OLIVE.
ON the day when Jacqueline Ralston's pony ran away so unexpectedly, and
Frank Kent commanded Olive to get out of danger, Olive had watched them
both for a few minutes in a kind of daze. She had then moved slowly
backward, keeping them both in sight, until she dimly saw Jack's leap
from her horse. She then continued alone along the trail which she and
Jack had traveled that morning, until the men and the cattle at the
round-up were entirely out of sight, supposing that Frank and Jack would
follow her as soon as they crossed the field.
Olive stopped her horse finally. She was not looking about her, nor
thinking of anything in particular except her joy in Jack's safety. She
heard no sound.
Someone crept up behind her with the stealthiness possible only to an
Indian. Suddenly Olive felt her hands drawn behind her and she was
forcibly dragged from her horse.
Two or three times only she cried for help, but before she could do
more, a handkerchief was tied tightly about her lips and she was half
dragged and half carried to one of the very tents which she and Jack had
passed that morning on their way to the fateful round-up.
Old Laska sat stolidly smoking a pipe. "Ugh," she grunted, but her
small, beady eyes flashed like coals in the sunlight.
Although Olive was the last person she expected to see at such a moment,
she took the girl from Josef without a word, and held her so that she
could not get away. Josef disappeared immediately. He must have gone to
hide Olive's pony from sight.
Olive struggled, but she could make no outcry, and in a little while
Laska bound her so that she could scarcely move. The girl was a captive
inside the tent at the moment when Frank Kent and Jack passed it,
unheeding, on their return to Rainbow Lodge.
The Indian woman and her son had not thought to capture Olive at such a
time and place. But they had vowed to get hold of her by any means they
could. From the instant Josef discovered that Olive had come to the
round-up, he had not lost sight of her and when he found her alone, he
was ready.
All afternoon she lay in the tightly closed tent with Laska, neither one
of the women moving, Olive being in a stupor from terror and pain. By
and by, when the dusk fell, Josef appeared silently at the tent
entrance, leading Olive's pony and a horse for his mother. He bound
Olive to her horse, and the two women set off across the prairies, Laska
with her bundle across her back and two jugs of water swung over her
saddle.
Through all the long, cold night, Laska traveled across the barren
plains with her hand on Olive's bridle. At first there were shadowy
fences that marked the division of one ranch from another. These were
soon lost and the way lay through a trackless waste, unbroken by a trail
of man or animal. Laska had gone into the desert where there was no drop
of pure water.
In the morning the Indian woman rested, built a fire, untied Olive and
fed her, knowing that if the girl ran away from her now she would not be
able to go back the way they had come. She must be lost and could not
fail to perish from hunger and thirst. Still Laska guarded her closely.
On the morning of the third day of their journeying, Olive saw on the
far horizon some curling wreaths of smoke. Nearer there were a few lean
horses grazing on the scanty sage grass. A dozen Indian tepees were set
up in what seemed a small oasis in the desert. She knew that Laska had
brought her to the winter quarters of a small band of Indians who would
not stay in a village overlooked and regulated by the United States
Government. These Indians lived the old nomad life, wandering from place
to place, setting up their tents like gypsies, wherever they could
remain unmolested.
Olive almost gave up hope. Here in the wilderness she would never come
in contact with any one from the outside world. When the spring came,
the Indians would gather up their belongings and wander farther away,
taking her with them, where she could have no chance of return.
Laska and Olive had a tent of their own. In it they lived for some time,
rarely speaking to one another. Nobody was unkind to her and for some
reason Laska left her alone. It was growing bitterly cold and the old
woman used to sit smoking all day by the fire, either in her own wigwam
or one nearby. She did not try to watch Olive, knowing that she could
not get away. Laska had told her that she should never leave the Indians
again; that they would return no more to the neighborhood of the white
men and Olive seemed quietly to accept her fate. Even Laska, who had
trained the girl in her own school of silence, was deceived by her. She
thought that Olive no longer cared enough to go back to dare the perils
of the trip.
At first it did appear utterly impossible to Olive. She had not the
faintest idea in what direction she and Laska had traveled and on
arriving among the Indians, her pony had been taken away from her. She
had no food except the little bit she was allowed each day, barely
enough to live on and knew that at any time now, the swift and bitter
snowstorms of the prairies might fall. Any traveler caught out in one of
them would surely perish and not be found until the snow melted.
There were many hours, when Olive thought she would run away anyhow and
take whatever fate came to her. But the memory of Jack, and Jean and
Frieda, Cousin Ruth and Rainbow Lodge sustained her. A little time
before and she had not known any happiness. Now the thought of the joy
she would feel if she ever got home again, gave her patience and courage
to wait.
Few of the older Indians paid much attention to the captive. Whatever
story old Laska had told them, they had accepted without question. They
spoke very little English and rarely stirred, except when the men went
off on long hunting expeditions to return with whatever deer they
managed to slay.
Olive had only one friend, one person, with whom she talked in the weeks
she spent in the Indian camp. This was Carlos, a young Indian boy, about
twelve years old. He was as slender and straight as a young pine tree,
the fastest runner, the best rider and shot in the tribe. She had paid
little attention to the boy at first, but he followed her like a shadow.
Often when she came out of her tent, she would find him sitting like a
brown image on the cold ground. The boy was like an Eskimo and appeared
to feel neither hunger nor frost.
One day Olive set out for a walk. She did not wish Carlos to go with
her, but before she had gone many rods the boy appeared at her side and
quietly marched beside her, looking neither to the right nor the left.
"Go back, Carlos," Olive commanded quietly.
The boy shook his head. "You travel not alone over the prairies, you do
not know your way," he answered stolidly.
Olive's patience gave out. She seized the boy by the shoulders, tears
came into her soft black eyes and her face quivered. "You are hired to
spy on me, Carlos," she said accusingly. "I thought I had one friend in
you."
Again Carlos shook his head. "Why should I spy on you?" he asked. "What
is it you would do?"
Then Olive told the boy what had happened to her.
Very quietly he listened. "I knew you were not of our people," he
answered. "I will find the way for you to get back home. You are a woman
and timid. Have faith in me."
Olive smiled, and from this day she called the Indian boy, "Little
Brother," but she had no hope of his helping her and she saw him far
less often. Carlos was away from the camp nearly every day, returning
with rabbits that he shot on the plains. Olive saw him drying the skins
and sometimes he brought her their meat to eat, but he never referred to
his promise to show her a way of escape from the Indian camp.
The days were long, but the nights were far longer and the long
twilights the saddest time of all. Olive sat often in the tent alone.
One evening Laska had departed earlier than usual to the wigwam of a
neighboring squaw and Olive was huddled up on the dry grass in front of
their fire, trying to keep from freezing. The air was filled with smoke.
The girl looked scornfully at the two beds of straw, covered with coarse
Indian blankets, where she and Indian Laska slept. Before her eyes came
the vision of the splendid living-room at Rainbow Lodge. She could see
the ranch girls and their cousin before the great fire and wondered if
they ever thought of her now. Olive did not know how long a time had
passed since she was stolen.
Sticking out from under Laska's bed was the bundle which she had borne
on her back across the plains. Until this moment she had kept it hidden
from Olive, except during their trip, when she had gotten their food
from it.
Olive was not particularly interested in her discovery. But it occurred
to her that this bag might have something to eat in it, which would aid
her, if she could manage to get away. She drew out the dirty sheepskin
bag and thrust her hand into it, shuddering at the things she touched.
There were some odd bits of soiled clothing and a small package, tied up
in an old, red cotton handkerchief. Olive had seen the package in the
handkerchief before, in Laska's hut in the village. But she had never
been interested to find out what it contained. To-night she cared for
anything that would break the monotony of the long hours ahead of her.
Olive looked cautiously at the tent opening. The place was entirely
still. There was not a sound in the lonely tepee, save the blowing of
the winter winds across the desert. The girl crawled to a spot where the
fire cast its brightest glow. Patiently she worked at the hard knots in
the handkerchief. There was a roll of money in it tied up with a cord.
Olive tossed the money impatiently aside. What use was money to her in
this wild land? Olive had known always that Laska got money from some
unknown source. She always had more than the other Indians in their
village, and Jack had explained to Olive that this money was sent to
Laska for taking care of her. Olive searched for a bit of paper,
something to show from what place or from whom this money came. But
there was no scrap of anything of that sort.
Beside the money, there was a small box in the handkerchief. It was of
delicate, carved wood and smelled very sweet. Olive saw at once that the
carving had never been made by Indians. It was far too fine.
She was so intent on opening this box that she did not hear a stealthy
noise just outside her tent.
The lid of the sandalwood chest slid gently off. Inside, Olive beheld
some trinkets, which she knew in a moment of swift rapture, must belong
to her. One was a curiously wrought old silver chain, with a beautiful
cross hanging from it. A watch, large enough to belong to a man, had a
girl's picture painted in it which made Olive catch her breath. The
picture she knew looked like her, only it was far lovelier. This girl
had the same brilliant yet soft black eyes, the same straight, glossy
hair and the deep, olive coloring. She was not an American, but Olive
knew there was no trace of Indian blood in this woman. Whatever Indian
blood ran in Olive's veins, she guessed she must have inherited from her
father. Beside the watch and chain, the carved box held but one more
treasure. It was a little book about four inches square, written in a
language that Olive could not understand.
The noise at the tent opening grew more distinct. Some one was peering
through a tiny opening, yet Olive seemed to have neither eyes nor ears.
Her face was flushed with happiness and she held the odd, sweet-smelling
box close against her cheek.
Someone entered the tent. At last Olive awakened and springing to her
feet, thrust her treasures inside her dress. With her eyes flaming, she
turned to face her enemy; for Olive had not lived all her life among
nearly savage people without learning something from them. She meant to
fight now to save her possessions, as a real Indian girl would have
fought to the last moment of her strength.
But instead of the ugly face of old Laska staring at her, Olive saw the
slight figure of Carlos, the Indian boy.
Olive held out her treasures eagerly. "Look what I have found," she
exclaimed. "I know they must be mine."
The Indian boy regarded the pieces of jewelry gravely. To him they
appeared like any other trinkets that the Indians loved.
"I have come to tell you how you may return to your white friends,"
Carlos announced proudly. "I told you that a man would find a way. It is
only women who give up."
Olive shook her lovely head, her thoughts still dwelling with her
discovery. She did not understand exactly what the Indian lad said.
He caught at her dress and pulled it impatiently. "Listen, woman. I have
found a way for you to get back to your ranch-land. Do you hear me, or
is it that you have changed your mind like all women and do not now wish
to go?"
Olive laughed. It was so funny to hear this small boy take the
patronizing tone with her that the men of his race used toward all
women. She put her arm about him and drew him down on the floor by her.
The flickering lights of the fire played on the two dark heads, her hair
fine and soft as silk, his stiff and straight as a young colt's mane.
"Of course I want to go back to my friends, Little Brother," Olive
sighed. "But let's don't talk of that to-night, I want to be a little
bit happy in thinking that I have found something that must once have
belonged to my mother."
But the boy would not be persuaded. "We must talk of your getting away
to-night, for the time is ready," Carlos declared, in the solemn tone of
a young Indian chief making ready for battle. "You know I have been out
on the prairies for many days together and no one knew where or for what
I had gone. I have wandered in many directions seeking for the home of
some white man, for I know that however much the Indian pretends he is
in a wilderness, he is always to-day on the border of the white man's
land."
"Well, have you found a friend to help me?" Olive demanded fervently.
"I have found no friend," Carlos replied, refusing to be hurried or
disturbed. "But I have found an iron trail that stretches across the
desert. It must bring you to where the white people dwell."
"An iron trail," Olive repeated wonderingly. "I am afraid I don't know
what you mean."
The boy gazed at her with slow, unmoved patience. "It has an iron
carriage on it that flies along the trail more swiftly than any horse
can run," Carlos explained. "There is great heat and noise and smoke
like a prairie fire."
Olive caught the boy's hand in hers. "You mean an engine and a railroad
track, don't you, Little Brother?" she queried. "You have seen a train
somewhere out on the desert. You will take me to it and somehow I will
find people to help me to get back to Rainbow Lodge." Olive flung her
arms about Carlos and hugged him as she might have hugged Frieda. She
poured out such a flood of questions, that the boy was convinced he was
right in his scorn of her sex, but he listened with deep gravity.
"I do not know all things," he replied finally. "Only I have laid all
day on the ground near the trail. I know the hour when the iron carriage
passes over it. The walk is a long one, but if you will follow me, I
will take you there. I will come for you to-night just before the dawn
breaks. When you hear an owl hoot, you will know that Carlos is outside
your door. You will creep softly, so that we may have several hours
before old Laska wakes. I will bring food and the skins of many wild
rabbits that I have sewed together in the evenings, that you may not
freeze."