AT SHADOW POOL
A day or two after this Fred was up early and heading his cattle toward
the good grass along Sage Creek. For several hours he watched them
grazing among the willows; then as they began to quiet and lie down, he
felt safe to leave them, while he kept tryst with Alta.
She had not come when he reached Shadow Pool, so flinging himself on the
grassy bank under the trees, he pulled out of his pocket a small volume
and was soon lost in its pages.
“Good morning,” came a cheery voice to break into his reverie, as Alta,
bursting through the brush, reined Eagle suddenly on the gravel. Fred
jumped up to greet her.
“What’s the tale that charms you so?” she said, slipping from her horse.
“Just an Injun story,” he returned, reaching out the book.
“Hiawatha,” she read; “What’s it about?”
“I hardly know; it seems to be a number of old Indian tales the poet has
woven together about some big chief. The story is strange, but I rather
like it.”
“Read some to me,” she requested.
“I’d rather hear you read,” he half objected.
“That’s not fair; you know the story. Won’t you, please? I’m hungry to
hear something good.”
“Yes,” he responded, “if you really wish it.”
They sat down on the grassy bank together and he began by telling her
briefly the beginnings of the poem, the stories of the peace pipe and
the four winds.
“This myth of the morning star and the east wind is rather charming, I
think,” and he read with appreciative feeling these lines:
Young and beautiful was Wabun,
He it was who brought the morning,
He it was whose silver arrows
Chased the dark o’er hill and valley,
He it was whose cheeks were painted
With the brightest streaks of crimson,
And whose voice awoke the village,
Called the deer and called the hunter.
Lonely in the sky was Wabun,
Though the birds sang gayly to him,
Though the flowers of the meadow
Filled the air with fragrance for him,
Yet his heart was sad within him,
For he was alone in heaven.
But one morning gazing earthward
While the village still was sleeping,
And the fog lay on the river
Like the ghost that goes at sunrise,
He beheld a maiden walking
All alone upon the meadow,
Gathering water flags and rushes
By the river in the meadow.
Every morning gazing earthward
Still the first thing he beheld there
Was her blue eyes looking at him,
Two blue lakes among the rushes.
And he loved this lonely maiden,
Who thus waited for his coming;
For they both were solitary,
She on earth and he in heaven.
And he wooed her with caresses,
Wooed her with his smiles of sunshine,
With his flattering words he wooed her,
Gentlest whispers in the branches,
Softest music, sweetest odors,
Till he drew her to his bosom,
Folded in his robes of crimson,
Till into a star he changed her,
Trembling still upon his bosom;
And forever in the heavens
They are seen together walking,
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung,
Wabun and the star of morning.
Alta sat silent a moment as he finished--then, “What a beautiful myth!”
she said. “I wonder if the Indians really did tell such tales?”
Her companion did not reply. He was listening to something else.
“I’m afraid something’s wrong with my cattle,” he said, handing her the
book and jumping to his feet. “Just wait here a few moments till I chase
out and see what’s up.”
“Certainly,” said Alta, continuing silently to read, as, leaping on
Brownie, he dashed out toward the flat.
Intent on the developing poem, Alta was oblivious to the fact that she
was being watched by a pair of wicked eyes that peered through the
willows only a few steps away. These same eyes, indeed, had been
watching with jealous flash the scene we have just pictured.
Had it been Dick Davis instead of Fred whom Bud Nixon had found with
Alta that morning, there is no telling the result; for he was still hot
with hate. As it was, he had hard work to hold down his impulse to kill.
Out with his bunch of Indian thieves, he had caught sight of Alta as she
was galloping into the brush along the trail to meet Fred. Seized with a
passion to follow and torment her--or do worse, the White Injun,
ordering his band to wait in the cover of the trees, dashed after the
unsuspecting girl. Guessing her purpose to fish, for he had sighted her
rod, he made sure to catch her off her horse and unprotected along the
creek.
Hiding and tying his pony in the brush, he stole along the trail Alta
had taken till his ear caught the sound of voices. He hesitated an
instant, then with smothered rage in his heart, he crept inch by inch
under the willows till he caught sight of the two friends.
Any but ugly eyes would have found the picture beautiful. On the bank of
velvety green they sat, their faces animated with the poet pictures they
were sharing. The aspens cast cooling shadows over them, while the
stream sang its soothing song as it rippled over the pebbles into Shadow
Pool.
But Bud found no beauty in the scene. Fighting mad to be robbed of his
chance to do deviltry, his one thought was to get the boy out of his
way. Once his hand went to his revolver, but he checked it. Another plan
came to his thick brain. He would set his bucks upon the boy’s herd and
draw him away. It was a silly, serious trick, but he stole back to
execute it. And the plan worked. Fred, hearing the bellowing cows,
hurried to find the cause of trouble, while Nixon, coming back through
the brush, stepped out of it suddenly before Alta.
With an exclamation of fright she jumped up, half-dazed with the sight
of a man decked in gaudy Indian trappings standing before her. It was as
if the Indian she was reading about had suddenly jumped into reality
before her very eyes. Her impulse was to scream, but she held it, to
demand--
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me, Miss Alta?” he leered.
“Know you!”--she scanned him more closely--“yes, I do. Why do you spring
at me in this way, Bud Nixon?”
“Oh, don’t get mad, little gal; that ain’t the way to treat old friends.
Come, meet me decent.” He grabbed at her as he spoke and tried to kiss
her.
“Stand back, you insulting devil!” half screamed the girl, giving his
ugly face a stinging slap.
“You damned little fury! I’ll show you,” he snarled, grabbing her arm.
He flung his other arm about her and bent his face toward hers.
With the strength of desperation she fought to free herself from his
brutal embrace. But the more she struggled, the more determined he grew
to wreak his ugly will. In despair, she gave a cry for help.
Fred, who was already galloping back to tell her he must go rally his
scattered herd, caught the cry and dashed through the brush. The sight
set him on fire. Jumping from his mare, he leaped toward the struggling
pair and struck Bud on the head. The cur, taken by surprise, loosed his
hold and turned to get another blow full in the face. He staggered and
fell over the bank backward into Shadow Pool.
Luckily, during the struggle, his revolver had dropped out of its
holster. Fred grabbed it, and when the bully, foaming with fury,
sputtered back upon the bank, he faced his own weapon.
“Go!” Fred commanded, “go! before I kill you!”
Nixon needed no second warning. He plunged like a whipped dog into the
brush and skulked away to safety. Alta sank to the ground exhausted.
“Come, Alta, get on Eagle, quick; we must leave this place.”
He hurried to bring the horse and helped her into the saddle. She could
hardly hold herself there.
“Now, Alta,” he said, “be brave; I’ll take care of you.” He vaulted into
his own saddle as he spoke and rode close by her side, supporting her
with one arm as they went slowly along the trail.
“Fred,” she said, as they neared the Morgan ranch, “you needn’t go any
farther. I’m all right.”
“But I mean to see you safely home.”
“Please don’t,” she pleaded; “go back to your herd. Uncle must not know
a word of this. It will drive him wild with worry and anger.”
“Surely you don’t want that devil to escape. I’ll rouse the valley to
capture and punish him.”
“Let him go, Fred; God will punish him.”
“Well, if you wish it,” he said reluctantly; “but it’s hard to hold down
my feelings.”
“Thank you, I’ll see you again. God bless you for being so good to me.
But take care of yourself, Fred.”
She touched her reins as she spoke and Eagle carried her on gently
toward home. Fred watched until she passed through the ranch gate, then
with a strange feeling tugging at his heart, he turned to gallop back
and gather up his herd.
Why didn’t she want him to tell? What could it all mean? were the
tormenting questions that kept buzzing through his brain as he scouted
about the brush to round up his scattered herd. For several hours he
hunted and worried and worried and hunted. The sun wheeled far down the
west before he had his herd together; and then to his dismay, when he
counted up, one of his best cows was missing. Heading the rest toward
the ranch, he took one more look up the creek. Half a mile away he found
the poor beast shot dead.
It was the work of that dastardly white Indian, Fred felt sure of that.
But the coward had no weapon. How could he do it? The boy examined the
ground about the animal. Several moccasin tracks and the print of pony
hoofs told him that Nixon was not alone.
His first impulse was to strike for the ranch and rouse the valley. But
his promise to Alta held him from doing anything. He would keep his eyes
open and find out for himself what was wrong. The time might come when
he could strike. “And if it ever does come,” he said to himself, “I’ll
strike hard.”