“I—AM—BUT—AN—INDIAN”
Mauchacho was permitted to choose his own trail and pace. His rider
did not notice when he stopped to nibble at some tempting grass, or
stretched his neck for a few remaining green leaves.
A loud neigh startled the girl from her lethargy, and she discovered
a saddled horse standing near the entrance to her “den.” At first she
felt a slight alarm, then saw that it was one of the ranch horses.
Dismounting, and leaving her horse with trailing reins, she hurried to
learn the cause of the empty saddle. A cry escaped her, as directly at
the opening of the tiny cavern she came face to face with Henry West.
At first she scarcely believed it was he, so changed did he seem. His
straight, black hair was in matted disorder; great seams lined his
brow and chin; the erstwhile white silken shirt lay torn back from his
throat, soiled and begrimed; his sombrero, twisted into a shapeless
mass, was clutched in his hands, while the great, black, shaggy
“chapps” made him seem like some formidable creature.
He stared at Bess benumbed and uncomprehending. Why was she here? Why
had she not gone with him whom she had wedded? Was it a ghost come to
bring still greater agony? Slowly stretching forth his hand, fearful
lest the apparition should vanish, he felt it grasped eagerly by one
pulsating with warm, pulsing life. She lifted her eyes to his with an
assuring gaze as she spoke:
“It is really I—Bess Fletcher! I have been saved from ignominy by Grace
Morton’s living death—by the broken heart of Helen West.”
“You knew!” gasped Henry West, stepping back abruptly.
“How could I have known? Fate, at an almost fatal moment, disclosed the
perfidy which you had so cowardly concealed.”
“Yes, a coward—a damned coward, who could not tell of his only sister’s
dishonor to save you—even you, from a life of misery! Since early dawn
have I fought here for the courage to go to you, to tell you, but I
dared not; had I seen that—that dog again, he would have been killed,”
came in a frenzied outburst, as Henry clasped his hand over his
holster. “This same bullet has been waiting—for nearly two years,” he
said, as he withdrew the gun and held it in his palm.
Bess reached out her hand. Taking the treacherous weapon and emptying
the chambers, she gave it back to West. “There, Henry, you will not
need it now; he has gone.”
“Gone! Yes, I was told yesterday that his resignation was not
voluntary; another man is already at the agency to fill the position.”
“Where are you going alone?” asked Henry West, as the girl remounted
and turned Mauchacho’s head toward the rugged north shore of the lake.
“Where my horse may take me. Your mother is looking for you at home,”
answered Miss Fletcher, in a hard voice, as she bent her head beneath
the branches of a small pine and rode away.
West stood watching her as she now and again came into view from behind
a clump of bushes or around some jagged rocks, trying to clear the
mist from his brain and eyes, and assuring himself that she was not
an hallucination. At length he took the reins from the ground and led
his horse back to the ranch. No one saw him enter the house nor go to
his room; and when he joined the others late in the afternoon no one
dreamed that the tall, dark man, so immaculately dressed, so calm and
quiet, had a moment of anguish.
James was seated near the couch when Henry West entered the room. He
arose quickly, words of explanation ready upon his lips, but he was
silenced by a gently upraised hand. Mrs. West had also hastened to her
son’s side with a glad smile of welcome upon her face.
Placing his arm tenderly about her, West said: “James—I know. I saw
Bess with her horse riding—” and he swept his hand toward the northward
as he bent and kissed the soft, white head against his shoulder. The
mother felt the tremor in his voice and the quiver in his heart, and
she knew then the secret which his soul could no longer conceal. This
was a tragedy! Her son, with the blood of red-skinned warriors in his
veins, loved—loved hopelessly! She dared not lift her face from the
shelter of his breast. Seeing that his mother was concerned, he led her
gently into her room. Here she told him the details of the affair, and
when she had finished he knew that she was still ignorant of the true
cause of her daughter’s death.
A great sigh of relief escaped him. He could not bear that the trusting
mother should now, after the sharp edge of her grief had been dulled,
have her heart break anew.
“James was saying just before you came, Henry, that he should take Bess
back to New York with him. He thinks possibly they will be ready to
go when Miss Morton leaves. Oh! it seems as if I cannot—have her go,
Henry! She has grown into my life so fully that if she goes away it
will be like pulling out my heart!”
“I think, mother—I—I feel that it is the only thing for her to do. I
cannot persuade James to remain, even as half owner of the _HW_ ranch
and stock. Perhaps we may go away, too, mother,—away from here; away
from these hills, these scenes; away from the West and our people.
Mother—mother!” he cried, “the sun will no longer bring the daylight
and warmth when she is gone!”
For several moments neither said a word, so overwhelmed was each
with hopelessness. Then a gentle touch upon the arm caused Henry West
to lift his face and reply to the question which his mother scarcely
breathed loud enough for him to hear.
“Have I told her of my love?” He repeated her question. “I could not.
Now I am only sad with longing; I am not crushed with cruel certainty.
I am—but—an Indian—insensible to love, incapable of feeling; unfit for
any place; disqualified, alone! An Indian!”
Never before had she heard such bitter words from her son. Tears filled
her eyes.
“Forgive me, my mother!” came in a voice full of tenderness and love.
The sun had set, leaving a crimson glow on the hills, which swiftly
faded into the early gloom. James, hearing a horse, hurried to
assist his sister, but met instead a man who had brought a message
for Berenice Morton. She tore the envelope open hastily and read its
contents at a glance.
“My sister is—dead,” she said in a whisper, with a face even more pale
than it had been during the long afternoon. “I must go at once; my
father needs me. If he had only called me sooner. No—no, I am glad he
did not—for Bess’ sake,” she added hurriedly.
Just then Bess came, filling the room with the perfume of fresh air.
Her face was still pale and drawn, although she tried to assume an air
of serenity. She was immediately apprised of the message, and began at
once to plan for her friend’s hasty departure.
Berenice was sent to bed to rest and sleep, while the others packed her
trunk and made all the preparations to drive to Selish at midnight.
Bess tried to persuade her brother to accompany Miss Morton, as she
ought not to go on such a long journey alone. “I will finish your
packing and send your trunks later on,” she argued when he said he
could not leave so suddenly.
“We planned this afternoon while you were gone to go all at the same
time,” said James.
“I do not wish to go now, James. I feel—I wish to stay here where it is
quiet, to rest.”
At last, when Bess had consented to come very soon, at least as quickly
as she should feel herself again, James decided to go on to New York
with Berenice Morton.