THE VISIT OF THE INDIANS
"Tressa! Quick!"
But Tressa was too busy in the kitchen.
"Tressa Torrance. It's a free show--I wouldn't miss it. It's an
epoch."
She came skipping through the door. "If it's only the trestle again--"
Torrance pointed dramatically across the trestle to the far bank.
"This time it's our first callers." He turned to the pair of saddled
horses tied to rings in the wall beyond the front door. "No, we're not
riding to-night. We're entertaining. That is, if the local nabobs
over there don't funk the trestle. I'd run the speeder over if I
thought it wouldn't give them a fit. You never know what scares an
Indian."
On the distant bank an Indian and his squaw were seated like statues on
horses as motionless as themselves. The former, his horse seemingly on
the very brink of the chasm, was leaning forward, his eyes shaded by
his hand. The squaw, on higher ground, outlined against the sky,
waited phlegmatically.
"Are you sure they're alive, daddy?"
"Certain. I saw Mrs. Indian's horse's tail flicker. Like to have a
close-up, wouldn't you? Staring at us like that, it makes a fellow
feel as if he's been stealing something of theirs and they're taking a
good look in time for the scalping season."
He climbed the loose sand of the grade and waved.
The response was immediate. At a jerk of the squaw's hand her horse
cantered down to where her lord had taken his stand. And for a time
they sat side by side watching the distant welcome of the white man.
Suddenly the Indian's heels flew out and in, and the odd little broncho
wheeled on its hind legs and swung into a wide circle. The squaw did
not even look interested.
"Some rider, eh?" applauded Torrance. "If your old dad could ride like
that he'd never have taken up railway building. Funny nag, that of
his. Looks like a hobby horse come to life. What's he trying to tell
us? Regrets he can't come? Or is it a challenge to bring my bow and
arrow and settle the old feud? Anyway, it's a rattling good stunt--and
I'd like to know the answer."
"I think he wants time to consider your invitation."
"By hickory, Tressa, another year and we'd have missed this. It takes
only about one season to muddle up their riding with the white man's
booze--or the white man's treaty money. Why don't we leave well enough
alone--that is, if they'd let us build railways?"
The horse continued to gyrate, its rider performing the familiar Indian
tricks--now leaning far over until his twin braids brushed the ground,
now leaping off in full flight and on again as the horse came round in
the circle; lying flat along the horse's side until only one leg from
knee to foot was visible, leaning far over to peer at them under the
horse's neck. As a finale he stood erect while the broncho dashed
headlong for the bank. At the very brink it dropped back with braced
legs, and the Indian, leaping gracefully backward, turned a somersault
and landed on his feet.
"By hickory!" Torrance whistled through his teeth. "I know a showman
would swop his whole caboodle for half an hour of that. I wonder what
I'm expected to do over here to hold up my end. I want to be civil. I
don't know anything that wouldn't look cheap after that. Wish I'd done
mine first. Hi, you!" He was adding voice to arms. "That trestle'll
bear _you_ anyway. Trot over and shake. Bring that little beast that
looks like a horse, and I'll get you the biggest audience this side of
Winnipeg."
Down in the camp half a thousand bohunks were watching every move.
The Indians had dismounted. He was pointing across the trestle. His
squaw seemed to hesitate.
"If I made a sound like a bottle of fire-water," grinned Torrance,
"he'd beat the record."
"You're not to let them have a drop. Now remember, daddy."
"The nearest bar's too far away to waste it on an Indian, my dear. But
there's methylated spirits somewhere in the stores--and you've a bottle
or two of flavoring extract, haven't you? All it needs is a
smell. . . . They're tackling the trestle, Tressa. Bully for you, Big
Chief! You got Murphy beat a mile. Must have heard us talking about
fire-water. Wonderful ears, them Indians have."
Adrian Conrad, ready for his evening visit, slipped his automatic in
his pocket and hastened up the slope. He arrived as the squaw, with a
nervous little run, covered the last few yards of the trestle and
stamped moccasined feet on solid ground. The Indian, frightened as he
plainly was, stalked stolidly on to her side. "Nothing the white man
can do," he seemed to say, "will flurry me."
Torrance met them with extended hand.
"I hope my little conversation with my daughter didn't raise false
hopes, Big Chief. I haven't a drop that's fit to swallow."
The Indians stared at the extended hand in silence.
"I don't know whether they shake hands in your language," explained
Torrance, "but it's all the rage with us. I'm straining to show how
pleased I am. Ah--how's all the little papooses? Has the hired girl
kicked for another afternoon a week, and who's the latest married man
to run away with another woman? That may not be wigwam gossip, but
it's all we know in our set; it's all the small-talk I have."
The Indian solemnly accepted the preferred hand, studying it curiously
as his own brown one shook to Torrance's welcome.
"Me spik English," he grunted.
Torrance grinned foolishly. "Good--Lord!"
"Me spik English, too," murmured the squaw sweetly.
"Well, I'm bunco'ed!" Torrance rolled his eyes helplessly. "Take a
hand, Tressa. Fancy meeting a family of redskins a thousand miles from
nowhere and asking what make o' car they use!"
"Both spik English," said the Indian without a smile.
Torrance groaned. "Can you smile in English? This is getting on my
nerves."
The Indians looked at each other, and as if one spring worked the
mechanism their faces relaxed.
"Look at that, Adrian. That's prairie manners for you. I suppose if I
asked him to jump off the trestle--"
The Indian shifted about and gravely regarded the long drop. Torrance
clutched his arm and led toward the shack.
"Don't you do it, Chief. I ain't worth it."
He brought chairs from the sitting room.
"I don't even know whether you sit down. I haven't a pipe that would
go round, but there's a fair tobacco you're welcome to. It don't make
bad chewing. Tressa's awful glad to see you. We haven't had a caller
since the new curtains went up."
The Indian was not listening; his eyes were on the two horses tied
beyond the door. Gathering his blanket about him, he went to them,
running a hand over them with the air of a connoisseur. He stooped to
their feet, his two braids, twined through and through with bits of
coloured cloth, falling over his ears.
"Good!" he grunted.
"Just what I said," agreed Torrance amiably, "--of course, after I'd
paid for them. Best bits o' horseflesh this side of anywhere. Broke
'em myself, so I ought to know."
"Daddy!"
"Maybe not quite broke 'em," corrected Torrance easily, "but they
nearly broke me. Picked 'em from a bunch of the finest animals ever
came off a ranch--"
"Daddy!"
"That _was_ a fine lot, Tressa--and those two were the best of the
bunch."
"How much?" The Indian's face was expressionless.
The contractor blinked. "You don't want to buy? I thought Indians
always stole what-- The worst of me is I talk too fast. You see I
lost a lot of horses not long ago, and it's temporarily affected my
judgment. I don't say it was Indians stole 'em--in fact I saw the guy,
but it was too far to catch his pedigree. Anyway, he was dressed
white. One of three got 'em--either my own men, or contractors out
west, or the Indians. If I thought it was my men there'd be a new line
of graves to-morrow--and I don't somehow think the contractors would
risk it. It seemed safer to blame the Indians then. Now? Oh, I guess
I must have been crazy. Them horses weren't stolen. They've taken a
holiday to get a drink, or gone for the World's Series baseball games."
"How much?" repeated the Indian stoically.
"But you don't want horses like them, when you've a circus beast over
there would make them look like a wheelbarrow without the wheel."
"How much?"
Torrance sighed. "Is that all the English teacher knew at your school?
Conrad, he's making me name a price, because I don't know any other way
to stop him. Indian-who-spiks-English, they cost me two hundred
dollars each, and--"
"Daddy!"
"Oh, bother!" Torrance mopped his forehead. "That's the worst of
bringing up a daughter too strict. A real liar hasn't half a chance.
Did I say fifty dollars?"
"Fifty dollars," offered the Indian, unfolding a wallet from his
blanket.
"One hundred dollars--in cold cash--out here in the bush! Say"--he
walked reverently round the Indian, looking him over--"where d'you keep
his scalp? I warn you I haven't ten dollars in the shack--and I'm
getting bald about the crown."
"Fifty dollars!" grunted the Indian.
"I got to turn it down, old friend. They're the only saddle horses,
bar the Police, within a week's journey."
"One hundred dollars."
Torrance walked reverently over to the horses and stared at them.
"I bet they're a damn sight better'n I thought."
"Two hundred each!" There was a finality about the extravagant offer
that impressed Torrance.
"Big Chief," he murmured, "let's see that bank again. To tell you the
truth, I paid exactly ten dollars each for them--and I couldn't rob a
decent citizen. So you see the deal's off: I wouldn't take the money,
and you couldn't go back on your offer."
The Indian was holding out a huge roll of bills. Torrance blinked at
it and turned to Tressa.
"You can't sell, daddy. One is mine, and I'm learning to ride. But
we'll give them the horses for nothing when we leave."
Torrance extended his hands helplessly. "That ends it, you see. She's
boss. We can't sell, but we'll hand 'em over f.o.b. when we go--and if
you've oats enough in your tribe for that red fellow I wish you'd give
me your address and let me know when nobody's home."
The eyes of the Indian and his squaw met. The latter sighed. The
Indian slowly thrust the wallet within his blanket. Then without
another word he took her hand and they started back across the trestle.
Torrance watched them with amazement "Hi--say!"
The Indians stalked on.
"I might be able to scare up a bottle of fire-water--"
No response. Torrance sank into a chair and drew his sleeve across his
forehead.
"Talkative? By hickory, they reek with it. They sure got my goat.
All the squaws I ever saw before were so thick with grease, and the
things that stick to it. . . . I'm beginning to feel for the squaw-man
after seeing that girl."
"Wasn't she pretty?" Tressa was staring regretfully after the receding
couple. "I didn't know they were so dainty---"
"Wasn't I telling you they aren't--"
Conrad spoke for the first time: "I've seen that chap before."
"Me, too," said Torrance. "But I can't imagine not picking him out of
any Indians I ever met. They don't grow 'em like him. Our fire-water,
with here and there a missionary for good measure, sees to that. Oh,
hello, Sergeant!" Unheard, Sergeant Mahon had come along the soft
grade and was watching the Indians now almost at the other end of the
trestle. "You missed the fun. Highest velocity conversation on two
words ever."
The Sergeant whipped out his binoculars. He did not move again until
the Indians had galloped out of sight.
"What d'you make of 'em, Sergeant?"
"Strange!" muttered the Policeman, slowly replacing the glasses.