DALLAS MAKES A FRIEND
"Y-a-a-as," drawled Lancaster, reflectively, gnawing the while at a
fresh slab of tobacco, "we jes' nat'ally mavericked this claim."
A fortnight had passed since his return from the land-office. In that
time, his fear had slowly vanished, his confidence returned. And he had
begun to show streaks of the bravado that, in his stronger days, made
him an efficient section-boss. Rosy dreams, even, beset his
brain--dreams upon which Marylyn, despising her father's meaner
structures (and kept in ignorance of what might, at any moment, raze
them), piled many a rainbow palace. For, to the younger girl, certain
calico-covered books on the mantel had invested the events of the
fortnight just gone with a delightful tinge of romance.
Dallas, however, took a sensible view of their situation. She pointed
out that the man who had made an entry for the land would, in all
probability, return; and that if he did not, five years, at least, would
pass before the railroad reached them. Meanwhile, the quarter-section
should be properly filed upon for possession and farmed for a living.
Now, as she brushed the hearth clean with the wing of a duck, she
listened quietly to her father's confident boasting.
"It's this way, m' gal:" he said--he compassed a goodly quid and shifted
it dexterously into the sagging pocket of a cheek--"Inside o' six
months after a man files, he's got t' dig a dugout er put up a shanty.
He's got t' do a leetle farm-work, an' sleep on his claim. When thet six
months is up, ef he ain't done no buildin' er farmin', th' claim's
abandoned, an' th' first man comin' along c'n hev it.
"In _this_ case, th' gent in question ain't built, dug er farmed. Ef he
was t' show up an' want this quarter, he could git it by payin' fer our
improvements. Ah reckon we'd hev t' sell an' pull our freight. But ef he
was t' show up an' _not_ pay like a' honest man, they'd--they'd--wal,
they'd likely be a _leetle_ disagreement."
Dallas shook her head. "If he comes before his six months is up and
improves, we got to go. That would be the only square thing. Ain't it
so?"
"Wal--wal----" began Lancaster, lamely.
"It is," she said. "He filed on the quarter, and we had no right to
settle----"
"We _hev_ settled, an' th' lan' 's goin' t' be worth money," broke in
her father.
She put up her hand. "We got to go, if he comes. But"--she arose
wearily--"if he didn't offer pay for our improvements, how _could_ we
go, or get through the winter, or build again next spring? Our money's
gone."
"Look a-here, Dallas," began her father, crossly, "they ain't no use t'
worry th' way you do. Winter is clost. It ain't likely th' man'll come
along this late. An' ef he don' show up pretty soon, he ain't got a
chanst. 'Cause, when his six months is gone, Ah'll make another trip t'
Bismarck, contes' his entry, hev it cancelled an' file. _Then_, we's
safe."
She silenced him, for Marylyn was entering, and quit the shack. Outside,
before the warped door, she paused.
"He's always so sure of himself. But he can't do anything. And
Marylyn--Oh, I _wish_ there was someone with us, now--someone that'd
help us if anything--went wrong."
Of a sudden, looking down at her hands, her eyes fell upon the crimson
stripes left across her palms by the plow. And, in fancy, a horseman was
riding swiftly toward her from the east, again, while she leaned on the
cross-brace and waited.
"Twenty miles," she said thoughtfully; "twenty miles." And turned the
marks under.
* * * * *
Sun-baked, deep of rut and straight as the flight of a crow, lay the
road that led northeast from the swift, shoally ford of the Missouri to
the cattle-camp at Clark's. It began at the rough planking upon which
the rickety ferry-boat, wheezing like some asthmatic monster, discharged
its load of soldiers or citizens, and ran up through the deep cut in the
steep, caving river-bank. From there, over the western end of the
Lancaster quarter, across the coulee under a hub-depth of muddy
backwater--at the only point where the sumach-grown sides sloped
gradually--it took its level, unswerving way.
Twice only in its course did it touch the ravine curving along near by
it--once, six miles from the ferry-landing, where, on the limbs of a
cluster of giant cottonwoods that grew in the bottom of the gully, a
score of Indian dead were lashed, their tobacco-pipes, jerked beef and
guns under the blanket wrappings that hid them; and, again, at Murphy's
Throat, four miles farther up, where the coulee narrowed until a man,
standing in its bed with arms outstretched, could place the tips of his
fingers against either rocky wall. Beyond the Throat, the crack in the
plains grew wider and shallower, veered out to the eastward, and, at
last, came to an abrupt end in a high meadow below the distant
river-bluffs.
For decades the road had been a buffalo-trail, a foot wide and half as
deep, that, in the dry season, guided the herds in single file from the
caking meadow to the distant waters of the Missouri; then the travee
poles of Indian tribes gave it the semblance of a wagon track, the
centre of which was worn bare by the hoofs of laden ponies and the feet
of trudging squaws; and, finally, the lumbering carts of traders, the
Studebakers of settlers, and those heavier wagons that roll in the rear
of marching men, made of the track a plain and hardened highway.
Down it, that morning, approaching to the accompaniment of loud talking,
the tramping of horses, the cracking of whips and the jingling of spurs,
came a long procession. Yet so absorbed was Dallas in her plowing that
not until the head of its column was close upon her and there was barely
time to go to the bridles of the frightened mules did she see it.
A tanned, unkempt officer led the way, with baying foxhounds running
about him. On either hand rode his staff, and his scouts--Arickaree
Indians, in patched breeches and dusty blankets. And behind,
full-bearded, all military look gone from their boots, hats and
uniforms, came the cavalry, riding two and two, and flying torn and
faded guidons.
Dallas had no chance to view the front of the command, for the mules
claimed all her attention by hauling back on their bits. But now they
quieted a little, and she was free to watch the dozen or so musicians
who came next, mounted, with their brass instruments in hand. She saw
that these men were nudging one another, and directing at her glances
which were bold and amused.
Something of her father's hatred of soldiers stirred her. She grew
defiant; yet only for a moment. The musicians trotted by, and now
Indians were passing--men, women and children, whose stolid faces
disclosed no hint of grief or hatred for their captivity. The braves,
twenty in number, formed the head of the band, and kept no order of
march as they spurred forward their ragged, foot-sore ponies. Their
Springfield rifles, knives and tomahawks had been taken from them, but
they still carried their once gay lances, and shields of buffalo-hide
covered with rude pictures of the chase and battle. But though on other
occasions these would have betokened the free warrior, they now only
emphasised by contrast the blankets that trailed ingloriously from their
wearers' shoulders to the ground and the drooping feathers of the
conquered chiefs.
A war-priest, whose string of bears' claws, triple feathers, charms and
bag plainly betokened the medicine-man, headed the tribe. He was seated
upon a gaudily decorated saddle; the nose-band, front and cheek-pieces
of his horse's bridle were thickly studded with brass nails; bright
pom-poms of coloured wool swung from the curb and the throat-latch; and
the nag's tail was stiffly braided with strips of woolen--scarlet and
yellow and blue. Close beside him rode two stately braves of high rank,
their mounts as richly caparisoned, their buckskin shirts gorgeous with
bead and porcupine-quill embroidery, otter-skin head-dresses upon their
hair. Like their leader, the dusky faces of the two Indians and of those
forming the rest of the party were hideously painted, showing that all
had but recently been upon the warpath.
The other half of the redskin company was more squalid. A score of
spotted, sway-backed ponies crept along, bearing and, at the same time,
dragging, heavy loads. Each saddle held a squaw and one or more small
children--the squaw with a cocoon-like papoose strapped to her back. And
at the tail of each horse, surrounded by limping Indian dogs, came a
travee laden with a wounded or aged Indian, or heaped with cooking
utensils, blankets and buffalo-skins.
One woman of all the squaws rode a pony that had not a double burden.
She was dressed in buckskin and bright calico, and sat upon a blanket
that almost covered her horse. Her hair was braided neatly, her dark
cheeks were daubed with carmine. She kept a rigid seat as she passed
Dallas, and her black eyes answered the other's kindly look with one
full of sullen pride. Beside her hobbled an aged hag across whose
wrinkled mouth and chin was a deep and livid scar.
When the Indians were past, more troopers followed. After them trundled
a half-dozen light field-pieces, the wagon-train, and ambulances filled
with sick or wounded soldiers, all under the conduct of a rear-guard.
Soon, the entire cavalcade was gone, and had halted on the river-bank to
wait the ferry. Dallas was alone again, listening to the faint strains
of the band which, from the cut, was gallantly announcing the return
from the long campaign.
At the door of the shack, Lancaster and his younger daughter were
watching the portage, piecemeal, of the troops. But Dallas, starting the
team again, saw father and sister suddenly turn from the landing to look
and point toward the coulee. Glancing that way, too, she saw the object
of their interest. Over the brink into sight was toiling a strange
figure, bent and almost hidden under an unwieldy load.
She moved aside in some trepidation to await the creature's advance.
Upon its back, as it tottered along, was a score of pots and pans, tied
together, and topped by a sack of buffalo-chips that, at each slow step,
rolled first to one hand and then to the other. Yet with all the
difficulty of balancing the fuel-sack and preventing its falling to the
ground, the straggler did not fail to keep in place a drab
face-covering.
The mules stood perfectly quiet until the figure was near. Then they
became uneasy for the second time, and shied back upon the plow,
tangling their harness.
The effect of this was startling. The sack of chips came tumbling off
the pots and pans, spilling upon the roadway. The tin things followed
with a crash. And, with a grunt, the bent figure retreated a few steps
and uncovered its face.
In very amazement Dallas let go the mules. The creature facing her was
young and pitifully thin. About a face dripping with perspiration fell a
mop of tangled hair. Under a tattered mourning blanket, a bulging calico
waist disclosed, through many rents, a lean and bony chest. And below
the leather strap that belted both the sombre blanket and the waist,
hung limply the shreds of a fringed buckskin petticoat. The straggler
was an Indian--a male--yet, despite his sex, he wore, not a brave's
dress, but the filthy, degrading garb of a squaw!
He watched Dallas with cowed, questioning eyes, strangely soft and
un-Indian in their expression. After a moment, seeing that he was ill,
as well as unarmed, she ceased to feel afraid of him.
"How," she said, in greeting.
He made no reply, only continued to watch her steadily.
"How," she repeated, and smiled.
His eyes instantly brightened.
"You sick?" she asked, moving her head sorrowfully in pantomime.
For answer, he shambled closer and held up first one naked foot and then
the other, like a suffering hound. Dallas saw that they were sore from
stone bruises and bleeding from cactus wounds.
"Oh, you're hurt!" she cried.
The Indian nodded, and at once made her a dumb appeal. Lowering himself
stiffly until he was seated upon the dead grass before her, he pointed
eloquently into his wide-open mouth.
Dallas understood. "Hungry," she said.
He nodded again.
She had never heard a scoffing white declare that the red man is, above
all, a beggar, so she did not delay answering his mute petition. She
stooped to examine again the cuts and bruises on his feet. Then, "Wait
till I come back," she bade him, and his vigorous nod assured her that
he understood what she said. She hurried away to the shack.
She tarried only long enough to tell her father of the straggler and to
hear his objections at her "fussin'" with a "no-'count Injun."
Returning, she found her charge patiently waiting for her. As she came
up, he was facing the ford, where, amid cursing, shouting and trumpet
blares, some troopers were trying to induce the balky ambulance mules to
go aboard the boat. But when she handed him a crockery plate heaped with
boiled potatoes, cold meat and pancakes, and a piece of suet wound in a
soft white cloth, he became indifferent to the lively doings at the
landing and began to eat as if famished.
He made such rapid headway that, before Dallas realised it, the food was
gone, the plate scraped clean and the suet direly threatened. He gave
her a puzzled look as she put forth a hand objectingly.
"No, no," she said. And while she tore the soft cloth into strips, she
put the fat out of reach by slipping it into a skirt pocket.
The bandages ready, she knelt before him and tenderly swathed his
wounds.
"There!" she said, as she finished. "Now, you'd better hurry. The
soldiers are almost over, and you'll be too late to get across dry."
He scrambled up, but, ignoring her advice, put one hand through a rent
in his squaw's waist and began to search for something. Presently, he
brought forth a package done up in dirty muslin, and slowly unfastened
it. A folded paper as soiled as its wrapper fell out. It was worn
through much handling and covered with pencilled words. He handed it to
Dallas.
At first, she could not decipher it. But after studying it carefully and
placing together several detached bits she was able to make it out. It
was written scrawlingly and in a trembling hand.
"The bearer of this [it read] the good chief, Red Moon, I
commend to the gentleness and mercy of every God-fearing man
and woman. Once, out of the weakness of the flesh, he wept
under the tortures of a sun-dance. Since then he has been
abused, starved, and spat upon. Yet, hearing from me of
Christ, His suffering, and His command to forgive, he has
put down his desire to revenge his wrongs in blood, and goes
on his way, labouring and enduring in silence. May God be
gracious to whomsoever aids this least one among us."
Here the letter ended, but underneath was the signature--so fingered,
however, that Dallas could spell out only the word "David"--and a
blurred postscript which said:
"I have christened him Charles, and taught him English, but
since his punishment he has never----"
The remainder of the paper was illegible.
When Dallas gave it back to the Indian, he wrapped it up carefully and
returned it to his bosom. Then he gathered up the scattered chips,
lifted his double load to his shoulders, drew his sombre blanket close
about him, and shambled slowly away.
"Poor thing!" said Dallas, in compassion.
He stopped to look back.
"Good-by," she said as he went on; "good-by."
When he reached the river-bank, he turned again. The frost-blighted
cottonwoods that bordered the Missouri were behind him, gleaming as
yellowly as if, during the short, hot summer, their leafy branches had
caught and imprisoned all the sunshine. Against that belt of brilliant
colour stood out his spare, burdened frame.
Watching, she saw his gaunt face slowly relax in a friendly grin.