ON THE FORT WAYNE TRAIL
As silently as they had gone, the Indians returned. No one but the
sentinels saw the ghostly procession when it passed the Fort from the
southward, in the grey mists of dawn. Black Partridge was still at the
head, the others following him in single file.
The deserted wigwams in the hollow were as they had left them, and
inside of an hour they had taken up the thread of existence at the
point where the annual pilgrimage had broken it off. Some exchanges of
gifts were made among them; but, in the main, each one was satisfied
with what he had received.
Early in the morning the chief went to the trading station, and,
finding it deserted, went immediately to the Fort in search of
his friend Shaw-nee-aw-kee. They had a long conversation on the
parade-ground, and soldiers and civilians gathered around them,
listening impatiently until the interpreter was ready to speak.
"I understand it now," said Mackenzie to the Captain. "He says
that while they were up in Canada, the Chippewas and Ottawas sent
speeches among them, saying the northern tribes had heard that the
Pottawattomies and Winnebagoes were not upon good terms with the white
people and that they desired them to be friendly. His own people only
laughed, but the Winnebagoes determined to show their independence in
a refusal to obey the commands of other tribes. So a dozen braves came
here to take some white scalps, that they might flaunt them in the
faces of the others. He says a large force was waiting in the woods,
and that they would doubtless have killed every one outside of the
Fort, even if they did not make an attack upon the Fort itself, but
that the guns of the White Father frightened them away."
Here the chief began to talk again, with many gestures.
"He says," continued Mackenzie, "that we need not now be afraid, since
he and his people have returned to protect us. He is sorry that his
friends have suffered during his absence, and after this a part of the
tribe will always remain here, while the others go after their gifts."
"We can go home, then," said Mrs. Mackenzie.
"Isn't he splendid!" exclaimed Beatrice. "I'd like to paint his
picture. Do you think he'd let me, Uncle John?"
It took a great deal of explanation to make Black Partridge
understand, but he finally consented, on condition that the picture
would be given to him. "He's afraid the white squaw will make a
charm," said Mackenzie.
"All right," laughed Beatrice. "I can make several sketches, and he
can have one of the pictures. He needn't know I make more than one."
By night the Mackenzies were in their own home again, and, as the
weeks passed, the fear was forgotten by all save Beatrice. She
could not enter her own room without a vivid remembrance of her
fright, coupled with the consciousness that she had cried like a
baby, and that the Ensign had put his arm around her unrebuked. She
hated herself for her weakness and blamed herself bitterly for her
foolishness, because, if she had only stopped to think, she would have
known the difference in sound between a moccasin and an army boot.
Still, at night, she would sometimes start from troubled dreams with
the same deadly fear upon her and tremble long after she knew she was
awake and safe. Behind it all was something she did not care to think
of, but memory gave her no peace.
Pictures, clear and distinct, intruded upon her mental vision against
her will. She saw Robert leaning on his musket, the only man in
the Fort who was not up and doing when danger seemed imminent, and
shuddered at the look on his face when she called him a coward. In
his eyes there had been something of the same reproach with which
a dog regards the well-loved master who has unjustly struck him.
"Lexington!" she said to herself over and over again; "his fathers
fought there, and I called their son a coward!"
Swiftly upon the memory came the sound of his voice when he had cried,
"Beatrice, do you despise me?" and the sight of his strained, eager
face, as he waited for her to speak. The knowledge of her answer made
her shrink from herself with bitterness and shame. The obvious course
of apology lay open to her, but her pride refused to humble itself
that far. Time and time again she had determined to make partial
atonement in that way, but her stubborn lips would not move to shape
the word "forgive."
Robert seemed to have forgotten, and each day he made himself dearer
to the Mackenzies. Between the trader and his college-bred nephew
there slowly grew one of those rare friendships possible only to men.
Mackenzie had not spent his life upon the frontier without learning to
understand his fellow-man, and to read, though perhaps roughly, the
inner meaning of outward semblances. In Robert he saw the blood of the
Forsyths undefiled--the martial spirit was there, educated, refined,
and tempered until it was akin to polished steel. From his mother the
boy had received broad charity and a great gentleness, as well as the
adamantine pride which is at once the strength and terror of a woman's
heart.
Mrs. Mackenzie had quickly learned to love him, and with her he took
the place of a grown son. He helped her in countless little ways, and
often sat with his arm thrown over her shoulders while she sewed upon
the rough garments her husband wore, and talked to him as she worked.
The children idolised him.
From all this Beatrice felt herself an outcast, though there was no
visible evidence that she was not one of them. The trader laughed and
joked with her as he always had done, and her aunt regarded her with
tender affection. Maria Indiana and the baby adored her, and the other
children openly admired her, in spite of a lingering belief that she
had broken one of the Ten Commandments. Still, she was not satisfied,
for every day she remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, and Robert
stood aloof. He never failed to be courteous and considerate, yet
between them was a cold, impenetrable distance which never softened in
the slightest degree.
Beatrice and Ronald were great friends. His unnatural shyness had
worn off, but he did not treat her with the easy familiarity the
other women at the post had learned to expect from him. He was quite
capable of teasing Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Franklin to the limit of
their endurance; but Mrs. Mackenzie and Beatrice were included in the
manifestations of deep respect.
Mr. and Mrs. Burns decided to leave the post and go to Fort Wayne,
where they had relatives, as soon as Mrs. Burns was able to travel.
The man and boy who had escaped from the Indians at Lee's determined
to go with them. The farm was too far away from the Fort to be
altogether safe, and a kind of disembodied horror had hung about the
place since the killing of the two men and the savage mutilation of
their bodies.
Black Partridge and a few of the Pottawattomies volunteered to
accompany them to Fort Wayne whenever they might be ready to start.
For a time it was thought best to take one of the waggons at the Fort;
but Spring was at hand, and there would doubtless be streams which a
waggon could not successfully ford.
Ronald assisted Mr. Burns in selecting and packing the few things they
were to take with them, and their household effects were distributed
among the Indians who were to compose the guard. The four white people
were to ride horseback and the Indians were to follow on foot, riding
the horses back when the others had safely reached Fort Wayne.
"Miss Manning," said Ronald one afternoon, "we are having trouble in
finding a horse suitable for Mrs. Burns. Would you be willing to lend
her yours?"
"No, I wouldn't," snapped Beatrice.
"The horse will be brought back safely," pleaded the Ensign.
"No, she won't, because she isn't going."
Ronald's face changed and he left her without another word.
"I don't care," said Beatrice to herself; "she couldn't ride Queen
anyway. Queen wouldn't let her--nobody has ever ridden her but me."
Later, it occurred to her that she might have explained more fully
to Ronald, but she put the thought from her as unworthy of a proud
spirit. She knew that he had put her down as selfish, but repeatedly
told herself that she did not care.
The day was set for their departure, and they were to start at
sunrise. The night before, Beatrice found it impossible to sleep,
and, long before daylight, she got up and dressed. Because there was
nothing to do in the house and she was afraid of waking the others,
she went out on the piazza.
Across the river there were signs of life, and she got into a pirogue
with the laudable desire to say good-bye to Mrs. Burns. When she
reached the Fort, Mrs. Franklin and Katherine were already up and
assisting Mrs. Burns in her preparations for the journey; but the
Captain and Lieutenant Howard were not there.
Suddenly it occurred to Beatrice that she might take Queen and ride
a little way along the trail. She had been over the ground before
and was not afraid to come back alone. Without saying anything of
her intention, she appeared on the parade-ground, mounted, and met a
chorus of protests.
"It isn't safe for you to go alone," said Mrs. Franklin.
"Please don't, Bee," added Katherine.
"Really, Miss Manning," observed Doctor Norton, "it is not best for
you to go."
"I'm not afraid," replied the girl, with a toss of her head.
The party she had determined to escort, individually and collectively,
offered feeble objections, which were immediately waved aside. "I'm
going," said Beatrice, "because I want to, and because it would break
Queen's heart if we went back now."
"What's all this fuss about?" inquired Ronald, sauntering up, and
rubbing his eyes.
The women explained all at once, in incoherent sentences; but Beatrice
did not appear to hear any part of the conversation until he ended it
by saying, "She can go if she wants to, because I'm going along."
Beatrice bit her lip. "You are not," she said, in a tone of command.
"Yes, I am," he laughed; "and, moreover, you are never to ride out of
the gate of the Fort unless an officer goes with you."
She turned and looked at him scornfully, and Ronald, still laughing,
saluted. "A military order, Miss Manning."
It was scarcely light when they started, with Beatrice leading the
way. Queen's eager feet fairly flew, and the girl's pulses caught the
exultant sense of life. The others fell far behind, and Beatrice
doubled and crossed on the trail wherever it was possible.
They had gone about six miles from the Fort when she reined in and
waited for the others to come up, then made her adieux.
"Why do you say good-bye?" asked Ronald.
"Why, because I'm going back now."
"Oh, are you coming back? I thought you were going to Fort Wayne."
She made no reply, but watched the four riders as they turned a little
away from the lake and went south-west over the prairie. A pack horse,
Black Partridge, and four other Indians were following them.
"What made you think I was going to Fort Wayne?" she asked.
"Nothing, only you had such a good start. Besides, you live there,
don't you?"
"No," she said slowly, "I live here. I fought at Fort Wayne."
"Indeed!" remarked Ronald, with polite interest. "Indians or soldiers?"
The pink flush upon her face deepened. "Shall we go back, now?"
"As you please, Miss Manning."
She went ahead, leaving him to follow or not as he chose.
"I wish Major was here," he called to her.
"Why?" she asked, over her shoulder.
"Because it's the same kind of a procession we had around the
parade-ground, and I enjoyed that so much."
Beatrice apparently had not heard, for she went on at the same
leisurely pace. At her right, touched here and there with silver, the
lake lay like a sheet of dusky pearl. Far in the east was spread the
glowing tapestry of dawn, and the rising wind stirred the girl's hair
faintly as she looked across the water, with the sunrise reflected on
her face.
Ronald saw her pure, proud profile, touched to exceeding beauty by the
magic light of morning, and an unconscious, childish wistfulness in
the lines of her mouth. A lump came into his throat and he swallowed
hard. The morning was in his blood, and he had a quick sense of
uplifting, as if his heart had suddenly found its wings.
Then Beatrice turned still more toward him. "It's beautiful, isn't
it?" she asked, softly.
All of her harshness seemed to have fallen from her; she was radiant
and exquisitely womanly in this new mood, and the boy's soul knelt in
worship.
"Why wouldn't you let me come alone?"
"Because I didn't want you frightened," he answered.
The dimple at the corner of her mouth was barely manifest as she said,
demurely, "You should have stayed, then; for you are the one who
frightened me."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I told you that before."
"Yes, I know." She sighed, and added, "It was awful, though, and I
shall never forget it."
"Neither shall I."
He was beside her now, for the trail had widened, and he put his hand
upon the small white one that held Queen's bridle.
"That day," he said huskily, "you put your hand in mine,--when we met
the Captain,--a little, cold hand."
She nodded, but did not take her hand away. "I was dreadfully
frightened then, and you saved me."
His blood leaped in his veins. "That's nothing--I'd do more than that
for you, any time. I had my reward before I had earned it."
The girl's violet eyes opened wide. "I don't understand."
"Have you forgotten that I had my arm around you, just for a minute? I
have dreamed of it ever since--dear."
For an instant she saw him as if he had been a young Greek god,
strangely met in the fields of Arcady; then the glamour passed and he
was only an awkward soldier in a shabby uniform. She cut Queen with
her riding-whip and went furiously ahead, but a boyish, troubled face
was close beside her.
"Have I offended you?"
Beatrice smiled with calm superiority. "You shouldn't say such
things," she replied; "you're far too young."
"Huh!" he retorted, with spirit, "I'm twenty-five!"
"Twenty-five?" she repeated incredulously; "I don't believe it. Why,
I'm twenty myself, and I never thought you were more than eighteen."
She laughed wickedly as she saw him squirm. Through long experience
she had found that shaft one of the most effective in her repertory,
which was not by any means limited. More than once it had quenched an
incipient declaration as effectually as if it had been a shower of
cold water.
They rode in silence till they reached the Fort. "Shall I take you
across?" he asked.
"No, thank you; I can go by myself, if there is no military order
against it; but you may take Queen to the stables, if you like."
She dismounted, taking no note of his proffered assistance, and went
to the river without another word. He watched her until she landed,
then turned away, leading Queen. "A rose, a little rose," he said to
himself; "but, oh, the thorns!"
When Beatrice arrived, she found the family in a state of high
excitement. Mackenzie was just preparing to go over to the Fort and
ask that a search party be sent out to look for her. He had surmised
that she had returned to Fort Wayne until he found that none of her
things were missing, and he received her explanation in stolid silence.
"Why didn't you tell us, Bee?" asked Mrs. Mackenzie. "You gave us all
a fright."
"Dear Aunt Eleanor," she cooed, rubbing her soft cheek against Mrs.
Mackenzie's, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know I was going till I got ready
to start,--I never know,--and I did not dream that any one would care."
Robert had been conducting a private search on his own account, and a
tell-tale relief crossed his face when he came in and found her at the
breakfast table.
"Were you worried about me, Cousin Rob?"
The deep, vibrant contralto voice thrilled him, but he told his lie
well. "No," he answered, carelessly, "of course not. Why should I be?"
The new mood of softness lasted all day. Beatrice did not stop to
analyse, but she was dimly conscious that something strange had
happened to her. At twilight she went out on the piazza, humming
happily to herself, and Robert smiled at her as she came toward the
open window of his room.
He had an old sword in his hand and was rubbing the thin blade with a
handkerchief. "What are you doing?" she asked, curiously.
"Just cleaning this."
"Is it yours?"
"Yes, it is now; but it was my grandfather's." He straightened
instinctively, as if in answer to some far-away bugle, and looked at
her without seeming to see. "He fought at Lexington."
His voice betrayed his pride of blood, and his nostrils dilated with
a quick, inward breath. His hands moved lovingly along the keen
blade--and then Beatrice humbled herself.
"Cousin Rob," she began, impulsively, "I want to tell you something.
I'm sorry and ashamed for----"
Scarlet signals were flaming in her cheeks, and he interrupted
her. "Say no more about it," he said generously; "we were all
unaccountably excited, and at such times we say and do things that
otherwise we would not. Forget about it."
"I'll be glad to," she answered earnestly; but in her heart of hearts
she knew she was not forgiven.