle nature shone from his eyes.
XXIII
IN THEIR OWN WAY
Through the chinks in the logs, where the daubing had dropped out, Smith
watched the lights in the ranch-house. He relieved the tedium of the hours
by trying to imagine what was going on inside, and in each picture Dora
was the central figure. Now, he told himself, she was wiping the dishes
for Ling, and teaching him English, as she often did; and when she had
finished she would bring her portfolio into the dining-room and write home
the exciting events of the day. He wondered what had "ailed" the Indian
woman, that she should die so suddenly; but it was immaterial, since she
_was_ dead. He knew that Susie would sit by her mother; probably in the
chair with the cushion of goose-feathers. It was his favorite chair,
though it went over backwards when he rocked too hard. Ralston--curse
him!--was sitting on one of the benches outside the bunk-house, telling
the grub-liners of Smith's capture, and the bug-hunter was making notes of
the story in his journal. But, alas! as is usual with the pictures one
conjures, nothing at all took place as Smith fancied.
When all the lights, save the one in the living-room, had gone out, there
was nothing to divert his thoughts. Babe, who was on guard outside,
refused to converse with him, and he finally lay down, only to toss
restlessly upon the blankets. The night seemed unusually still and the
stillness made him nervous; even the sound of Babe's back rubbing against
the door when he shifted his position was company. Smith's uneasiness was
unlike him, and he wondered at it, while unable to conquer it. It must
have been nearly midnight when, staring into the darkness with sleepless
eyes, he felt, rather than heard, something move outside. It came from the
rear, and Babe was at the door for only a moment before he had struck a
match on a log to light a cigarette. The sound was so slight that only a
trained ear like Smith's would have detected it.
It had sounded like the scraping of the leg of an overall against a
sage-brush, and yet it was so trifling, so indistinct, that a field mouse
might have made it. But somehow Smith knew, he was sure, that something
human had caused it; and as he listened for a recurrence of the sound, the
conviction grew upon him that there was movement and life outside. He was
convinced that something was going to happen.
His judgment told him that the prowlers were more likely to be enemies
than friends--he was in the enemies' country. But, on the other hand,
there was always the chance that unexpected help had arrived. Smith still
believed in his luck. The grub-liners might come to his rescue, or "the
boys," who had been waiting at the rendezvous, might have learned in some
unexpected way what had befallen him. Even if they were his enemies, they
would first be obliged to overpower Babe, and, he told himself, in the
"ruckus" he might somehow escape.
But even as he argued the question pro and con, unable to decide whether
or not to warn Babe, a stifled exclamation and the thud of a heavy body
against the door told him that it had been answered for him. Wide-eyed,
breathless, his nerves at a tension, his heart pounding in his breast, he
interpreted the sounds which followed as correctly as if he had been an
eye-witness to the scene.
He could hear Babe's heels strike the ground as he kicked and threshed,
and the inarticulate epithets told Smith that his guard was gagged. He
knew, too, that the attack was made by more than two men, for Babe was a
young Hercules in strength.
Were they friends or foes? Were they Bar C cowpunchers come to take the
law into their own hands, or were they his hoped-for rescuers? The
suspense sent the perspiration out in beads on Smith's forehead, and he
wiped his moist face with his shirt-sleeve. Then he heard the shoulders
against the door, the heavy breathing, the strain of muscles, and the
creaking timber. It crashed in, and for a second Smith's heart ceased to
beat. He sniffed--and he knew! He smelled buckskin and the smoke of
tepees. He spoke a word or two in their own tongue. They laughed softly,
without answering. From instinct, he backed into a corner, and they groped
for him in the darkness.
"The rat is hiding. Shall we get the cat?" The voice was Bear Chief's.
Running Rabbit spoke as he struck a match.
"Come out, white man. It is too hot in here for you."
Smith recovered himself, and said as he stepped forward:
"I am ready, friends."
They tied his hands and pushed him into the open air. Babe squirmed in
impotent rage as he passed. Dark shadows were gliding in and out of the
stable and corrals, and when they led him to a saddled horse they motioned
him to mount. He did so, and they tied his feet under the horse's belly,
his wrists to the saddle-horn. Seeing the thickness of the rope, he
jested:
"Friends, I am not an ox."
"If you were," Yellow Bird answered, "there would be fresh meat
to-morrow."
There were other Indians waiting on their horses, deep in the gloom of the
willows, and when the three whom Smith recognized were in the saddle they
led the way to the creek, and the others fell in behind. They followed the
stream for some distance, that they might leave no tracks, and there was
no sound but the splashing and floundering of the horses as they slipped
on the moss-covered rocks of the creek-bed.
Smith showed no fear or curiosity--he knew Indians too well to do either.
His stoicism was theirs under similar circumstances. Had they been of his
own race, his hope would have lain in throwing himself upon their mercy;
for twice the instinctive sympathy of the white man for the under dog, for
the individual who fights against overwhelming odds, had saved his life;
but no such tactics would avail him now.
His hope lay in playing upon their superstitions and weaknesses; in
winning their admiration, if possible; and in devising means by which to
gain time. He knew that as soon as his absence was discovered an effort
would be made to rescue him. He found some little comfort, too, in telling
himself that these reservation Indians, broken in spirit by the white
man's laws and restrictions, were not the Indians of the old days on the
Big Muddy and the Yellowstone. The fear of the white man's vengeance would
keep them from going too far. And so, as he rode, his hopes rose
gradually; his confidence, to a degree, returned; and he even began to
have a kind of curiosity as to what form their attempted revenge would
take.
The slowness of their progress down the creek-bed had given him
satisfaction, but once they left the water, there was no cause for
congratulation as they quirted their horses at a breakneck speed over
rocks and gullies in the direction of the Bad Lands. He could see that
they had some definite destination, for when the horses veered somewhat to
the south, Running Rabbit motioned them northward.
"He was there yesterday; Running Rabbit knows," said Bear Chief, in answer
to an Indian's question; and Smith, listening, wondered where "there"
might be, and what it was that Running Rabbit knew.
He asked himself if it could be that they were taking him to some desert
spring, where they meant to tie him to die of thirst in sight of water.
The alkali plain held many forms of torture, as he knew.
His captors did not taunt or insult him. They rode too hard, they were too
much in earnest, to take the time for byplay. It was evident to Smith that
they feared pursuit, and were anxious to reach their objective point
before the sun rose. He knew this from the manner in which they watched
the east.
Somehow, as the miles sped under their horses' feet, the ride became more
and more unreal to Smith. The moon, big, glorious, and late in rising,
silvered the desert with its white light until they looked to be riding
into an ocean. It made Smith think of the Big Water, by moonlight, over
there on the Sundown slope. Even the lean, dark figures riding beside him
seemed a part of a dream; and Dora, when he thought of her, was shadowy,
unreal. He had a strange feeling that he was galloping, galloping out of
her life.
[Illustration: THEY QUIRTED THEIR HORSES AT BREAKNECK SPEED IN THE
DIRECTION OF THE BAD LANDS.]
There were times when he felt as if he were floating. His sensations were
like the hallucinations of fever, and then he would find himself called
back to a realization of facts by the swish of leather thongs on a horse's
flank, or some smothered, half-uttered imprecation when a horse stumbled.
The air of the coming morning fanned his cheeks, its coolness stimulated
him, and something of the fairy-like beauty of the white world around him
impressed even Smith.
They had left the flatter country behind them, and were riding among hills
and limestone cliffs, Running Rabbit winding in and out with the certainty
of one on familiar ground. The way was rough, and they slackened their
pace, riding one behind the other, Indian file.
Running Rabbit reined in where the moonlight turned a limestone hill to
silver, and threw up his hand to halt.
He untied the rope which bound Smith's hands and feet.
"You can't coil a rope no more nor a gopher," said Smith, watching him.
"The white man does many things better than the Indian." Running Rabbit
went on coiling the rope.
He motioned Smith to follow, and led the way on foot.