Walter Lowell tore the wrapper of his copy of the "White Lodge Weekly
Star" when the agency mail was put on his desk a few days after the
murder on the Dollar Sign road.
"I'm betting Editor Jay Travers cuts into the vitriol supply for our
benefit in this issue of his household journal," remarked the agent to
his chief clerk.
"He won't overlook the chance," replied Rogers. "Here's where he earns a
little of the money the stockmen have been putting into his newspaper
during the last few years."
"Yes, here it is: 'Crime Points to Indians. Automobile Tourist Killed
Near Reservation. Staked Down, Probably by Redskins. Wave of Horror
Sweeping the County--Dancing should be Stopped--Policy of Coddling
Indians--White Settlers not Safe.' Oh, take it and read it in detail!"
And Lowell tossed the paper to Rogers.
"And right here, where you'd look for it first thing--right at the top
of the editorial column--is a regular old-fashioned English leader,
calling on the Government to throw open the reservation to grazing,"
said Rogers.
"The London 'Times' could thunder no more strongly in proportion. The
grateful cowmen should throw at least another five thousand into ye
editor's coffers. But, after all, what does it matter? A dozen
newspapers couldn't make the case look any blacker for the Indians. If
some hot-headed white man doesn't read this and take a shot at the first
Indian he meets, no great harm will be done."
The inquest over the slain man had been duly held at White Lodge. The
coroner's jury found that the murder had been done "by a person or
persons unknown." The telegrams which Lowell had sent had brought back
the information that Edward B. Sargent was a retired inventor of mining
machinery--that he was prosperous, and lived alone. His servants said he
had departed in an automobile five days before. He had left no word as
to his destination, but had drawn some money from the bank--sufficient
to cover expenses on an extended trip. His servants said he was in the
habit of taking such trips alone. Generally he went to the Rocky
Mountains in his automobile every summer. He was accustomed to life in
the open and generally carried a camping outfit. His description tallied
with that which had been sent. He had left definite instructions with a
trust company about the disposal of his fortune, and about his burial,
in case of his death. Would the county authorities at White Lodge please
forward remains without delay?
While the inquiry was in progress, Walter Lowell spent much of his time
at White Lodge, and caught the brunt of the bitter feeling against the
Indians. It seemed as if at least three out of four residents of the
county had mentally tried and convicted Fire Bear and his companions.
"And if there is one out of the four that hasn't told me his opinion,"
said Lowell to the sheriff, "it's because he hasn't been able to get to
town."
Sheriff Tom Redmond, though evidently firm in his opinion that Indians
were responsible for the crime, was not as outspoken in his remarks as
he had been at the scene of the murder. The county attorney, Charley
Dryenforth, a young lawyer who had been much interested in the progress
of the Indians, had counseled less assumption on the sheriff's part.
"Whoever did this," said the young attorney, "is going to be found,
either here in this county or on the Indian reservation. It wasn't any
chance job--the work of a fly-by-night tramp or yeggman. The Dollar Sign
is too far off the main road to admit of that theory. It's a home job,
and the truth will come out sooner or later, just as Lowell says, and
the only sensible thing is to work with the agent and not against
him--at least until he gives some just cause for complaint."
Like the Indian agent, the attorney had a complete understanding of the
prejudices in the case. There is always pressure about any Indian
reservation. White men look across the line at unfenced acres, and
complain bitterly against a policy that gives so much land to so few
individuals. There are constant appeals to Congressmen. New treaties,
which disregard old covenants as scraps of paper, are constantly being
introduced. Leasing laws are being made and remade and fought over. The
Indian agent is the local buffer between contending forces. But, used as
he was to unfounded complaint and criticism, Walter Lowell was hardly
prepared for the bitterness that descended upon him at White Lodge after
the crime on the Dollar Sign. Men with whom he had hunted and fished,
cattlemen whom he had helped on the round-up, and storekeepers whose
trade he had swelled to considerable degree, attempted to engage in
argument tinged with acrimony. Lowell attempted to answer a few of them
at first, but saw how futile it all was, and took refuge in silence. He
waited until there was nothing more for him to do at White Lodge, and
then he went back to the agency to complete the job of forgetting an
incredible number of small personal injuries.... There was the girl at
Willis Morgan's ranch. Surely she would be outside of all these
wave-like circles of distrust and rancor. He intended to have gone to
see her within a day or two after he had taken her over to Morgan's, but
something insistent had come up at the agency, and then had come the
murder. Well, he would go over right away. He took his hat and gloves
and started for the automobile, when the telephone rang.
"It's Sheriff Tom Redmond," said Rogers. "He's coming over to see you
about going out after Fire Bear. An indictment's been found, and he's
bringing a warrant charging Fire Bear with murder."
* * * * *
Bill Talpers sat behind the letter cage that marked off Uncle Sam's
corner of his store, and paid no attention to the waiting Indian outside
who wanted a high-crowned hat, but who knew better than to ask for it.
Being postmaster had brought no end of problems to Bill. This time it
was a problem that was not displeasing, though Mr. Talpers was not quite
sure as yet how it should be followed out. The problem was contained in
a letter which Postmaster Bill held in his hand. The letter was open,
though it was not addressed to the man who had read it a dozen times and
who was still considering its import.
Lovingly, Bill once more looked at the address on the envelope. It was
in a feminine hand and read:
MR. EDWARD B. SARGENT.
The town that figured on the envelope was Quaking-Asp Grove, which was
beyond White Lodge, on the main transcontinental highway. Slowly Bill
took from the envelope a note which read:
_Dear Uncle and Benefactor_:
I have learned all. Do not come to the ranch for me, as you have
planned. Evil impends. In fact I feel that he means to do you harm.
I plead with you, do not come. It is the only way you can avert
certain tragedy. I am sending this by Wong, as I am watched
closely, though he pretends to be looking out only for my welfare.
I can escape in some way. I am not afraid--only for you. Again I
plead with you not to come. You will be going into a deathtrap.
HELEN
Wong, the factotum from the Greek Letter Ranch, had brought the letter
and had duly stamped it and dropped it in the box for outgoing mail,
three days before the murder on the Dollar Sign road. Wong had all the
appearance of a man frightened and in a hurry. Talpers sought to detain
him, but the Chinese hurried back to his old white horse and climbed
clumsily into the saddle.
"It's a long time sence I've seen that old white hoss with the big
pitchfork brand on his shoulder," said Talpers. "You ain't ridin' up
here for supplies as often as you used to, Wong. Must be gettin' all
your stuff by mail-order route. Well, I ain't sore about it, so wait
awhile and have a little smoke and talk."
But Wong had shaken his head and departed as rapidly in the direction of
the ranch as his limited riding ability would permit.
The letter that Wong had mailed had not gone to its addressed
destination. Talpers had opened it and read it, out of idle curiosity,
intending to seal the flap again and remail it if it proved to be
nothing out of the ordinary. But there were hints of interesting things
in the letter, and Bill kept it a day or so for re-reading. Then he kept
it for another day because he had stuck it in his pocket and all but
forgotten about it. Afterward came the murder, with the name of Sargent
figuring, and Bill kept the letter for various reasons, one of which was
that he did not know what else to do with it.
"It's too late for that feller to git it now, any ways," was Bill's
comfortable philosophy. "And if I'd go and mail it now, some fool
inspector might make it cost me my job as postmaster. Besides, it may
come useful in my business--who knows?"
The usefulness of the letter, from Bill's standpoint, began to be
apparent the day after the murder, when Helen Ervin rode up to the store
on the white horse which Wong had graced. The girl rode well. She was
hatless and dressed in a neat riding-suit--the conventional attire of
her classmates who had gone in for riding-lessons. Her riding-clothes
were the first thing she had packed, on leaving San Francisco, as the
very word "ranch" had suggested delightful excursions in the saddle.
Two or three Indians sat stolidly on the porch as Helen rode up. She had
learned that the old horse was not given to running away. He might roll,
to rid himself of the flies, but he was not even likely to do that with
the saddle on, so Helen did not trouble to tie him to the rack. She let
the reins drop to the ground and walked past the Indians into the store,
where Bill Talpers was watching her greedily from behind his
postmaster's desk.
"You are postmaster here, Mr. Talpers, aren't you?" asked Helen, with a
slight acknowledgment of the trader's greeting.
Bill admitted that Uncle Sam had so honored him.
"I'm looking for a letter that was mailed here by Wong, and should be
back from Quaking-Asp Grove by this time. It had a return address on it,
and I understand the person to whom it was sent did not receive it."
Talpers leaned forward mysteriously and fixed his animal-like gaze on
Helen.
"I know why he didn't git it," said Bill. "He didn't git it because he
was murdered."
Helen turned white, and her riding-whip ceased its tattoo on her boot.
She grasped at the edge of the counter for support, and Bill smiled
triumphantly. He had played a big card and won, and now he was going to
let this girl know who was master.
"There ain't no use of your feelin' cut up," he went on. "If you and me
jest understand each other right, there ain't no reason why any one else
should know about that letter."
"You held it up and it never reached Quaking-Asp Grove!" exclaimed
Helen. "You're the real murderer. I can have you put in prison for
tampering with the mails."
The last shot did not make Bill blink. He had been looking for it.
"Ye-es, you might have me put in prison. I admit that," he said,
stroking his sparse black beard, "but you ain't goin' to, because I'd
feel in duty bound to say that I jest held up the letter in the
interests of justice, and turn the hull thing over to the authorities.
Old Fussbudget Tom Redmond is jest achin' to make an arrest in this
case. He wants to throw the hull Injun reservation in jail, but he'd
jest as soon switch to a white person, if confronted with the proper
evidence. Now this here letter"--and here Bill took the missive from his
pocket--"looks to me like air-tight, iron-bound, copper-riveted sort of
testimony that says its own say. Tom couldn't help but act on it, and
act quick."
Helen looked about despairingly. The Indians sat like statues on the
porch. They had not even turned their heads to observe what was going on
inside the store. The old white horse was switching and stamping and
shuddering in his constant and futile battle against flies. Beyond the
road was silence and prairie.
Turning toward the trader, Helen thought to start in on a plea for
mercy, but one look into Talpers's face made her change her mind. Anger
set her heart beating tumultuously. She snatched at the letter in the
trader's hand, but Bill merely caught her wrist in his big fingers.
Swinging the riding-whip with all her strength, she struck Talpers
across the face again and again, but he only laughed, and finally
wrenched the whip away from her and threw it out in the middle of the
floor. Then he released her wrist.
"You've got lots o' spunk," said Bill, coming out from behind the
counter, "but that ain't goin' to git you anywheres in pertic'ler in a
case like this. You'd better set down on that stool and think things
over and act more human."
Helen realized the truth of Talpers's words. Anger was not going to get
her anywhere. The black events of recent hours had brought out
resourcefulness which she never suspected herself of having. Fortunately
Miss Scovill had been the sort to teach her something of the realities
of life. The Scovill School for Girls might have had a larger
fashionable patronage if it had turned out more graduates of the
clinging-vine type of femininity instead of putting independence of
thought and action as among the first requisites.
"That letter doesn't amount to so much as you think," said Helen; "and,
anyway, suppose I swear on the stand that I never wrote it?"
"You ain't the kind to swear to a lie," replied Bill, and Helen flushed.
"Besides, it's in your writin', and your name's there, and your Chinaman
brought it here. You can't git around them things."
"Suppose I tell my stepfather and he comes here and takes the letter
away from you?"
Talpers sneered.
"He couldn't git that letter away from me, onless we put it up as a
prize in a Greek-slingin' contest. Besides, he's too ornery to help out
even his own kin. Why, I ain't one tenth as bad as that stepfather of
yourn. He just talked poison into the ears of that Injun wife of his
until she died. I guess mebbe by your looks you didn't know he had an
Injun wife, but he did. Since she died--killed by inches--he's had that
Chinaman doin' the work around the ranch-house. I guess he can't make a
dent on the Chinese disposition, or he'd have had Wong dead before this.
If you stay there any time at all, he'll have you in an insane asylum or
the grave. That's jest the nature of the beast."
Talpers was waxing eloquent, because it had come to him that his one
great mission in life was to protect this fine-looking girl from the
cruelty of her stepfather. An inexplicable feeling crept into his
heart--the first kindly feeling he had ever known.
"It's a dum shame you didn't have any real friends like me to warn you
off before you hit that ranch," went on Bill. "That young agent who
drove you over ought to have told you, but all he can think of is
protectin' Injuns. Now with me it's different. I like Injuns all right,
but white folks comes first--especially folks that I'm interested in.
Now you and me--"
Helen picked up her riding-whip.
"I can't hear any more to-day," she said.
Talpers followed her through the door and out on the porch.
"All right," he remarked propitiatingly. "This letter'll keep, but mebbe
not very long."
In spite of her protests, he turned the horse around for her, and held
her stirrup while she mounted. His solicitousness alarmed her more than
positive enmity on his part.
"By gosh! you're some fine-lookin' girl," he said admiringly, his gaze
sweeping over her neatly clad figure. "There ain't ever been a
ridin'-rig like that in these parts. I sure get sick of seein' these
squaws bobbin' along on their ponies. There's lots of women around here
that can ride, but I never knowed before that the clothes counted so
much. Now you and me--"
Helen struck the white horse with her whip. As if by accident, the lash
whistled close to Bill Talpers's face, making him give back a step in
surprise. As the girl rode away, Talpers looked after her, grinning.
"Some spirited girl," he remarked. "And I sure like spirit. But mebbe
this letter I've got'll keep her tamed down a little. Hey, you
Bear-in-the-Cloud and Red Star and Crane--you educated sons o' guns
settin' around here as if you didn't know a word of English--there ain't
any spirits fermentin' on tap to-day, not a drop. It's gettin' scarce
and the price is goin' higher. Clear out and wait till Jim McFann comes
in to-morrow. He may be able to find somethin' that'll cheer you up!"