A PSEUDO SQUAW
The “girls” were to remain in camp, while Mr. George and “Uncle Jim”
drove the horses to a ranch to have them re-shod. A trip to Sullivan
Creek had been planned, and it was necessary that the team and wagon be
in good condition to cover the long distance over a rough, hilly road.
The dogs were in need of a rest to recuperate for the next chase. The
good-byes were called and re-answered till the men were out of sight.
“Oh! let’s gather these red thorn-apples and buck-brush berries and
make bracelets and strings of beads, and then dress up in blankets and
play we are squaws,” suggested “Peter Pan,” as she began to fill her
many pockets with the berries within her reach. Each one seemed bent on
plucking the most and soon hats were brimming over.
They sat in a bright, sunny exposure near the edge of the water and
strung the red and white berries on long, stout threads, the while
happy jokes were made, stories told or snatches of familiar songs were
sung. As Bess began to sing again one of the familiar verses, “Peter
Pan” checked her rather unceremoniously with, “Oh! please—Miss Bess,
we have _sang_ that so many times already.”
“My dearie, you mean to say—have—what?” corrected her mother.
“I can’t tell, mother—I’m not that far yet in my book,” came the ever
ready answer of the little grammarian.
Bess had quietly slipped away while the others were still industriously
threading their beads. Presently the three dogs, who were stretched out
in the glorious warmth of the sunshine near the busy workers, suddenly
came to their feet with a bound and ran barking savagely at a form
approaching through the trees. As suddenly did they drop their tails
between their legs and fawned at the feet of the blanketed intruder, as
a familiar voice said softly yet commandingly, “Boys! Gladstone! Jack!
What’s the fuss? Don’t you know me?”
They could scarcely be blamed for their mistake, for Bess looked a
veritable Indian. About her was a vivid blanket, a red cloth wound her
forehead nearly concealing her hair which had been braided and hung
down either side of her neck. A pair of moccasins (which Mrs. West had
urged her to bring in case the nights might prove cold) and the coils
of red and white beads completed her costume.
“You look just like a really Indian girl,” cried “Peter Pan,” clapping
her hands gleefully. “Why, even the dogs thought you were one too,
didn’t they?” she added, with her deep blue eyes glowing with
appreciation.
“Here Bess, go down by the road and get us a few more of the
thorn-apples; my string is not yet long enough,” said Mrs. Bland, as
she and the others kept on with their task.
“Oh, there are some splendid large ones!” said Bess to herself, as she
caught sight of a clump of the brush, with shiny, red fruit a little
way down the road. She wandered aimlessly on, watching the dust puff
out as she made “toed-in” tracks with the moccasins. The choice place
for thorn-apples had been passed, but then, that did not matter, as
here were more directly ahead of her.
The sound of approaching horses and their riders’ voices came to her
ears. The delay of indecision, whether to flee to camp, or whether to
conceal herself in the near-by thicket, made either impossible, for
already directly in front of her came two horsemen, and she knew that
she had been seen. Turning her back toward the approach, and concealing
her face in a fold of the blanket, she stood aside, hoping that they
might pass without giving her any especial attention.
One had passed, and peeping from her cover she saw that he wore the
Indian police uniform. A soft chuckle reached her ear, and she knew
that he knew he saw a masquerader. But her heart stood still, as a
voice so familiar, yet just now so foreign said, “You ride on ahead and
see if you can locate their camp. I’ll be there presently.”
She heard the horse stop and felt his nose brush her blanket, so near
had he come to her.
“_Klah-on-ya-Mary_—are you here alone?” and the end of a quirt touched
her none too gently on the head. She heard a stirrup squeak and felt
that the man was dismounting.
“Come here—I want to talk to you. You know me—I am the Agent—I want to
look at you;” but the instant the silent figure felt the touch of his
eager fingers upon her arm, Bess sprang forward like a frightened deer,
and ran swiftly into the bushes and was soon out of sight. It was all
the man could do to restrain the frightened horse, and when he again
looked to where he had seen the bushes part to enfold a brightly-hued
fleeing creature, they had folded their branches as meekly as if they
had nothing to conceal.
“Damn these squaws; they are not usually so touchy,” said the man, as
he gave his horse an unnecessary jerk at the reins as he remounted and
started on. A thin, blue, curling smoke through the trees revealed to
him the campers’ location, while awaiting him at the trail was his
escort. The police continued on his journey upon receiving a few minute
instructions, and the Agent reined his horse into the path leading to
the camp. At first he saw no one except the white-aproned man busy
preparing lunch, then his advent was seen by the ladies, still busy
with their beads.
Mrs. Bland came forward to receive the visitor.
“I am very much pleased to meet you, Mr. Davis,” she said, as he
introduced himself. “I am sorry that the men are away from camp just at
present. They are to be back in time for luncheon. Won’t you dismount
and help us enjoy a few of the birds which you so kindly permitted us
to kill?”
“Thank you—I am sure it will be a treat,” he answered as he slid from
the saddle.
“Er—I—I had hoped to meet Miss Fletcher here also,” he added, as he
hesitatingly glanced about.
“Oh, yes, she is here—that is, she will be here presently. She just now
went down to the road after some more thorn-apples for our chains. We
are going to play Indian,” she laughed.
“Even the dogs thought Miss Bess was a really squaw when they saw her
all wrapped in a blanket,” put in “Peter Pan” as she came inquisitively
forward to see their visitor.
Slowly the explanation of the squaw by the road-side forced itself into
his brain. For a moment he held his breath wondering if he had made a
fool of himself. Perhaps she did not recognize him, but if she did he
would easily convince her it was a joke—that he had known it was she
all the while.
What could be keeping Bess so long? Why did she not return to camp with
the gathered thorn-apples? Each moment a glance went up the trail,
hoping that she would soon be coming. No one saw the silent pseudo
squaw as she crept softly on her hands and knees in the shadow of the
logs and the close covering of the brush. No one saw her now as she
lay flat on the ground securely concealed by the thick leaves and the
tall grasses, watching the occupants of the camp with glowing eyes. No
one? Yes, one alert pair of ears had heard a twig snap; one keen nose
had sniffed the air, and now a pair of appealing eyes were looking into
hers.
“Charge Gladdy!” she said to the dog with a wriggling tail, as
emphatically as she could in a whisper. Then she flung her arm about
him holding him close lest he betray her concealment. Would the visitor
never go? Should she be compelled finally to come forth and rejoin the
others at the camp? If she could only convince herself that the Agent
had recognized her in the road and had not really thought she was a
squaw she would not now hesitate in meeting him. But somehow a feeling
of uncertainty crept into her heart and for the moment made her fairly
hate him. The approach of horses along the highway caused her to sit
upright and listen. Gladstone, too, heard the sound and before he could
be checked, began a vigorous barking. She could hear the horses coming
through the tangled brush, and in a moment more she stood face to face
with James Fletcher and Henry West.
“Great guns! Bess; you are a regular Pocahontas! How’s that for a
‘peachy’ squaw?” he said to West, as he nearly tumbled from his saddle
and gave his sister a vigorous hug. Henry West had also dismounted and
caught his horse’s bridle over his arm. In his glance was a look of
questioning approval which caused Bess to ask:
“I am wondering, Henry, if you like me this way?”
“If all squaws looked as well, a man wouldn’t mind being an Indian,” he
said significantly, walking by her side.
“Oh! here you are; where did you hide?” cried little “Peter Pan,” as
she ran forward to meet her favorite.
“Put ‘Peter Pan’ on the horse and let her ride,” said Bess, in the way
of an introduction to Henry West. He lifted the child gently and placed
her in the saddle, carefully guarding her lest she fall. The child was
watching the dark features of her companion with an apprehensive look.
As he held her for a moment in his arms when she dismounted, she softly
touched the bronze cheek with her fingers, and said: “I like you, even
if you are—so much darker—than my Uncle Jim,” and slid, half afraid,
out of his clasp and ran to her mother’s side, her eyes following him.
As soon as Mr. Davis found an opportunity amid all the confusion of
introductions and greeting and clamorous talk, he stood near Bess and
said: “Really, I had begun to think you had fled to your ‘wick-i-up’
and were not coming to see me at all. Your disguise was scarcely
sufficient, for I knew you instantly and tried to carry out your joke,
but you were too hasty.”
Bess suddenly let the blanket fall from her shoulders to the ground
and faced Mr. Davis squarely. She looked into his eyes searchingly;
beyond them she gazed till her accusing glance penetrated his very
soul. Without the tremor of an eyelash her search was answered by a
look as steady and firm as her own. At last a smile broke upon her lips
as she said: “I did—did half imagine that you really thought—you were
talking to an Indian.”
“They are too uninteresting to me even to stop to speak to,” he
reassured her, and was glad that further explanation was interrupted by
the arrival of Mr. George and “Uncle Jim.”
Soon all were enjoying the delicious birds, done to a turn by the
efficient chef. Perhaps no one of the merry company, except Bess,
noticed the reticence of Henry West, who sat beside her. She quietly
gave his hand a little squeeze as she passed him the salt, which sent
the blood pounding through his heart till he felt it could surely be
heard by the others.
In spite of the many earnest requests to remain, James and Henry
declared that they must hurry on to rejoin the rest of the bunch who
were on the round-up. Dave Davis, the Indian agent, also took his
departure after several futile attempts to speak with Bess alone.
The rest of the day was busy with cleaning guns, greasing the wheels
and loading the wagon, preparatory for the long trip to Sullivan Creek
on the morrow, which would in all probability take two or three days.