The stage station at White Lodge was a temporary center of public
interest every afternoon at three o'clock when Charley Hicks drove the
passenger bus in from Quaking-Asp Grove. After a due inspection of the
passengers the crowd always shifted immediately to the post-office to
await the distribution of mail.
A well-dressed, refined-looking woman of middle age was among the
passengers on the second day after the hearing of Fire Bear and Jim
McFann. She had little or nothing to say on the trip--perhaps for the
reason that speech would have been difficult on account of the
monopolizing of the conversation by the other passengers. These included
two women from White Lodge, one rancher from Antelope Mesa, and two
drummers who were going to call on White Lodge merchants. The
conversation was unusually brisk and ran almost exclusively on the
murder.
Judge Garford's action in releasing Fire Bear on the agent's promise to
produce the prisoner in court was the cause of considerable criticism.
The two women, the ranchman, and one of the drummers had voted that too
much leniency was shown. The other drummer appealed to the stage-driver
to support his contention that the court's action was novel, but
entirely just.
"Well, all I can say is," remarked the driver, "that if that Injun shows
up for trial, as per his agreement, without havin' to be sent for, it's
goin' to be a hard lesson for the white race to swaller. You can imagine
how much court'd be held if all white suspects was to be let go on their
word that they'd show up for trial. Detectives 'd be chasin' fugitives
all over the universe. If that Injun shows up, I'll carry the hull
reservation anywheres, without tickets, if they'll promise to pay me at
the end of the trip."
The driver noticed that the quiet lady in the back seat, though taking
no part in the conversation, seemed to be a keenly interested listener.
No part of the discussion of the murder escaped her, but she asked no
questions. On alighting at White Lodge, she asked the driver where she
could get a conveyance to take her to Willis Morgan's ranch.
The driver looked at her in such astonishment that she repeated her
question.
"I'd 'a' plum forgot there was such a man in this part of the country,"
said Charley, "if it hadn't 'a' been that sometime before this here
murder I carried a young woman--a stepdaughter of his'n--and she asked
me the same question. I don't believe you can hire any one to take you
out there, but I'll bet I can get you took by the same young feller that
took this girl to the ranch. He's the Indian agent, and I seen him in
his car when we turned this last corner."
Followed by his passenger the driver hurried back to the corner and
hailed Walter Lowell, who was just preparing to return to the agency.
On having matters explained, Lowell expressed his willingness to carry
the lady passenger over to the ranch. Her suitcase was put in the
automobile, and soon they were on the outskirts of White Lodge.
"I ought to explain," said the agent's passenger, "that my name is
Scovill--Miss Sarah Scovill--and Mr. Morgan's stepdaughter has been in
my school for years."
"I know," said Lowell. "I've heard her talk about your school, and I'm
glad you're going out to see her. She needs you."
Miss Scovill looked quickly at Lowell. She was one of those women whose
beauty is only accentuated by gray hair. Her brow and eyes were
serene--those of a dreamer. Her mouth and chin were delicately modeled,
but firm. Their firmness explained, perhaps, why she was executive head
of a school instead of merely a teacher. Not all her philosophy had been
won from books. She had traveled and observed much of life at first
hand. That was why she could keep her counsel--why she had kept it
during all the talk on the stage, even though that talk had vitally
interested her. She showed the effects of her long, hard trip, but would
not hear of stopping at the agency for supper.
"If you don't mind--if it is not altogether too much trouble to put you
to--I must go on," she said. "I assure you it's very important, and it
concerns Helen Ervin, and I assume that you are her friend."
Lowell hastened his pace. It all meant that it would be long past the
supper hour when he returned to the agency, but there was an appeal in
Miss Scovill's eyes and voice which was not to be resisted. Anyway, he
was not going to offer material resistance to something which was
concerned with the well being of Helen Ervin.
They sped through the agency, past Talpers's store, and climbed the big
hill just as the purples fell into their accustomed places in the
hollows of the plain. As they bowled past the scene of the tragedy,
Lowell pointed it out, with only a brief word. His passenger gave a
little gasp of pain and horror. He thought it was nothing more than
might ordinarily be expected under such circumstances, but, on looking
at Miss Scovill, he was surprised to see her leaning back against the
seat, almost fainting.
"By George!" said Lowell contritely, "I shouldn't have mentioned it to
you."
He slowed down the car, but Miss Scovill sat upright and recovered her
mental poise, though with evident effort.
"I'm glad you did mention it," she said, looking back as if fascinated.
"Only, you see, I'd been hearing about the murder most of the day in the
stage, and then this place is so big and wide and lonely! Please don't
think I'm foolish."
"It's all because you're from the city and haven't proportioned things
as yet," said Lowell. "Now all this loneliness seems kindly, to me. It's
only crowds that seem cruel. I often envy trappers dying alone in such
places. Also I can understand why the Indians wanted nothing better in
death than to have their bodies hoisted high atop of a hill, with
nothing to disturb."
As they rounded the top of the hill and the road came up behind them
like an inverted curtain, Miss Scovill gave one last backward look.
Lowell saw that she was weeping quietly, but unrestrainedly. He drove on
in silence until he pulled the automobile up in front of the Morgan
ranch.
"You'll find Miss Ervin here," said Lowell, stepping out of the car.
"This is the Greek Letter Ranch."
If the prospect brought any new shock to Miss Scovill, she gave no
indication of the fact. She answered Lowell steadily enough when he
asked her when he should call for her on her return trip.
"My return trip will be right now," she said. "I've thought it all
out--just what I'm to do, with your help. Please don't take my suitcase
from the car. Just turn the car around, and be ready to take us back
to-night--I mean Helen and myself. I intend to bring her right out and
take her away from this place."
Wonderingly Lowell turned the car as she directed. Miss Scovill knocked
at the ranch-house door. It was opened by Wong, and Miss Scovill stepped
inside. The door closed again. Lowell rolled a cigarette and smoked it,
and then rolled another. He was about to step out of the car and knock
at the ranch-house door when Helen and Miss Scovill came out, each with
an arm about the other's waist.
Miss Scovill's face looked whiter than ever in the moonlight.
"Something has happened," she said--"something that makes it impossible
for me to go back--for Helen to go back with me to-night. If you can
come and get me in the morning, I'll go back alone."
Lowell's amazement knew no bounds. Miss Scovill had made this long
journey from San Francisco to get Helen--evidently to wrest her at once
away from this ranch of mystery--and now she was going back alone,
leaving the girl among the very influences she had intended to combat.
"Please, Mr. Lowell, do as she says," interposed Helen, whose demeanor
was grave, but whose joy at this meeting with her teacher and foster
mother shone in her eyes.
"Yes, yes--you'll have our thanks all through your life if you will take
me back to-morrow and say nothing of what you have seen or heard," said
Miss Scovill.
Lowell handed Miss Scovill's suitcase to the silent Wong, who had
slipped out behind the women.
"I'm only too glad to be of service to you in any way," he said. "I'll
be here in the morning early enough so you can catch the stage out of
White Lodge."
Much smoking on the way home did not clear up the mystery for Lowell.
Nor did sitting up and weighing the matter long after his usual bedtime
bring him any nearer to answering the questions: Why did Miss Scovill
come here determined to take Helen Ervin back to San Francisco with her?
Why did Miss Scovill change her mind so completely after arriving at
Morgan's ranch? Also why did said Miss Scovill betray such unusual
agitation on passing the scene of the murder on the Dollar Sign road--a
murder that she had been hearing discussed from all angles during the
day?
This last question was intensified the next morning, when, with Helen in
the back seat with Miss Scovill, Lowell drove back to White Lodge. When
they passed the scene of the murder, Lowell took pains to notice that
Miss Scovill betrayed no signs of mental strain. Yet only a few hours
before she had been completely unnerved at passing by this same spot.
The women talked little on the trip to White Lodge. What talk there was
between them was on school matters--mostly reminiscences of Helen's
school-days. Lowell could not help thinking that they feared to talk of
present matters--that something was weighing them down and crushing them
into silence. But they parted calmly enough at White Lodge. After the
stage had gone with Miss Scovill, Helen slipped into the seat beside
Lowell and chatted somewhat as she had done during their first journey
over the road.
As for Lowell, he dismissed for the moment all thoughts of tragedy and
mystery from his mind, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the ride.
They stopped at the agency, and Helen called on some of the friends she
had made on her first journey through. Lowell showed her about the
grounds, and she took keen interest in all that had been done to improve
the condition of the Indians.
"Of course the main object is to induce the Indian to work," said
Lowell. "The agency is simply an experimental plant to show him the
right methods. It was hard for the white man to leave the comfortable
life of the savage and take up work. The trouble is that we're expecting
the Indian to acquire in a generation the very things it took us ages to
accept. That's why I haven't been in too great a hurry to shut down on
dances and religious ceremonies. The Indian has had to assimilate too
much, as it is. It seems to me that if he makes progress slowly that is
about all that can be expected of him."
"It seems to me that saving the Indian from extermination, as all this
work is helping to do, is among the greatest things in the world," said
Helen. "The sad thing to me is that these people seem so remote from all
help. The world forgets so easily what it can't see."
"Yes, there are no newspapers out here to get up Christmas charity
drives, and there are few volunteer settlement workers to be called on
for help at any time. And there are no charity balls for the Indian. It
isn't that he wants charity so much as understanding."
"Understanding often comes quickest through charity," interposed Helen.
"It seems to me that no one could ask a better life-work than to help
these people."
"There's more to them than the world has been willing to concede,"
declared Lowell. "I never have subscribed to Parkman's theory that the
Indian's mind moves in a beaten track and that his soul is dormant. The
more I work among them the more respect I have for their capabilities."
Further talk of Indian affairs consumed the remainder of the trip.
Lowell was an enthusiast in his work, though he seldom talked of it,
preferring to let results speak for themselves. But he had found a ready
and sympathetic listener. Furthermore, he wished to take the girl's mind
from the matters that evidently were proving such a weight. He succeeded
so well that not until they reached the ranch did her troubled
expression return.
"Tell me," said Lowell, as he helped her from the automobile, "is he--is
Morgan better, and is he treating you all right?"
"Yes, to both questions," said she. Then, after a moment's hesitation,
she added: "Come in. Perhaps it will be possible for you to see him."
Lowell stepped into the room that served as Morgan's study. One wall was
lined with books, Greek predominating. Helen knocked at the door of the
adjoining room, and there came the clear, sharp, cynical voice that had
aroused all the antagonism in Lowell's nature on his first visit.
"Come in, come in!" called the voice, as cold as ice crystals.
Helen entered, and closed the door. The voice could be heard, in
different modulations, but always with profound cynicism as its basis.
Lowell, with a gesture of rage, stepped to the library table. He picked
up a volume of Shakespeare's tragedies, and noticed that all references
to killing and to bloodshed in general had been blotted out. Passage
after passage was blackened with heavy lines in lead pencil. In
astonishment, Lowell picked up another volume and found that the same
thing had been done. Then the door opened and he heard the cutting voice
say:
"Tell the interesting young agent that I am indisposed. I have never had
a social caller within my doors here, and I do not wish to start now."
Helen came out and closed the door.
"You heard?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Lowell. "It's all right. I'm only sorry if my coming has
caused you any additional pain or embarrassment. I won't ask you again
what keeps you in an atmosphere like this, but any time you want to
leave, command me on the instant."
"Please don't get our talk back where it was before," pleaded Helen, as
they stepped out on the porch and Lowell said good-bye. "I've enjoyed
the ride and the talk to-day because it all took me away from myself and
from this place of horrors. But I can't leave here permanently, no
matter how much I might desire it."
"It's all going to be just as you say," Lowell replied. "Some day I'll
see through it all, perhaps, but right now I'm not trying very hard,
because some way I feel that you don't want me to."
She shook hands with him gratefully, and Lowell drove slowly back to the
agency, not forgetting his customary stop at the scene of the murder--a
stop that proved fruitless as usual.
When he entered the agency office, Lowell was greeted with an excited
hail from Ed Rogers.
"Here's news!" exclaimed the chief clerk. "Tom Redmond has telephoned
over that Jim McFann has broken jail."
"How did he get away?"
"Jim had been hearing all this talk about lynching. It had been coming
to him, bit by bit, in the jail, probably passed on by the other
prisoners, and it got him all worked up. It seems that the jailer's kid,
a boy about sixteen years old, had been in the habit of bringing Jim's
meals. Also the kid had a habit of carrying Dad's keys around, just to
show off. Instead of grabbing his soup, Jim grabbed the kid by the
throat. Then he made the boy unlock the cell door and Jim slipped out,
gagged the kid, and walked out of the jail. He jumped on a cowboy's pony
in front of the jail, and was gone half an hour before the kid, who had
been locked in Jim's cell, managed to attract attention. Tom Redmond
wants you to get out the Indian police, because he's satisfied Jim has
skipped to the reservation and is hiding somewhere in the hills."