Then, realizing that he might have called up painful memories, McShay
hastened to add:
"But you're all right, Parson; you're grit clean through. Don't suppose
you could throw a lariat or pull a gun--parsons ain't supposed to be up
in the useful things, are they?--but we like you. We like you, and the
feller as don't has got to explain it to us or put us out of business.
Personally, we ain't no better'n we ought to be, don't profess no
religion. We're on the make; we're in the little game of grab along with
all the rest of 'em, but we know the spiritual goods when we see 'em,
and you can touch us for anything we've got--in the pocket, on the
cards, or in the fryin' pan, and at any spot in the road. Now, I can't
make it stronger than that, can I? I guess I've about expressed the
prevailing sentiment," and he turned to his two companions for the
approval of which he felt serenely certain, as befits an admitted
leader.
Neither Lee nor Smith had spoken up to this time, and even now neither
felt called upon to pass upon the subject of the great man's remarks.
That was obviously superfluous.
"Say, Silent," said Lee to that sphinx, with open admiration, "ain't he
a wonder? Ain't Mike got a cinch on the language? Why, when he wants a
word all he's got to do is to whistle to it, and it'll come up and eat
out of his hand. He's got the English language broke to single or
double harness--in fact, he kin make it do tricks like a circus hoss.
Say, Parson, Mike's a orator."
"Oh, git out," protested McShay, obviously pleased. "You're locoed."
"He sure is all right," insisted Lee.
"I'm sure of that," said the clergyman heartily, glad that the centre of
interest had been shifted to the other.
"Oh, shucks," laughed McShay, with good-humored toleration. "When it
comes to savin' the nation or plantin' a prominent citizen, I kin
sprinkle a little language over the occasion, but I ain't a braggin'
about it, Orson, before a feller as is a artist. I have the savin' grace
to know where I come in, and it's at the back door, son. I daresay,
Parson, you've heard that I keep a saloon over at 'Calamity'?"
"Yes, I've heard so," said the other simply, without a trace of
pharisaism even in the tone of his voice.
"Well, any time you want to keep your hand in at the preachin' game,
come right along, and I'll personally guarantee the character of the
proceedings. They tell me that as a preacher you're a stampede."
The big eyes in the pallid face glowed for a moment, then they suffused
with melancholy. There was a sensible pause before he said:
"Thank you, Mr. McShay; thank you. Perhaps I'll take advantage of your
offer some Sunday, but at present I've had to give up preaching: it
seems to exhaust my vitality." He paused for a second and then added
with a shy little smile, as if he were confessing to a fault: "I like to
preach, too, and, as you say, it's been 'tough' to be compelled to give
it up, but, after all," suddenly alarmed at the thought that he was
bidding for sympathy, "living is more important than preaching, isn't
it?"
McShay filled in the pause, that threatened to be too obvious, by
jerking out his Waterbury.
"Hello, gitting on to the time! Guess we'll be moseying along. Well,
Parson, I've expressed myself pretty free, ain't I? And in something of
a complimentary vein, not with a view to inflooincin' your attitude in
this approachin' conference. Mind you, I ain't above doin' it if I
could. I don't do it 'cause I know it wouldn't go, that's all," and he
laughed generously as he hoisted himself into the saddle. McShay was a
man with few illusions. He fancied he was pretty familiar with the
ordinary phases of human nature, and his code of morality was a working
code; it would bear comparison, he felt sure, with that of the average
citizen, and it wasn't so high as to be inconvenient. He had never felt
called upon to experiment with a code obviously theoretical. He wouldn't
hesitate at cards or in a trade to cheat one who was engaged in trying
to cheat him. In fact he looked upon it as a joyous and holy duty to
skin the skinner. He was not inexperienced in the ways of the world.
He knew more of Doctor McCloud than that worthy man dreamed of, for when
a very young man he had been a policeman in St. Paul and during the
uncomfortable times following a reform upheaval had felt obliged to
leave that saintly city. Indeed, he had brought about the upheaval by
his own obstinacy, for there are degrees of graft, and the young
Irish-American wouldn't violate his own wholly illogical standards of
what was fair or decent any more than he would accept the standards of
the too-good. He had come into his own in the cattle country, opened a
saloon, became a political leader, a boss, and a cattle king. He had
prospered. He was loved by his friends and feared by his enemies, and
he was fond of both. And when the cowboys on one of their summer
round-ups found something that looked like coal or jet, and which,
unlike coal or jet would light like a candle, they took it at once to
McShay, who promptly, without knowing whether it had value or not,
located claims for everybody and everybody's relatives and claimed
everything in sight. "To those that have shall be given," he explained
irreverently, and indeed that version of the text was his point of view.
And when further investigation showed that the discovery was an
important one and that a considerable part of the mine or the vein or
series of pockets was on the Red Butte Ranch, he promptly sent Andy
Openheim and Charley Short, very quietly, to London to buy the ranch or
that portion of it containing minerals from the Earl of Kerhill. It was
pretty well known that the ranch had not been a profitable venture to
the Earl, in the days when he had been a cowboy, and it was thought that
his old herders, "Andy" and "Shorty," could buy it for a song. They had
returned with a deed, but by this time these two amiable citizens had
caught the prevailing spirit of enterprise and announced that they had
indeed secured the prize, but that they had bought the ranch for
_themselves_, a sample of commercial wakefulness which was denounced as
several kinds of treachery, and came near to leading to the death of
some eminent citizens. However, as by that time the secret was out and
the lust of gain had spread from the range to the settlements and from
there to the cities and the State, and indeed to the busy halls of
Congress, and every one pretty much was evolving a plan to get in on the
good thing, it was thought best to buy out the holders of the deed, even
at the advance in price which they impudently demanded. McShay paid the
price for himself and his cowboy associates, but at the conclusion of
the purchase he strongly advised Shorty and Andy to leave the country,
which they lost no time in doing. The fate of these two worthies will
always be a stock warning to the rising generation in Calamity. Before
they reached the Canadian border they had quarrelled, and when the smoke
had cleared away Shorty was alive and had the money. There was profound
regret at first that either should have survived, but this sorrow was
mitigated later by the report that Shorty had lost every cent at a
single sitting in a three-card monte game up in the North-west. Then
only was the moral tone of Coyote County felt to be in the way of
rehabilitation, and confidence was restored in the dispensations of
Providence. It was even darkly hinted that McShay had sent out some
skilful short-card men on their trail, and to that extent had assisted
Providence to make plain that "transgressors shall be taken in their own
naughtiness."
Whether this was true or not, McShay never contradicted it, and it added
not a little to his prestige with his constituents. As McShay turned to
speak to the preacher, his more active companions, Orson Lee and
"Silent" Smith, had already mounted and turned their mustangs toward the
agency. As he glanced toward their retreating figures, McShay said with
a twinkle in his eye:
"Say, Parson, you'll like 'Silent.' He ain't much on gab, but say, he
kin shoot like hell, and if the argyment is agoin' against you, 'Silent'
is good company; he sure is good company."
*CHAPTER III*
After a ride through the Bad Lands, Standing Bear Agency was a gracious
sight. One could see from afar the white flag-pole which marked the
centre of its activities. Close by nestled the agent's cosey little
cottage which peeped out from the shade of maple and cottonwood trees,
backed by its well-kept barns and corrals. Opposite it sprawled the
Indian-trader's store, a log-cabin affair, the relic of other days, by
comparison a really beautiful bit of architecture in the surrounding
ugliness. These two aristocratic buildings stood a bit apart, and had a
small sense of aloofness. Between ran what had once been a trail, then
a road, and now was trying to be a street; a street that had moved
boldly out toward the prairie, taken one frightened look, and then
shrunk back cowed, and had refused to be teased or coaxed further. It
quit almost before it began and was hideous with sheet-iron and
clapboard monstrosities, which here and there bulged into a pretentious
bow-window, as irritating as the challenge of a flagrant hat on a
particularly ugly woman. These buildings huddled together as if they
felt the enveloping loneliness. Back of them was a tin-can desolation.
Further along was the blacksmith shop, and near the "bench" which rose
on the other side of the "crik" was the saw-mill, and off to one side
the slaughter-house and its corrals. The valley was sprinkled with the
huts, tepees, rude houses of the Indian farmers and the agency
employees, which followed the course of the Standing Bear and the crude
irrigating ditches. Beyond all, across the mesa, rose majestic peaks
covered with perpetual snows. But for these noble heights, Nature
hereabouts might have been accused of an undignified proceeding, but the
Moquitch Mountains spoke eternally and serenely of God.
In front of the trader's store was a platform littered with merchandise,
buckets, rope, tubs, etc., things that slopped over from the crowded
shelves within. Even on bargain-counter days, if such evidences of a
high civilization ever reached this emporium, business was desultory,
but the trader made up in percentage of profit what he lacked in volume
of trade. It was late in the afternoon, business apparently at a
standstill, "nuthin' doin." Cadger, the proprietor, was leaning
casually out of the window, and, though neither looked at the other, was
talking to the agent who stood on the platform just outside. The
merchant must have had another name, but no one had ever heard him
called anything but Cadger. His father and mother--it was difficult to
believe that he had ever had a father and mother, and inconceivable that
he had ever been a child, much less a baby--if, I say, he ever had
parents, they probably called him something endearing or at least human,
but in a country where almost no one escaped a nickname, he remained
just Cadger. In appearance he suggested negation, the excluded middle.
He seemed to have been plucked too soon and faded early. He had a
half-hearted nose, a discouraged chin, and his faded little eyes blinked
weakly. There is such a thing as carrying insignificance to excess. In
personality he was so unobtrusive as to appear not to be around, unless
one stepped on him. It is said, however, that any one so careless
remembered it, if he lived to remember anything; for, strange to say,
Cadger was supposed to be a man-killer. He wasn't at all the usual bad
man type, looking for an audience and a chance to show off. He was a
plain business man, and all he had ever asked, like other business men,
was just "to be let alone." There was a vague rumor that he had once
been in business in the Black Hills, where he had gone into competition
with the express companies in the carrying of gold, and after a more or
less successful career had found it safer to retire to the slower and
less exciting pursuits of a post-trader's store. At all events, he was
a quiet, modest man that no one cared to investigate or annoy, and no
one had successfully questioned his commercial methods. He took no
pains to remedy his natural deficiencies, for he had found it useful to
look like a fool.
"I think we can do business with Calthorpe," said the agent, looking off
into space.
"Can't make him out," said Cadger in a tone as vacant as his face. Then
after quite a pause which he filled with smoke from a filthy pipe.
"Suppose you know all about him, but you ain't never give it away to
me."
The agent swung a contemptuous look in the direction of the other.
"He's out here, isn't he? Along with the rest of us. No one knows the
exact particulars about you before you came here."
The other overlooked the obvious inference and did not trouble to reply
in kind, but murmured gently, "Takin' chances."
"Big Bill applied for the job for him," continued the agent. "All Bill
knows about him, or all he'll tell, is that he brought a letter of
introduction to him from his old boss, the earl of something or other,
who used to own the Red Butte Ranch. Of course he isn't out here
because he wants to be here any more than we are. A couple of years ago
I read a story in one of the Sunday papers about an English lord who was
ambassador to Spain and got mixed up with a Spanish dancer and raised a
family by her. The son, when he got around to it, tried to prove he was
legitimate. Maybe Calthorpe's story isn't any worse than that. Maybe
it is. He looks like he was half Spanish. Of course he's had English
bringing up, has the remnants of an accent with him, though he's trying
to drop it. What do you suppose would induce a man who was an educated
gentleman to come out to this damned waste and accept the wages of a
chief of Indian police? Well, to my humble mind, nothing but crime, my
Christian friend."
"Kin you hold him?"
"Well, we can't frighten him. We got to make it worth his while, that's
all."
"Will he _stay_ bought?" persisted the business man.
"We got to trust somebody," said Ladd impatiently. "He knows more about
the country in general and the asphalt lands in particular than any man
living, and when I found out he was a surveyor----"
"How did you get onto that?"
"Heard him talking the lingo with Bill, then asked him point-blank. It
was a find for us, for his position as chief of police made it possible
for him to survey these lands without arousing any suspicion. Don't
think the other people know we have been at it. I wouldn't have
consented to this powwow this afternoon if I hadn't thought we could
have fixed things up beforehand. What in hell do you suppose is keeping
him?" But Cadger's mind was still back on the first tack.
"You're in too much of a sweat. You want to go awful slow when it comes
to puttin' yourself" (deprecating pause) "and me into his hands."
The force of this observation seemed to impress David Ladd, for he said
quietly:
"Well, you know the talk we had last night. The confab will be out
here. I'll see to that. Cleaning a gun at that window just where you
are now--why, an accident might happen. People are so careless with
fire-arms, especially a plum fool like you. Why, it's easy. If you see
me take off my hat and hold it in my hand, get ready: if you see me put
my hat back again on my head, why get him, that's all. You're the best
shot in the country, unless it's 'Silent' Smith." This as one business
man to another.
"Hello, here's Big Bill. Maybe he knows." And Ladd stepped down from
the store to meet the cattle-boss.
"Has Calthorpe come in with his men?"
"Hardly think so. I'm on my way to our shack now to see."
"When he arrives, tell him I want to see him at once, will you--_at
once_!" and the agent entered his house across the way.
Big Bill was bigger and a good deal slower than in the old days on the
Red Butte Ranch, and his coarse hair was very gray, but it still crowned
the same kindly, simple face. Bill was feeling his way to the retired
list, though he didn't realize it himself, and he had kept his job
because no one cared to explain to him that he was getting old. It was
hoped that some day he'd tumble to it himself and resign. No one liked
to contemplate what would happen then, so no one did. The agent was not
a sentimental man, but he knew the working value of sentiment, and so
Bill stayed on.
He and Calthorpe shared their house, a little wooden box pitched in the
shelter of a clump of quaking ash ("quaking asp" in the vernacular) some
little distance below the Agency and on the bank of an irrigating ditch.
As Bill came in sight of it he saw Calthorpe calmly sitting in the
door-way. Instead of riding into the Agency the young man had
deliberately avoided it.
"Hello, Bill," he shouted cheerily.
"Hello, son. Say, Ladd's terrible anxious to see you."
To this the other replied irrelevantly:
"Seen Wah-na-gi?"
"No."
"Seen Appah?"
"No," and the smile of welcome faded from Bill's face, and he sat down
on a convenient soap box, picked up a stick on the point of his
pocket-knife, and began to whittle. The young man saw he was displeased
and waited.
"Say, son, you're kind of runnin' wild on the range, ain't ye? And ye
ain't a-gittin' anywhere, or a-servin' any useful purpose 's far as I
kin see. Ain't ye kind o' fergittin' what ye come out here fer? What
you lingerin' round here fer any way?"
"Oh, for several reasons, Bill, several reasons," said Calthorpe
pleasantly.
"You found out all you want to know about the asphalt lands long ago.
When you goin' to chuck this job and go over and take what belongs to
you?"
There was a pause while Calthorpe looked dreamily off into space.
"Well," he drawled slowly, "before leaving I'd like to turn a trick or
two--make the agent show his hand."
The slang and the metaphor of the people about him came very easily to
this alleged stranger.
"Ladd?" said Bill doubtfully, with a tone and inflection that expressed
volumes for the danger and uselessness of such a proceeding.
"Wouldn't you like to see him put his cards on the table?" asked the
boy. Bill's eyes twinkled and it was manifest that the suggestion was
alluring.
"Sounds good. To rope David might be a pleasin' diversion as a form of
entertainment; he's a skunk all right, but that ain't a-keepin' you
here, Hal, my boy."
"No?"
"No."
There was a pause.
"You ain't asked me what it is, but I'm goin' to tell you. It's
Wah-na-gi."
"Bill!" And the light died out of the blue eyes which glittered
ominously, and Bill was sensitive to the warning in the cold even tone
of the boy's pleasant voice.
"That's all right," he hastened to say as he put up his guard. "You
needn't git the blind staggers. Somebody's got to round you up. I was
your dad's foreman before you was born. Your dad sure was a gentleman.
He sure was, and as to his bein' an Englishman, why, he lived that
down."
"You and father were pals, I know that, Bill," said the youngster,
softening.
"You and me was pards too, son. I made you your first quirt; taught you
how to ride. I helped to bury your little Injin mother. I ain't your
kin exactly----"
"You're closer than kin, Bill. I didn't mean to be ugly. Don't mind
me. Say what you like."
"Well," said the big fellow with an awkward air of apology, "your dad
made me promise to ride herd on you. You know that, don't you?"
"That's right."
"Sure." He blurted, as he felt on firmer ground. "He wrote me you had
been a-hittin' it up in London."
"That's right, Bill; I was riding for a fall--going to hell fast." And
he watched the smoke of his cigarette and saw in it those evil days. "I
didn't belong and I couldn't fit in. It was all wrong. _I_ was all
wrong. I knew it, felt it, but couldn't somehow change it. It was the
West in me, I fancy--in my blood." Then he turned to the big fellow and
said with a smile that won the people who could inspire it: "But I've
been a pretty good boy since I've been out here, haven't I, Bill?"
The other looked at him with an affection that was unmistakable.
"Well, say, since you been out here you've made everything that wears a
hat take it off to you."
"Then why in blazes are you giving me the spur?"
"Wah-na-gi--that's the answer. Now wait. I got to git this out of my
system. Hal, son, don't you go to makin' no such mistake as your dad
made."
"And don't you forget, Bill," said Hal stiffly, "that I had a mother as
well as a father--a mother I have no reason to regard as a mistake."
It was Bill's turn to look off into the mountains, to go back into the
past.
"Say," he said softly, "she was all right. Nat-u-ritch was sure all
right. She didn't know anything but bein' a wife and bein' a mother,
and that's pretty good, I guess. I suppose you know why she killed
herself? Couldn't understand why her kid should be sent away to
England. She was a thoroughbred in a way, but, son, it was an Injin
way."
"I fancy that was what was the matter with me in London, Bill. My way
was an Indian way."
"Well," said the cattle-boss, seeing that he was being diverted from his
text, "Don't walk into trouble with your eyes wide open."
"Don't you worry about me, old chap; I'm not in love with Wah-na-gi,
but----"
"You jess feel sorry fer her." Bill said this with the amiable sneer of
a man who has nothing to learn about women and the world.
"Yes," said Hal simply; "don't you?"
The directness of this appeal caught the guileless Bill unprepared.
"Sure," he admitted. "Sure, I do. She's been to school. Couldn't
anything worse happen to her. Edjjication? Why, it's worse'n whiskey
fer the Injin."
"And don't you see," said the boy, following up his advantage, "she's
alone and she needs friends, and while I'm here, while I'm chief of
police, I can keep an eye on her, protect her in a way, but when I
leave" (pause) "what will become of Wah-na-gi?"
While Bill was groping in his slow way for an easy and pleasant and
convincing way of saying that one couldn't plunge headlong into the
tangled affairs of all the misfit people in this crazy world, the figure
of a woman appeared in the foot-path that crossed the low ridge on the
opposite side of the narrow valley. Before Bill had arranged his
arguments Hal, without a change of countenance, suddenly developed
initiative.
"Well," he said, rising, "I thought I'd learn all the news from you,
but, as usual, I'll have to find out all about it and tell it to you.
And now I'm going over to see the amiable Ladd. Oh, by the by," he
added casually, "how is 'Calico'--fit?"
"Never better."
"He hasn't been ridden to-day?"
"No. Why?"
"Have him fed and watered; saddled and bridled, then hitch him just
behind the trader's store. Do the same for the best horse you've got."
"Why? What's up? Ain't you had enough of the trail for the present?"
"Don't know, Bill. Don't know what may happen. Tell you later--after
it's happened."
And he swung off on foot toward the Agency. Bill did not change his
position for several moments; then he rose and looked affectionately
after the boy, and, as he turned, the figure of a woman paused for a
moment on the ridge and then disappeared in the direction of Cadger's
store.
"Of course," he muttered, "_of_ course," with all the sarcasm of which
he was capable. "Ain't a man a damn fool!"
*CHAPTER IV*
The French explorers and trappers called them medicine-men (_medecins_),
but it isn't a comprehensive term. The medicine-man is something more
than an Indian doctor. He is prophet, preacher, teacher, poet, and
priest as well as healer. Before the coming of the missionaries the
Indian had become aware of the world within and the world without, and,
like every sentient creature, had begun to speculate on their relations
and grope his way toward the eternal mysteries. He arrived at a
confused intuition of a Supreme Being and he reasoned that everything
came from this source, that each bird and beast, each river and tree,
had some measure of the divine power and that this could be imparted,
and so, when he was puzzled before the ever-renewing miracle of life or
helpless before his own life problem, he did as holy men have done in
all ages, he went apart into the solitudes, into the mountains or the
deserts, and sought in contemplation, in purification, in fasting and
prayer to find out God. He prayed and God sent the bear, the wolf, the
eagle, the coyote, the thunder to give him strength or wisdom or
courage. He became a dreamer and an interpreter of dreams, and from his
comparison of the seen with the unseen have come some dignified and
poetic concepts. For example, the Milky-Way became for him "the pathway
of departed spirits." He invented song and story, myth and miracle, and
symbolism dominated his life. Like all who have tried to rise out of
the world of matter into the realm of mind, his holy men claimed to find
exalted powers and metaphysical forces. He believed as we do in the
healing virtues of plants and herbs, and when these failed he, too,
resorted to spiritual healing. We are always intolerant of what we do
not understand. We know now that the ghost-dance was nothing more than a
religious revival with characteristic hysterical phenomena, and in
intention was to usher in not war but universal peace. The victims of
the Wounded Knee massacre were religious martyrs. The troops might as
well have fired on a Methodist camp-meeting. Underneath the skin we are
very much alike. We all travel the same road, only we differ in the
mile-stones we have passed in the age-long journey.
Appah was a medicine-man. Whether he was a fair sample of the class I
am not prepared to say. Even medicine-men differ in character and
sincerity. Only Infinite Wisdom knows to what extent we are
self-deceived. What happened at the sun-dance will give you some idea
of Appah's position with his people and his relation to the principal
characters of our story. All our Indians are more or less
sun-worshippers. The sun is to them the most obvious power in the
physical world. The sun-dance, to honor the sun or propitiate the sun,
is held every year in the early days of July. The Indians will tell you
"it's just for good time, same as white people," but it is in reality a
religious ceremonial. Two or three miles below the Agency is a flat
meadow where the dances are held. This is marked here and there by the
medicine poles of former dances. These medicine poles are left standing
and a new one cut from the mountains each year. It has a crotch at the
top into which a bundle of sage-brush and some eagle feathers are tied.
It is planted and raised with ceremonial, reverent and joyous. From it
as a centre radiate poles to a circular enclosure made of young
cottonwood and cedar trees planted with their foliage on. Inside, on
the west of the big lodge, are little booths, sheltered, where the
dancers rest when not dancing. The dance begins about seven o'clock at
night, just as the sun has gone down. Those who are to participate
appear on the plain in single file, blowing on a whistle made of the
quill of an eagle's feather, and they keep this in their mouths all the
time they are dancing, and its sharp, staccato note dominates the chant
and the drum. The dancers are naked to the waist; in fact, have on
nothing but breech-clouts and a loin cloth which is elaborately
ornamented and falls to the feet before and behind. They have the down
feather of the eagle tied to one finger on each hand, and some of the
braves wear their rich glossy hair loose like a woman's. The forty-six
dancers circled the dance lodge three times and then entered. After
that the general public were admitted. As each buck stood before the
little booth which was to be his home until the dance was finished it
made a striking and beautiful picture.
Bare to the waist, the term "redskin" was justified, though some had
obscured the natural beauty of their skins with a white, green, or
yellow smear. On the whole they were a fine-looking body of men, though
some of them were in the prayer dance with the hope of being cured of
various ailments, rheumatism, tuberculosis, and the like.
The old cruelties, the lacerations, etc., have been eliminated, but it
is still an endurance test. They dance for four or five days and nights
without food or drink, and at high noon they look into the terrible sun.
The dance itself is a perpetual strain on the same muscles--the feet
held together, hopping forward and hopping back. The women have no part
in the ceremonial except to join in the chant, though presumably their
presence is not unknown to some of the participants, in spite of their
rapt gaze being always turned to the medicine pole or to the sun. In
fact, it is understood that some are "dancing for a wife."
The dance had been opened by Appah in very much the same way that we
open a prayer-meeting. He advanced to the eastern side of the medicine
pole and with his hands together at the waist, and the emphasis of small
gestures or movements with the fingers, head reverently bowed, and in a
tone inaudible three feet away had uttered a brief invocation. The
others could not have heard him, but at his conclusion they clapped
their hands together and uttered grunts of approval.
The drummers began to beat the tomtom furiously and swung into their
monotonous chant, and the dance was on. The whites and half-breeds
stood or sat about the entrance on the north. Appah, having started the
dance, remained in front of his booth for some time, waiting for the
spirit to move him; suddenly his face set and he moved out to the
medicine pole with the wing of an eagle in his hand. He dipped the tip
of this in the dust at the foot of the pole, then touched the top of his
head, then ran it down each arm, then down each leg, then he held it up
dramatically to the east. Just then the cool fragrant air of the night
was broken by a laugh--a glad, buoyant, girlish laugh. It would be
difficult to describe the shock of this incongruity. Almost without
turning to see, every one knew that it came from Wah-na-gi. She was
dressed in a neat pink cotton frock with the white of her bodice showing
in the neck and sleeves and a pink ribbon in her hair. She had not been
back long from school, and she was still very young, took the sun or the
shade quickly like a mountain lake, and she could still laugh easily.
Appah stopped, turned ashen with anger, saw who it was, and saw who
stood behind her--Calthorpe, the chief of Indian police. He saw
Calthorpe with a look of dull ferocity and, strange to say, he saw
Wah-na-gi for the first time in a new light. He had heard the talk
about her since she had returned from the school at Carlisle, but
hitherto she had escaped his notice. Now he could have strangled her,
and at the same time he was acutely aware that she was pretty, indeed
beautiful. He unconsciously excused her in some half-instinctive way
and held Calthorpe responsible for the insult. In a measure he was
right; it was the latter's remark which made the girl laugh, but that
remark was not directed at Appah. The latter did not know that behind
him had hopped into view--Tonkawa, a fat, vain little man with a
grotesque body set on a pair of grotesque legs. The movement of the
dance threw Tonkawa's superfluous flesh about in a most ridiculous way.
Calthorpe had whispered to Wah-na-gi:
"Look at Tonkawa! He's a prairie dog." Indeed, he looked so like a
prairie dog, Wah-na-gi giggled. Calthorpe continued: "He's dancing for
a wife."
Even Calthorpe did not expect the peal of laughter that followed, but he
was the first to recover his presence of mind, and before the general
indignation could take form he carried her from the enclosure. Appah was
so preoccupied with the unpleasant incident that he _turned his back_ on
the medicine pole and _walked_ back to his booth. Both these
proceedings were bad luck, and were noted by his followers, and he was
angrily aware of them himself when it was too late. It was a bad
beginning. Every one felt it. When at midnight the watch-fire was
lighted, the air got very still and hot, unusual in this country, for
the nights are cool, and after an interval of suffocating calm, filled
with forebodings, a terrific wind-storm sprang out of the night and
filled the air with a hot, blinding, choking desert dust. Then, indeed,
gloom gathered over the mystic circle and fear and depression invaded
each heart.
Appah was conscious, too, that in an unacknowledged way he would be held
responsible for these misfortunes, so, smarting with a sense of personal
insult, raging against the crowding omens of ill, he redoubled his
energy, danced often and with a fierce energy that soon wore itself out,
and still the tempest blew on. It blew through the night, it blew
through the next day. It looked as if the dance would have to be
abandoned. Appah was showing signs of distress. He advanced as usual
to the medicine pole and, appearing to be about to faint, he threw out
his hands and grasped it, steadied himself like a tired pugilist who
hugs and hangs on to his opponent, then, when he had recovered
sufficiently, he went through various signs and passes, "making
medicine." He continued this until he could stand, then he boldly stood
out and addressed his companions.
The Wind-Gods were angry; they were tearing up the earth and throwing it
in their faces. Something was wrong. Indian women were turning into
white women; they went away from their people, went to school and then
came back and laughed at their elders, laughed at the sacred mysteries.
Shinob (the God-mystery) was sorry, ashamed of his Indian children.
Everything was all wrong. Appah was a big medicine-man, a wise man,
knowing many things. He had done much for his people and God was angry
to have his servant mocked. It would be bad medicine to abandon the
dance; great sorrow and trouble would come of it. Their friends had
come from afar to see it; a great feast was to follow, and those who had
danced were to have the joy of giving away many gifts to these friends.
The dance must go on, while he went apart and made medicine. He would go
into the mountains and consult the thunder-bird and in the morning come
back and drive away the wind. And with as much dignity as he could
command, he walked out of the corral.
The news of this promise spread rapidly, and the following day the
corral was crowded with Indians and whites, all to see whether Appah
could "make good." The morning wore away and still he did not appear,
but when people had begun to smile, he walked into the dance like a man
in a trance. A hush fell upon all. He carried an eagle feather in his
hand, and with this made medicine. First he faced the north, rubbed the
wrist of his left hand with the feather, then, with a simultaneous
movement of both hands, threw off the evil spell. This he did to the
east, south, and west. Then all the Indians got up and shook their
blankets, and--the WIND DIED! It went out like a candle. You may
explain this as you like. Appah may have been lucky in choosing the
moment when the wind would have died anyway, or you may say that the
skeptical whites who saw this were hypnotized just as the Indians were.
That Appah would not hesitate to resort to any trick to impress his
followers, I do not deny, but it is certain also that he believed in
himself and in his esoteric powers. However you explain it, it was
conceded among the whites that it was a sporty thing to do, to stake his
professional reputation on a throw like that, and great was the fame of
Appah in the land. One result which may interest us was that Appah who
had already been the unhappy possessor of two wives, showed an
unmistakable desire to take a third, and it was the woman who laughed!
*CHAPTER V*
Wah-na-gi was about to mount the steps of the trader's store when Appah,
who had followed her without her being aware of it, abruptly confronted
her and put out his hand as if he would speak to her. As she shrank
back startled, Calthorpe, who had likewise followed her, stepped in
between the two. With a swift glance at the latter she slipped past
Appah and entered the store. It all happened in a moment, but it was
one of those moments in which all pretence, all appearances, all
conventional restraints slip from the soul and leave it naked, knowing
and being known.
"Hello, Appah, you look as if you had swallowed a hair rope. What is
it?"
And the young chief of police smiled provokingly into the glowering face
of the medicine-man. It was war. The two men knew it: the woman knew
it, and Ladd, who had just stepped from his house opposite, knew it.
"Wait a minute, you two," he said in a firm, quiet tone that implied
acquiescence. "Better leave this to me."
"I understood that Appah was looking for me," drawled the youngster
insolently, then he turned and looked squarely into the glittering eyes
of the Indian.
"Always at home to my friends, old chap, only"--and he removed his hat
and ran a finger through the hole in it---"don't send up your card; just
come yourself."
If Appah knew what was meant, not a quiver of an eyelash betrayed it.
There was an obvious pause, then Calthorpe added in a patronizing tone
not lost on his enemy:
"A rotten bad shot by the way; it doesn't do you credit." Nothing hurts
the Indian like ridicule. Most of us are vulnerable. Poor Achilles!
What a pitiful weakness for a warrior--in the heel! Perhaps the story
is intended to convey the impression that some one laughed at Achilles'
feet and he died. The deaths we die from ridicule! Lingering and
conscious! We arm ourselves with contempt for others, but alas for the
Achilles spot. Centuries of cultivated philosophy do not protect us.
Only love, that love which looks past time into eternity, arms us
against the sting of ridicule.
Poor Appah! The woman had laughed at him, and now the man! He did not
attempt to reply in kind.
"Maybe so Injin," he said with a movement of the hand toward the store
where Wah-na-gi had disappeared.
After a dignified pause during which he looked from one to the other to
make sure they knew what he meant, he continued:
"White woman,--white man! Injin woman,--Injin man! You savey--wayno
(good). No savey,--heap trouble, plenty trouble!" Seeing that he was
understood, he moved away with great dignity.
"That seems to cover the ground, doesn't it?" said the agent pleasantly.
"White women are for white men; Indian women are for Indian men, and the
man who thinks differently will get into trouble."
"There's a bad boy, if you like," said the young man indifferently,
ignoring the insinuation of the other and lounging lazily against the
store platform. "He's a naughty boy."
"Yes," said the agent, as he offered his cigarettes to the other and
with a lithe spring seated himself beside him. "Look out for him. He's
a bit peevish over your attentions to Wah-na-gi."
"Attentions?"
"Call it what you like," said the agent, aware of the irritation of the
other's inflection. "You're not going to get any quarrel out of me over
an Indian woman."
This frank contempt, including as it did Wah-na-gi, produced a very
disagreeable impression upon Hal, but he restrained himself to say
quietly:
"I've been wanting to speak to you about that--about her, I mean. You
ought to protect her, this Indian girl." He was annoyed to find he was
speaking as if he were confused.
"You seem to be making a special feature of that--yourself, Calthorpe."
This was like a blow and Hal flushed with anger, but he was conscious
that he was in some way at a disadvantage and so he controlled himself
to say coldly:
"I'm your chief of police."
"Has she complained?"
"Yes."
"To you?"
"Yes, but leaving her out of the question, you ought to hobble Appah or
let me hobble him."
"Oh, I think he knows I'm agent."
"You let him play a free hand."
"Do I? What do you mean?"
"The last time I arrested him you let him go."
"Appah is a difficult person, very cunning, very influential. He would
have posed as a martyr. The cowboys were the aggressors."
"They were," said Calthorpe, "but you leave _them_ to _me_. I'll keep
them and their cattle off the Reservation, if I'm not interfered with.
Appah steals their cattle; they steal back, only, _two_ for _one_.
Somebody gets hurt and then the settlers yell 'Murder'; there's a call
for the troops, there's an Indian war, and the rest of these poor people
suffer."
"Why, my dear boy," said the agent, laughing, "we couldn't get on
without men like Appah. They divert attention and raise a useful dust."
Hal had no illusions about the agent, but the brutal cynicism of this
left him for the moment without a reply. He had a picture of thugs
picking a quarrel with a stranger in order to assault him, beat him to
death, and rob him.
Ladd had spoken rather plainly. He meant to be even plainer.
"Let's talk about something more important," he said with amusement at
the other's blank expression. "Yourself, for instance."
"Myself?"
"Yes, I've taken a fancy to you, my boy, and I want to see you get on.
In this country it's etiquette never to ask a man where he comes from or
if that's his real name. I've heard it set down to our native delicacy
and finer feeling, but I reckon it comes from the fact that most people
who come out here couldn't stay at home. For instance, I don't suppose
that Calthorpe is your----"
"My real name? No, you are quite right; it isn't."
He said this with almost boyish frankness. Ladd chuckled at his own
shrewdness and felt completely master of the game.
"What does it matter so long as I do my duty and give satisfaction--and
I have done that, haven't I?"
"You certainly have," said the other with a cordiality that was meant to
be disarming and ingratiating. "You have brought the police force to
the highest state of efficiency, and your men--well, they would stand
the torture test for you. And it isn't the first time you've had men
under your command either," he added with a knowing smile.
"No," said the other simply.
"In fact you've been a soldier."
"Right."
"A British soldier, I fancy."
"Right again."
"You left the service----"
Ladd paused for effect like a police court lawyer, who was having fun
with a helpless witness.
"You left the service--well, let us say, for good and sufficient
reasons."
"Because I couldn't stay, if that's what you mean. Well, what of it?"
"Why, only this, that I think you and I might be useful to each other,
that's all. Now, about this asphalt."
Ladd's voice dropped to a confidential key and slipped into a tone that
was intended to chloroform his victim.
"I happen to know that the Asphalt Trust could make use of these lands.
At present McShay and his cowboys are in forcible possession, but they
can't hold 'em. If the Trust can't get the lands any other way, they'll
fight these people in and out of the courts, in and out of the
legislature, in and out of congress, in and out of the cabinet, until
they wear them out, until the cowboys get tired fighting and spending
money, and are glad to sell out for a song. The Trust will get the lands
in some way and sooner or later, you can stake your life on it."
Hal was listening with great intentness and Ladd's voice showed that he
felt on surer ground.
"Now, we'd like to feel that you were friendly to us, that your
interests were identical with ours; we think we can show you that they
are identical, and, under any circumstances, we want to feel sure that
your knowledge of the Reservation and the country in dispute is not at
the disposal of our enemies, the McShay crowd. And oh, by the by, just
as a precaution against trouble, during this conference this afternoon,
instruct your police to be out of sight, but near at hand, and ready to
obey orders. And understand this, that any arrangement we may make with
you now will only be a beginning--just an evidence of good-will. Come
on into the house and let's fix it up."
Ladd started for the house and turned his head to see if Hal was
following him. The latter seemed in a daze. That seemed very natural
and very encouraging to the agent. Just at that moment Wah-na-gi
appeared in the door of the store. Ladd saw her, beckoned to Hal, and
played his trump card.
"And as for Appah and this Indian girl--well, stand in with us and you
shall have a _free hand_. Savey? Come on. Let's get together." And
Hal followed the agent into his house.
*CHAPTER VI*
"I'm in a hurry."
Wah-na-gi spoke before Appah had uttered a word. The latter had waited
and again confronted the Indian girl as she was leaving the trader's
store. She looked for a way to escape and saw none. As for Appah, he
cherished no illusions as to his chances. He realized that he must
exercise all his resources to win against the young chief of police, but
that knowledge only made him the more determined. He was a tall,
muscular man, of great natural dignity, very proud. As a lad he had
gone to school for a while and progressed rapidly, especially on the
foot-ball field, where he gave promise of developing into one of the
greatest half-backs ever seen on the gridiron, but he resented
restraint, was easily offended, and suddenly left the school, made his
way back to the Agency, taking back with him a cordial hatred of the
white man and everything connected with him. A swift survey of the
situation convinced him that the easiest way to influence and preferment
among his own people was to become more Indian than the Indian, so he
resumed the blanket, and with it he became the representative of the old
order of things. He understood English perfectly, but pretended not to,
and he could speak English fairly well, but he loathed it, and affected
to speak it with great difficulty, after the manner of the elders who
had never learned and did not want to learn.
He had a finely chiselled face in which the ascetic seemed to be
struggling with the voluptuary. It is a not impossible combination. He
looked at Wah-na-gi now in a kindly way and spoke reassuringly, as one
would speak to a child.
"Touge wayno teguin."
She did not hear him. She was thinking of some one else, of many
things, and she was frightened. Then to meet her more than half-way, to
show that he could be even indulgent to her prejudices, he translated.
"Heap good friend, me!"
She did not hear.
"Maybe so we talk Injin talk. White man talk no good. All lies, plenty
lies, lies all time!"
At last she heard, but she did not look at him as she said:
"No, I won't talk Injin talk. I won't go back and be like you and like
them. It's no use for you to try to make me. I can't. It's too late."
It was a curious contrast, these two. They were very far apart, at the
two extremes, each going to exaggerated and unreasonable lengths, the
one to go back, the other to go on. It was very childish. Appah felt
this and, feeling the stronger, made the concession. "Fish--water!
Bird--air! Half bird, half fish--no good! Injin face, Injin name,
white heart!--no good! White man no savey you; Injin no savey you.
Maybe so you come back--be Injin! Wayno!" He looked very well as he
said this, for he was very much in earnest and he threw into it all his
natural eloquence of voice and gesture.
"It's too late," she said sadly. "I couldn't go back."
There was a pause as she looked over to the agent's house and added:
"Not now."
Appah saw and understood.
"Alone, you! Heap alone! All time alone!"
"Yes," she said with the suspicion of a sob in her voice. "I am alone."
Appah was on his way to the dances in the meadows, not the sun-dance,
but the social functions, the turkey, wolf, buffalo dances, and he was
dressed in all the glory of feather bonnet, buckskin shirt, and was
conscious of looking extremely well. He was a vain man and it was
difficult for him to realize that he had not produced a favorable
impression, so he made the mistake of calling attention to his
advantages.
"My father--big chief--Big Thunder. Big chief--me! Big medicine-man!
Heap savey, me! Heap savey Shinob, heap savey--mystery! The bear, my
friend, give me his strength! the wolf, he heap savey me! The wind talk
to me! the sun, my friend! Plenty cattle, plenty horses! Maybeso you
be Appah's squaw."
As Appah finished his eloquent appeal, two of Calthorpe's police lounged
into sight from nowhere in particular. The sight of them made the
medicine-man angry.
"Pikeway," he said to them. Which means "go away," "get along," and
"get out," or just "go," according to the way you say it. It meant
several things the way Appah said it. The two men only came nearer and
were provokingly oblivious of the big chief. It was plain that they did
not intend to hear him. Appah turned to her and, doubly irritated at
being disregarded before her, said:
"Injin police--bad medicine! Trail, trail! me! all time, follow me!
Tishum, tishum (all time)! Maybeso make heap trouble! You tell 'em
pikeway."
"No, I will not," said Wah-na-gi boldly, plucking up courage in their
presence.
"I'm afraid of you."
Then Appah forgot that he was trying to win her love. He advanced close
to her, as if he would lay violent hands on her.
"Maybeso you heap like 'em white man. I savey you! Chief Injin police,
eh? Katch wayno! (No good). Maybeso kill 'im some day!"
Then he noticed that she was dressed very neatly, better than the Indian
women dress, that in fact she had on her best clothes, and he knew it
was because the chief of police had just got back, and it enraged him to
violence. He snatched the string of beads from her neck and threw them
to the ground.
[Illustration: He snatched the string of beads from her neck.]
"Kill 'im, me, some day."
"Who's that you're going to kill?" said Calthorpe in his soft musical
voice as he advanced from the porch of the agent's house. Appah turned
on him in a fury.
"What's matter you?"
He pointed to the two policemen.
"Your dog, savey? I look down--saw-reach! (dog). Look back--saw-reach!
This side, that side--saw-reach, Injin police! Maybeso you can't do it.
Maybeso make heap trouble!"
"You savey this woman?" said Hal quietly. "Her people, dead! No father,
no mother! heap bad men all around, plenty bad men, some whites, some
Injin. You leave her alone. Savey?"
Unconsciously the white people speak English to the Indians as the
Indians speak it, as we talk baby-talk to a baby.
"Maybeso you too all time pretty quick leave Injin woman alone."
Appah's hand was feeling under his blanket for his knife.
"When I speak with this woman," replied Hal simply, "some of these
Indian men are always near. She is not to be troubled--not by you, not
by me! Chavanaugh, come here."
One of the policemen came forward.
"If anything bad, any harm, comes to this woman through me, these men
will kill me. These are my orders; is it so?"
"Toyoch, wayno," replied Chavanaugh slowly. "It is so and it is well."
"Now for you," said Hal to the medicine-man.
"You quit running off the settlers' cattle or I'll arrest you."
"Maybeso you can't, medicine-man, me! Chief, heap big chief!" Hal
ignored this boast.
"This woman heap scared, all time scared! Let her alone!"
Appah made a long pause before he replied, then he said with some thing
that approached a smile:
"Maybeso yes--maybeso no," and he walked to his pony hitched before the
blacksmith shop and rode away.
Up to this time Wah-na-gi had remained alert, proud, outwardly calm; now
she seemed to dwindle and shrink as she weakly drifted to some empty
boxes which huddled under a cottonwood tree by the side of the little
irrigating ditch which brawled along in a joyous hurry to get to the big
streams below.
Calthorpe followed her and as she sat down said gently: "You are very
tired."
"No," she said; "I am not tired."
"What is it, Wah-na-gi?"
It was a musical name as he uttered it.
"Is it Appah?"
She made a movement with the shoulders, and a half, unfinished,
suggested movement of the hands; it indicated weariness and contempt.
"No, he frightens me, but it isn't that. It's _me_. Appah is right.
I'm half bird, half fish, and I can't fly and I can't swim. I flop
around on the earth and gasp for breath. And I know it, and I can't
make it different."
Her lip curled bitterly but he did not try to console her with feeble
platitudes. It was a great relief to her to speak to one who knew, and
she was grateful for his silence. He simply sat down beside her and she
felt that he was sorry and would like to help her.
"I suppose I was always impossible, even as a child. My parents gave me
another name, but no one ever called me by it. Wah-na-gi is a nickname.
It means 'the spirit when separated from the body.'[1] You see, even as
a child I must have been strange and different."
..vspace:: 2
[1] A Dakota word.
..vspace:: 2
"It's a very beautiful name," he said softly; "the most beautiful name I
ever heard. I'm glad they gave it to you."
Though he struggled to control his voice and make what he said very
simple and commonplace, his tone was a caress. It seemed to take her by
the hand and lead her through the gardens of life and bring her to the
gates of Paradise.
It was very terrible for her to be so conscious of misery and so near to
happiness. Tears sprang to her eyes; she trembled, she bit her lip and
struggled, struggled audibly to control herself, to keep to the earth,
to get back to the reality.
"Why did they do it?" she sobbed. "Oh, why did they do it?"
"They?" he said gently, groping, groping in his mind for some way to
help her.
"My parents and the old chief Tabywana. No, I must not speak bitterly
of them. They're dead now, and they meant well. They meant well. They
thought they were doing great things for me--for _me_. Oh! Oh!" As a
realization of her position swept over her again, her hands closed
convulsively and she moaned as if in physical pain. It was the first
time she had talked to any one about herself since she had returned from
school. She was suffering it all over again, but it was a great relief
to share it with some one. She was calmer now as she continued:
"They thought it was a great thing for me to go away to the Government
school. They must have been dreamers too. They were very proud of me
and thought I was so wonderful. Parents will think that sometimes about
their children," she added wisely.
He smiled as he thought to himself:
"What a child she is! She'll always be a child."
"They thought I would learn all the wonderful things the white people
knew, and I was very young; I thought so too. And the teachers--they
were so kind. They petted and spoiled me because I learned faster than
the rest. A new world opened to me, and I saw that there was nothing
very mysterious about the white man's way, that it lay open to me, a
poor Indian girl, and then I began to dream, and I forgot everything but
my dream, and I worked, oh so hard; and I was happy, happier than I can
tell you. Soon no one would have known that I was an Indian, except
that I looked like an Indian, and I was not ashamed of that. And no
labor, no sacrifice was too great, for I had great thoughts. I said to
myself: 'Some day I will gather up all these blessings and take them
home, back to the mountains, back to my own people, and perhaps God, the
Great Spirit, will let me take them by the hand, these poor, ignorant,
helpless children, and lead them out of bondage.'"
She paused for a moment and her face lit up with the glory of this dream
whose sun had set.
"And I hoped that perhaps I could teach them to protect themselves
against the white man, his cunning, cruelty, and vices. I saw it all so
clearly myself, I felt that I could make them see it. And so, walking
on the air, my head in the clouds, I came back with my dream. I came
back with both hands stretched out to my people, and then----"
She paused, the sunset glow of a departed dream was gone, and in her
face gathered the shadows of the long night that followed. It was such
a relief to find expression that she was not conscious that she was
laying bare her soul before this man, and he was conscious only of the
fact that he was living her life with her, and it made him strangely,
sadly happy. She had paused before the recollection of her home-coming
and she was grateful to him that he did not try to comfort or console
her.
"And then?" he suggested gently.
"I can't tell it, I can't," she sobbed; then with an effort she steadied
herself and shook the tears out of her voice and went bravely on:
"The surprise, the shock, the pain as I began to realize the truth. I
can't tell it, I can't explain it. I didn't try much at first, just
example. I tried to live before them, to let them see the other way,
the better way. The women saw me wash my face and hands always before
eating, my teeth too. I tried to show them in my dress, my habits, my
manner, but instead of seeing that what I was doing or trying to do was
better, they only saw that it was different, and they hated me for it.
They thought that I felt I was better than they were, and I couldn't
make them see that I had only love for them in my heart. They would
say: 'Here she comes, the white woman; make room for her; give her the
best seat; she knows everything; we are nothing but poor Indians, but
she has been to school; listen carefully to what she has to say. She is
very young but she will teach us all.' I believe I could stand torture,
but I can't bear to be made fun of. Perhaps they didn't mean to do more
than tease me, but they tortured me. They hurt me cruelly and I could
not hide it. They saw this and it seemed to make them happy, so every
one took a hand in the new game. They called me the White Squaw. They
praised me, they praised everything I did. It was great sport--_for
them_. Finally the chiefs, the elders, took me aside, and talked to me
of my effort to change things. The women must look to the men of the
tribe; it wasn't wise to attempt new and strange things; it wasn't
womanly; it was foolish for me to meddle in matters beyond me. This was
more terrible because they were trying to be kind to me. They advised
me to marry. Appah had asked for me and Colorow, the head chief, had
given his consent. I began to see that it was hopeless. I was not an
Indian to the Indians nor a white woman to the whites. I tried to
forget, to go back, to be like them, and then you came, and I knew that
I couldn't."
She said this simply, quite as a matter of course. Indeed, she was quite
unconscious of what this meant to him.
"The worst of it all is they won't let me teach their children." She
tried to say this bravely, but her voice broke in a sob.
"No?" he said with deep concern, for he knew that her hope lay in the
children, that her heart was in her work as a teacher, and that her
cramped, starved soul had found meat and drink in her love for the
little ones.
"No. Yesterday the agent asked me to resign my position! He said that
if I didn't the Indians would withdraw their children from the school."
Hal did not reply to this. All his faculties were alive and in a flash
he saw the situation. He said nothing. What could he say?
She was not only face to face with a big, implacable problem but with a
very painful and sordid struggle for existence.
"No, I could not go back," she repeated. "Whatever happens I will never
again be like them. They make me shudder. I have no people, no
kindred, no country. I am an outcast. Sometimes I get frightened. I
seem to be just an empty shadow. I feel dead, but I still walk about.
I can't even lie down under the ground and rest like my parents who are
gone. I don't know why I tell you all this. You are a white man. You
cannot understand."
"Wah-na-gi, I understand. I understand even what you haven't said. I'm
glad you told me all this, but I knew it before you told me." And he
smiled at her tenderly and she smiled back at him through her tears.
"You are very wonderful," she said with divine candor, and he laughed
joyously, because he knew she was incapable of sarcasm.
"No Wah-na-gi, I'm not wonderful. I'm a very ordinary chap. It would
be strange if I didn't understand. My mother, too, was an Indian
woman."
He thought she would be startled, and he watched her narrowly for a
sign. Would she be disappointed? Would her hero crumble? Or would she
be glad that they were closer to each other than she had dreamed?
"Your mother?" she said. She did not grasp it. She hadn't thought to
speculate about him; to wonder who he was or where he came from or why
he was there.
"Your mother! Did you say your mother was an----"
"An Indian woman. Nat-u-ritch was her name.
"Nat-u-ritch? No, it isn't possible. The pretty little woman--they say
she was so pretty--who, who----"
He said it for her.
"Killed herself over at the Red Butte Ranch? Yes, the same. She was my
mother."
"I see now," she said. "Otherwise it couldn't have been. I couldn't
have told you, and you, you never would have understood. I'm so glad
you told me."
And without stopping to inquire why, the world seemed a different world,
almost possible, perhaps a world in which one would be willing to live,
might even be happy. Such small things sometimes make this curious old
world.
"It was Fate, Wah-na-gi," he said irrelevantly. "It had to be. It is
always like that. Things are so. That's all. We come together, you
and I, because we are alone, alone in a big world."
"You, too," she said incredulously. Was it possible that this superior
being could have been treated by life with the same want of
consideration shown to a poor Indian girl? "Alone? You?" she repeated.
It was a joy to find that they had many things in common, even if they
were sorrows.
"Yes, I, too, am an outcast."
He said it lightly, because he was not begging for sympathy, for he no
longer felt in need of sympathy. Indeed, he no longer felt an outcast.
He said it because he wanted to make one more tie between them.
"You? Oh, no, it couldn't be!" she said, and her soul went out to meet
him and stood waiting. He saw it but he did not realize all it meant to
him.
"Yes," he said reassuringly.
"I pitied myself once, but I don't now. It was all for the best.
Otherwise I wouldn't be here. Yes, I had to get out, had to leave
England, had to leave the British Army."
"You were a soldier. Of course, I ought to have known that," she said
with frank admiration.
"I could tell you a fancy story," he said; "and you'd believe it, but
I'd rather you knew the truth. Lies always keep one dodging. They said
I disobeyed orders."
"But it wasn't true," she said with quiet conviction.
"Yes," he replied, grateful to her nevertheless. "Yes, it was true.
Yes, I disobeyed orders. They were fool orders; they were crazy,
cowardly, panicky orders and I disobeyed them, and I dare say I'd do it
again if I had the chance."
He said this with more heat than she had ever seen him display, and she
was proud and happy because she saw no sense of shame in his face and
felt no reservation in the ringing tones of his voice.
"It was in South Africa. I was ordered to retreat. I tore up the
despatch and ordered my men to charge, and I'm not bragging when I say I
saved the division from annihilation."
"And they punished you for that?"
"Well, you see, it was like this--I don't know whether you'll understand
it exactly, but this wasn't done in a corner. It was plain that if I
was right our commander was--well--deserved to be court-martialled. He
was a great man with the highest social and political connections. The
people behind him couldn't afford to be shadowed by his disgrace. In
fact, if they let the truth out it would have become a national scandal.
It was easier to ask for the resignation of a youngster whom nobody
knew, and about whom nobody cared, nobody but my poor old Dad. Even
those who knew the truth said I was a fighter not a soldier, that I
didn't know how to obey, was insolent and insubordinate, and they bawled
that the Empire needed soldiers not heroes. They said I jeopardized the
Empire in order to make a reputation for myself. They said a lot of
things. The only man who stood by me--God bless him!--was my immediate
superior, and he had to resign too, for telling the truth. So I was
sacrificed. I had to give up the only career for which I was fitted,
the only thing I cared for, and every door in England was shut to me
forever. You see I have no people or country either."
"You shall have mine," she said quickly.
"You forget, you haven't any," he rejoined, and they both laughed like
happy children.
Ladd had stood for a moment on his veranda and watched them with a
cynical smile. They felt the chill of his shadow even before he spoke.
"Have you instructed your men as I told you?" he asked of Calthorpe as
he came toward them.
"No," said the young man rising, "but I will."
He signalled to his two men to follow him and he walked away.
"Come," he said to her; "I'll walk a little of the way with you."
"Don't go far," said the agent. "The meeting will take place at once
and _I depend on you_."
As they walked along neither spoke. Both of them had looked forward to
this moment many times; both had dreaded it; both had avoided it; both
had conspired to postpone it, and now they were face to face with it.
Something strange had come into their lives, born of complete
understanding. To help him to go away, to urge him to go away, at first
seemed to her impossible, now it was imperative.
"You must go away," she said simply, as if they had been talking of it
for a long time. "Your life isn't safe here."
This conveyed no meaning to him now. There were other reasons. He was
well aware of them. He had in fact laid awake many a night answering
them and confusing them, smothering them. His inclinations had silenced
them many times. Now he knew that it was inevitable and could no longer
be postponed, and yet, what of her? He saw that she had some basketwork
and beadwork in her hands; that she had been into the store to try to
sell them; that she had not done so. The trader sells these things for
very good prices, but he takes care not to pay anything for them. He
knew that Appah had been instrumental in having her dismissed from her
position in the school, in the expectation that it might help to drive
her to the protection and shelter of his home; that this had been done
with the connivance of Ladd. He realized that her dismissal would be
popular! He thought, too, that he could, if he chose, have her restored
to her position, which meant more, much more to her than the salary
involved; and that this was part of the "valuable consideration"
intended by the agent. He knew that never had she so much need of him
as now, and he must go away. "Your life isn't safe here," she repeated,
seeing that he had not heard.
"Oh," he said, laughing, taking off his hat and looking at the hole in
it quizzically. "Somebody has told you. Oh, it was nothing. Some one
was hunting and I happened in the way--that's all."
"It was Appah," she said with complete conviction.
"What if it was?" he said, unimpressed. "He knows I know."
"He's a bad man."
"Well, he isn't my idea of a good man exactly; still--there are worse
men than Appah."
"Yes," she echoed with conviction; "the agent, and he doesn't trust
you."
"No?" he said, genuinely surprised. "What makes you think so?"
"Last night I was sitting crouched behind an empty oil barrel below the
trader's window. I was very discouraged, for I had not been able to
sell any of my work, and I was trying to think of some other way, or
some other work, and before I knew it or realized that I was listening I
heard their voices, the trader and the agent. I couldn't hear it all,
but I heard enough. It was how the trader could stand at the store
window, pretend to be cleaning a gun, and kill some one outside."
"And you think they had me in mind?"
"I didn't hear your name, only--don't go to this meeting this
afternoon."
"I must go, Wah-na-gi; I couldn't stay away; but don't you be worried."
"What is it about?"
"The asphalt lands."
"They are a lot of bad men. Don't go, please don't go."
"Why, bless your heart, little woman, I know all about them, and I can
take care of myself. I'm as safe as if I were in a church."
"If you stay on the Agency--they will kill you. You must go away."
"What is it, Bill?" said Calthorpe as the big foreman hove in sight
breathing heavily as if he had hurried.
"Ladd wants you; they're ready to begin."
"All right, Bill, I'll come at once."
As Bill hastened away Hal took from his vest pocket a small automatic
magazine gun.
"Wah-na-gi," he said, "I bought this for you the last time I was in
Denver." And he rapidly showed her its simple mechanism. "Learn to use
it. You might need it some day, and if you don't, no harm done." And
he dropped it in the beaded pouch that hung from her waist.
*CHAPTER VII*
"Howd'y, boys?" said the agent in his most genial tones as he shook
hands with McShay, Silent Smith, and Orson Lee. "Howd'y? By the way,
McShay, I asked Captain Baker to come over from Fort Serene. I hope
that is agreeable to you."
"Sure," said the big cowman. "Sure. Baker's all right. Who represents
your side besides yourself?"
McShay had not made his way in the world by subtlety. The inference was
too obvious to be ignored, but Ladd chose to assume the attitude of the
righteous man who is not easily offended.
"I don't represent any side, McShay," he said with an amiable smile.
"Ain't you over-modest?" McShay's tone made it obvious that he did not
expect quarter, and it was pretty well known that in a fight he didn't
give any. Still the agent preserved his equanimity.
"Like Captain Baker, I'm just an officer of the Government."
"Not even Cadger, the Injin trader; ain't he in the game?"
"Not unless you personally desire his presence," said Ladd genially and
without a trace of the amusement he felt at the idea.
"Not me," said the other hastily. "Any time I want Cadger present I'll
put the occasion under lock and key and lose the key."
"Hello, here's Captain Baker now. Howd'y, Captain? Thank you for
coming."
Baker had played centre rush at West Point and was really too big for a
cavalryman. At sight of him one naturally felt sorry for the horse, and
associated him involuntarily with the heavy artillery, coast defences,
or something in keeping with his architectural lines. He looked like an
overgrown boy. His fresh, rosy complexion, blond hair, and round face
made him look much younger than he really was. If he was a bit slow
mentally, he could mind his own business, and was universally liked by
his men and by his neighbors in the country roundabout.
"Shall I get some chairs and benches?" said the agent.
"Mother Earth for me," said McShay, taking in the chances with a swift
mental calculation, and arriving at the conclusion that sitting on the
ground he could shoot quicker and had a better target than the man who
sat on a chair or one who sat on the agent's porch. "Sure of your
ground wires down here."
He was about to sit when Dr. McCloud walked slowly toward them, his hat
in his hand, as if he felt the burden of the heat.
Ladd went toward him with the deference and respect which it was
impossible to withhold from this unusual man.
"Thank you for coming," he said, and turning to the others: "Gentlemen,
Dr. McCloud has kindly consented to preside at this conference----"
"Unless there is some objection," said the clergyman, looking from one
to the other with his benignant, shadowy smile.
"Objection to Dr. McCloud would be regarded on this side of the fence as
the opening of hostilities--what the lawyers would call provocative,"
said McShay with a drawl which seemed to add weight to the sentiment
expressed, and he made the last word his own with an unnecessarily long
o, sort of put his brand on it.
Silent Smith looked at Lee with helpless admiration.
"Gee whiz," said Orson in complete sympathy. "Ain't that a bird? And
Mike gets 'em out without the aid of a net or any mechanical
contrivance--just spontaneous like."
And the two men looked around to see if any one was rash enough to
question the superiority of their leader.
Ladd's brow had begun to darken with anxiety when in walked Calthorpe.
"And, oh, by the way, McShay, I've asked Calthorpe, my chief of police,
to be present, as he is thoroughly familiar with the country in
dispute."
McShay took Hal by the hand and held it while he said, looking straight
into the boy's eyes:
"Glad to meet somebody who is goin' to be interested in the proceedin's.
Mr. Ladd is gittin' so shy and retirin' it makes us fellers feel kind of
selfish and lonesome."
McShay's sharp gaze was a hard one to meet, but Hal looked into it with
eyes so steady and serene that the big man was puzzled.
The two had met but seldom, and then in a way not calculated to make
them friends. Hal had on one occasion ordered McShay and his men and
cattle off the Reservation, had in fact put them off. The young man's
attitude had been so quiet but so determined and convincing that, much
to the cattlemen's surprise, they had gone without more than an angry
protest. McShay had been a police officer himself and knew that the
fellow with the law behind him had all the best of it, and so he'd taken
his medicine, but he hadn't enjoyed it. On another occasion these same
men, but without their leader, had come to one of the Indian dances with
the avowed purpose of "having fun with the police." They had been
drinking and were quarrelsome, but Calthorpe arrested them, disarmed
them, and put them in the "lock-up" so quickly that they had no time to
get going, though they were a formidable and dangerous lot. He had
earned their good-will on the following morning, when they were sober,
by inducing the agent to let them go without further trouble. So McShay
and his crowd had at all events learned to respect him as a man who
could take care of himself.
"Well, Doctor, it's up to you. The meeting is in your hands," and Ladd
offered him a chair which had been placed on the edge of the veranda.
The agent sat on the steps to the right of the clergyman, Captain Baker
on the steps to his left, the others were grouped in a semicircle,
McShay and Calthorpe opposite the chairman.
The agent had felt sure of his ability to put McShay and the cowboys in
the attitude of law-defiers, and he had manoeuvred to have the clergyman
and the army man present in order to have two disinterested witnesses to
their confusion, witnesses whose influence might be potent at Washington
and before the nation.
"Well, gentlemen," said McCloud, rising, "if I can help you to know each
other better and understand each other better, I shall be glad.
Misunderstandings are at the bottom of most quarrels, and so we are
here----"
"For a show-down," interrupted McShay nervously, anxious to get down to
business.
"Well, that poker expression seems to cover it," said the clergyman,
smiling--"a show-down."
"Before you go any further," said Captain Baker, "I want it understood
that I don't know anything about this matter, that I am here in nobody's
interest, merely on the invitation of the agent."
"That is correct." Ladd spoke with condescension and as one far removed
from undignified strife, with a lofty and impersonal note; indeed, as
one divinely appointed to the task of pouring oil on troubled waters, an
attitude intended to put greedy self-seekers in their proper light, an
attitude very exasperating to McShay who chafed under the genial
implication.
"That is correct," he repeated. "The captain is here by my invitation.
I thought he should be present as I may be forced to ask for troops to
remove from Government lands all interlopers who----"
"Interlopers is good. It's a glad word. It's all right about
interlopers," broke in McShay, feeling that Ladd had made him look
greedy long enough. "You brought Captain Baker here as a bluff, but it
don't go. We ain't got any quarrel with him or his soldier boys, and
we're glad he's here."
"And, like Captain Baker, I have no axe to grind," beamed the lofty one.
"I am here just as----"
"--the paid representative of the Asphalt Trust."
It came like lightning. The big man had tired of the fancy sparring and
had stepped in with one straight from the shoulder that caught his
opponent and staggered him with its directness. McShay didn't know any
other way but to take and give punishment. It served its purpose. It
knocked the tactics and amenities out of Ladd with a single punch, and
he stood revealed, his jaw set, his eyes blazing, a fighter, dangerous
and implacable. Every one present gasped.
"You'll have to retract that statement," he said after a moment's pause
in which he struggled to control himself. "It's false."
Every one got to his feet and every man's hand went to his gun. McShay
had forgotten that he had planned to shoot from a sitting position. He
couldn't resist the simultaneous impulse.
"Wait a moment, please!"
It was the minister who spoke. McCloud spoke as one sure of himself.
It wasn't the first time he had exercised control over men. It had been
his life work. He had swayed thousands as one man. He had held out
both hands to avarice and men had given him the money they loved dearer
than their souls. He had faced the frenzied mob and taken the human
torch from their mad vengeance. Men had submitted to this power without
knowing what it was or whence it came. Perhaps it was the same force
which stilled the tempest on the Sea of Galilee and made men say: "Even
the winds and the waves obey Him."
"Wait a moment, please," he said, and they waited. As they turned to
him, something shone in his face. Perhaps it was the radiance of the
dying sun sinking behind the Moquitch Mountains; perhaps it was the
light of another world. Whatever it was, human passion became
self-conscious before it and shrank back abashed.
"You are forgetting _me_. You have honored me by making me your
chairman. As long as I am acting for you and as your servant I will not
allow you to ignore me. Your own self-respect should teach you to
respect me. I won't be a figure-head. If I am not in control here,
absolute control, get another chairman."
It was not what he said, but it was the man himself, that made this
cogent.
"Well, that's no more than fair," said McShay frankly.
"Why, of course," said Ladd, not to be outdone and greatly relieved to
have the occasion drift into still water.
"Good," said McCloud heartily. "That's understood. And when I say
absolute control, I mean just that. Each man has his own pet methods,
but for the present it is _my_ way."
"Your way goes, Parson," announced McShay grandly.
"I'm glad that is agreed upon. Very well, gentlemen, this being a peace
conference we will begin by a general disarmament."
There was a momentous pause before McShay's mind groped its way through
the bewildering chaos conjured up by this cataclysm.
"A what?" he gasped.
Quite unobtrusively and without attracting the notice of any one engaged
in the powwow, Wah-na-gi had glided into the background, crept up the
steps of the store, glanced furtively into the open window, taken a
survey of the interior of the store, and then crouched on the steps
where, without appearing to, she had been a most intent observer of the
scene.
"There's Wah-na-gi," said McCloud, seeing her strategic position for his
purposes. "Every man present will oblige me by handing over his weapons
to her. They can be reclaimed later."
"Ain't that a bit unusual?" said Orson Lee awkwardly.
"Ain't fashionable in our set, Orson. Don't you think, Parson," said
the Irishman, turning to McCloud with his most ingratiating manner, and
McShay could be very winning when he wanted to; "don't you think a gun
is a kind of civilizen inflooence, as it were? Ain't it a check on
intemperate speech and reckless statement?"
"Are you going to begin by appealing from the decisions of the chair?"
asked the chairman.
"Not me. Me and my men will deposit our hardware and git a rain check."
And he began to unbuckle his belt slowly, his example being followed by
his retainers in a helpless, bewildered way.
"Mind you, I think you're wrong. There bein' no proper sense of
restraint, I'll bet this ends up in the damnedest row! You know,
Parson," holding it out, "God made the gun to put every man on an
equality!"
He paused for a moment, almost expecting that the preacher might be
moved by this powerful almost unanswerable argument, but as he saw no
sign of any weakening he put his gun before Wah-na-gi.
Hal had been the first to comply with the request of the chairman, and
as he put his weapon before her, gave her a smile, to which she
responded with a look in which love and terror struggled for the
mastery.
"Make some excuse and get away," she whispered. "He's armed," and she
tossed her head in the direction of the store.
"Don't worry, little woman," he said and walked back to the others.
"By the way," said McCloud casually. "Perhaps I didn't make it quite
plain. I meant all weapons."
McShay looked at the parson with a smile that was touching in its frank
admiration.
"Boys, the parson's on. He's on. There can't be no trumps held out in
this discard."
It now appeared that the McShay crowd was a walking arsenal. Weapons
made their appearance from the most innocent places. The big man drew a
gun from a pocket holster underneath each arm. They were so disposed
that he could fold his arms in the most natural way and have each hand
rest on the butt of a gun, which he could draw simultaneously and very
quickly. Orson Lee seemed to have a preference for the knife as an
auxiliary weapon, for he drew one from the leg of his boot and another
from the back of his neck, the two extremes.
Silent Smith, the expert, wore a coat, and had a magazine gun of
moderate size in each pocket, so that he could sit or stand with his
hands in his pockets and shoot through the pockets. It saved a lot of
time not to have to draw and aim. It looked as if the cowboy contingent
had come prepared for trouble.
While this was in progress McShay said: