AN APPEAL TO HEADQUARTERS
As Matthews ceased his threatening and strode on, a new fear came over
Dallas. She leaned toward Lounsbury from the window. "What does he mean
by 'fixing you'?" she asked hoarsely.
The storekeeper was still watching riverward, and he answered without
turning his head. "He means it's a case of shoot on sight," he said.
"Then you mustn't go near him--you must go back to Clark's. Promise me
you will! I can take care of Marylyn till dad comes. If you got
hurt----"
Lounsbury threw one leg over the pommel and sat sideways for a while,
buckling and unbuckling his reins. When he spoke, it was very gently,
and again he did not look at her. "Hadn't you better wrap up a little?"
he suggested. "It's cold."
She put a coat about Marylyn. "It ain't right for you to make our
quarrel yours. You mustn't. I wouldn't have you hurt on our account for
anything." Her eyes beseeched him.
He glanced at her. "It's worth a lot to know you feel that way," he said
slowly. "But--I'm afraid I can't do what you want. It's _your_ safety
that counts with me."
Marylyn's face had been hidden, to shut out the dread sight of Matthews.
Now she lifted it. She said nothing. But as if suddenly smitten by a
painful thought, she turned from Dallas to Lounsbury, from Lounsbury to
Dallas, questioningly, doubtfully. She drew to one side a few steps, and
stood alone.
The movement escaped the others. The storekeeper had slipped from his
saddle to pick up Matthews' revolver. And the elder girl, against whom
was setting in a tide of reaction, was struggling for composure. She put
out a trembling hand for the weapon.
"Got a rifle, too, haven't you?" he asked.
"No. Dad took it."
"Good Heavens! I'm glad I didn't know that coming down!"
"How'd you happen to come?"
"I saw the sleigh go by, and was sure something had scared your father
about the claim. So I didn't wait to black my boots."
"Oh, it was a comfort to hear you," she said.
"Was it?" eagerly. He stepped toward her; then drew back. "Well,"--with
a feeble attempt at humour--"I'd rather be a comfort than a wet
blanket." He had remembered that evil eyes were watching; that his least
move might subject Lancaster's daughters to the coarse comment of Shanty
Town. He dared not even remain out of his saddle. He mounted.
"Oh, you're going to leave us!" exclaimed Marylyn. She began to cry
helplessly.
"But I'll be on the lookout every second," he declared. "Miss
Dallas,"--he urged his horse up to the window--"don't think I'm idiot
enough to try to do up that saloon gang down there single-handed. If I
go to Shanty Town, it'll be because I have to. I won't go alone if I
can help it. First of all, I intend to see the Colonel over there, and
lay this matter before him."
"But dad----" she began.
"Got to do it, whether your father likes it or not. We're dealing with a
cutthroat. He knows this land's worth money."
"Yes----"
"And you can't tell what he'll do." He bent to her. "That scoundrel
scared you," he said regretfully. "You're ready to drop. Oh, yes, you
are! And it's my fault. I knew he might come any day--that he'd make
trouble. But I didn't believe he'd get here so soon, I----"
"I'd given him up," she said.
"You! You _did_ know, then!"
"Quite a while ago."
"Knew what?" asked Marylyn, stopping her tears. Then, certain that there
was some awful secret behind it all, and that it was being kept from
her, she began to cry again.
Dallas soothed her, and explained.
"Do you know when Matthews' six months is up?" Lounsbury inquired.
"To-night, at twelve."
"To-night! Well, we've got to keep him off. He may try to establish
residence in a wickie-up."
"But hasn't he a right? Can't he----"
"He hasn't, and he can't. And if he comes this way after midnight, I'll
fix _him_ for trespassing!" He laughed.
"I wish you wouldn't go to the Fort, though. You've heard dad--you know
how he feels."
"I wouldn't go if I didn't have to. But the temperature's falling. By
sundown, they'll begin changing the sentries at Brannon every hour. No
one man could stay out even half the night. And this shack has to be
guarded till morning. I must get someone to relieve me."
"I suppose you're right," she said reluctantly.
He brought the horse about. "Is there anything I can do before I go?" he
asked.
"No. We've got everything but wood, and Charley brings us that."
"Charley," repeated Lounsbury. "Who's Charley?"
She told him.
He seemed relieved. "I'll look that Indian up," he said, and raised his
hand to his cap.
From the road, he looked round. Despite the distance, he could see that
the girls were where he had left them, and Marylyn's head was once more
pressed against her sister. The sight made him writhe in his saddle, and
wish he were as old as the river-bluffs themselves, that he might go
back and protect them. As he descended to the ice their two faces rose
before him: One, pretty and pale, with the soft roundness of a child's,
the blue eyes filled with all a child's terror and entreaty; the other,
pale, too,--though upon it there still lingered the brown of the summer
sun--but firm of outline, its crown a heavy coil of braids, its centre,
eyes that were brave, steadfast, compelling.
The first picture blurred in remembering the second. "God bless her!" he
murmured. "To think she knew all the time, and never cheeped!"
At the shack, Dallas, too, was pondering--over a strange contrariety:
Their home was in danger, perhaps their very lives. Yet the day had
fulfilled its promise of the morning--it was the happiest in her life!
* * * * *
The ramshackle ferry-boat was firmly wedged in a dry-dock of ice on the
western side of the Missouri. As Lounsbury passed it, with his horse
following pluckily in spread-eagle fashion, he shouted for Old Michael.
But long before the river had floored, when it was edging and covering
only in the least swift places, the pilot had made his final crossing,
run the wheezy steamer, nose-in, against the bank, and deserted her. So
the storekeeper received no answering halloo. He was disappointed. It
was desirable to embroil as few as possible in the Lancaster dispute.
Old Michael, already a factor, was needed to act the picket--to fire a
warning signal if Matthews left Shanty Town.
A substitute was found at the stables. The storekeeper, as he rushed
away after disposing of his mount, came upon Lieutenant Fraser, busily
roaching his own riding-animal, a flighty buckskin cayuse that no one
else cared to handle, and that was affectionately known in barracks as
the "She-devil." The men had met before, around the billiard-table at
the sutler's, and Lounsbury had set the young officer down for a
chivalrous, but rather chicken-hearted, youngster, who had chosen his
profession unwisely. So, his story told, the storekeeper was altogether
surprised at Fraser's spirited enthusiasm and quick response.
"I've nothing to do, old man," he said, as they went toward the
parade-ground. "I can help as well as not. So just take your time. I'll
watch for you."
"I hardly think our man'll show his nose before dark. But I can't leave
the way open----"
"Don't fret."
They parted at the flag-pole, the West Pointer going down to the river,
and Lounsbury hurrying off in the opposite direction.
Colonel Cummings' entry and reception-room were crowded when the
storekeeper entered. A score of officers were standing about in little
groups, talking excitedly. But Lounsbury was too anxious and distraught
to notice anything unusual. He hurried up to a tall, sad-faced man whose
moustache, thin and coarse, drooped sheer over his mouth, giving him the
look of a martyred walrus.
"Can I see the K. O., Captain Oliver?" he asked. "It's important."
"I'll find out," answered the captain. "But I don't believe you can.
He's up to his ears." He disappeared into the next room.
Lounsbury bowed to several officers, though he scarcely saw them. He
heard Oliver's low voice, evidently announcing him, then the colonel's.
"Yes, bring him in," cried the latter. "Maybe he'll know."
The storekeeper entered without waiting. Colonel Cummings stood in the
centre of the room. It was the room known as his library, in compliment
to a row of dog-eared volumes that had somehow survived many a wet
bivouac and rough march. But it resembled a museum. In the corners, on
the walls beneath the bulky heads of buffalo and the branching antlers
of elk, there were swords, tomahawks, bows and arrows, strings of glass
wampum, cartridge belts, Indian bonnets, drums and shields, and a
miscellany of warlike odds and ends. To-day, the room was further
littered by maps, which covered the table, the benches, and the whole
length of an army cot. Over one of these hung the colonel, making
imaginary journeys with the end of a dead cigar.
He turned swiftly to Lounsbury, and caught him by the shoulders. "John,"
he said, before the other could speak, "I need an interpreter. You've
been about here for years--do you know one?"
"There's Soggy, that Phil Kearney fellow----"
The colonel gave a grunt of disgust. "In jail at Omaha," he said.
"Played cards with a galoot who had some aces in his boot-tops. Plugged
him."
"What's the matter with your Rees?"
"That's just it! You see, that bunch of Sioux out there"--he jerked his
head toward the stockade--"helped in a bit of treachery two summers ago.
Rounded up some friendly Rees at a dance and scalped 'em. So--there's
poison for you! In this business on hand I couldn't trust even my head
scout." He began pacing the floor. "Anyway, sign language, when there
are terms to be made and kept, isn't worth a hang!"
"I wish I could suggest a man," said Lounsbury. "Fact is, Colonel, I'm
terribly worried myself. I came to ask you for help in some trouble----"
The old soldier threw up his hands. "Trouble!" he cried. "Why I'm simply
daft with it! Look at that!" He pointed to the farthest side of the
room.
It was dimly lighted there. Lounsbury stepped forward and peered
down--then recoiled, as startled as if he had happened upon something
dead. On the floor was a man--a man whose back was bent rounding, and
whose arms and legs were hugged up against his abdomen and chest. Torso
and limbs were alike, frightfully shrunken; the hands, mere claws.
Lounsbury could not see the face. But the hair was uncovered, and it was
the hair that made him "goose-flesh" from head to heel. It was
white--not the white of old age, with glancing tints of silver or
yellow--but the dead white of an agony that had withered it to the
roots. Circling it, and separating the scalp from the face and neck, ran
a narrow fringe that was still brown, as if, changing in a night, it had
lacked full time for completion.
Lounsbury could not take his eyes from the huddled shape. Colonel
Cummings paused beside him. "This morning," he said, speaking in an
undertone, "a sentry signalled from beyond the barracks. Two or three
men took guns and ran out. They found this. His clothes were stiff with
ice. He was almost frozen, though he had been travelling steadily. He
was utterly worn out, and was crawling forward on his hands and knees."
The ragged sleeves and trousers, stained darker from the wounds on
elbows and knees, were mute testimony. "He couldn't see," continued the
colonel. "He was snow-blind. They laid him out on a drift and rubbed
him. The surgeon did the rest. He begged to see me. They brought him in,
and he told his story. It's an old one--you've heard it. But it's always
new, too. This is Frank Jamieson, a young----"
As he heard his name, the man stirred, straightened his legs and let
fall his arms. He looked up.
"Young!" gasped Lounsbury. "Good God!" The face was aged like the hair!
Jamieson struggled weakly to his feet, using the wall to brace him.
Colonel Cummings hastened across and lent the support of an arm. "No,
no," he protested. "You mustn't talk. You're too weak."
But Jamieson did not heed. "You an interpreter?" he asked in a rasping
whisper.
"You're too weak----"
"No, I ain't; no, I ain't. If he'll go with us, I'm strong enough--why,
I shovelled snow on the special to Bismarck--that's how they let me
ride--and skating home I didn't stop to rest----"
"Yes, yes, my boy, we know."
"I walked and walked--straps broke--I forgot to tell you--that's why I
had to. But it didn't do any good--it didn't do any good! When I got
there----" As if to shut out some terrible sight, he screened his eyes
with one palsied hand, and sank back limply into Colonel Cummings' arms.
Lounsbury swept the cot clean of maps, and they laid him there.
"His father was dead," said the commanding officer; "dead--and naked,
scalped, mutilated, full of arrows and rifle balls. The house and barns
were burned."
"Any women?"
"Two--gone."
Jamieson put out his arms. "My mother!" he cried imploringly. "My poor
little mother!"
Lounsbury knelt beside him, feeling shaken and half sick.
"If I could only 'a' been there! But I was 'way off at St. Paul. I knew
something was wrong when the letters stopped."
"But you must buck up, Jamieson," said the colonel, "so you can help
us."
"I will, oh, I will."
"How'd you get down here?" asked Lounsbury.
"I didn't eat for a long time. I was crazy. The snow blinded me, and I
was hungry. But I didn't leave the river--I knew enough for that--they
found me."
"You think the women are alive, Colonel?" asked the storekeeper.
"Undoubtedly, and with the other half of the very band we've got
here--somewhere up in the Big Horn country." He took a turn up and down
the room.
"May I ask your plan?"
"We are in fine shape to talk terms to the captors. I'll send a command
to them, demanding the women. If they are not surrendered, I'll hang
four of the redskins I've got here, Lame Foot, the medicine-man, and
Chiefs Standing Buffalo, Canada John, and Shoot-at-the-Tree--all
ringleaders. Then the rest of the band will be put on a reservation. If
the Jamieson women are alive, and they send 'em in, I won't hang the
chiefs."
"When'll the command start?"
"Three hours after we get an interpreter. I've sent word up to Custer at
Lincoln. But the delay! Think what it means to those women!"
"It was about two women that I wished to speak," said Lounsbury. He felt
apologetic, however, the one danger was so trifling beside the other.
Colonel Cummings listened. "Those girls had better come here," he said,
as the storekeeper finished. "Then they'd be safe enough. I remember
seeing one of 'em the day we got back. She was a fine-looking young
woman."
"There are two arguments against their coming, sir. For legal reasons,
it's best they should not vacate the shack or leave the claim."
"I see."
"And, again, the father is--well, he's rather sore about the war."
"You don't say!"
"So, if you could give me a couple of men to take my place now and then
during the night--the situation is temporary, you see, the father'll be
back in a few days."
"There are very strong reasons against my acting in the matter. I'm here
to keep an eye on Indians. The settlers are expected to go to the civil
authorities when they have quarrels. Now, I'd like to mix up with Shanty
Town, for instance. Our guard-room is jammed with men who've been
drugged over there with vile whisky. Yet I can't. I can only punish my
men."
"I know that's so."
"Of course, I shan't see defenceless women suffer----"
Lounsbury was piqued. "Not altogether defenceless, Colonel. But I can't
stay at the shack----"
"True, true. Why not ask Mrs. Martin, Major Appleton's sister, to go
over. Then you might guard from the barn, if they have one."
"That's a splendid suggestion, sir. It would solve the difficulty."
"I'd be glad to speak to Mrs. Martin about it." He thought a moment,
passing a hand over his clean-shaven face. "You'd have to be relieved
even then, John, I should think."
"Not at all."
"But you might. In that case----" He drew Lounsbury close, and spoke
with his lips to the storekeeper's ear. "But you understand," he said
aloud as he concluded, "that I know nothing about it. If I hear of it, I
shall be very displeased, _very_."
Lounsbury was wringing his hand, and ready to bolt.
"All the same, John, I wish the civil authorities could get at the man."
"I wish so, too." He leaned over Jamieson.
"Good luck!" said Colonel Cummings, going back to his maps.
"Thank you."
And just at that moment, as Lounsbury swung round on his heel, there
rang out from the river a single pistol-shot. It echoed sharply against
the barracks and went dying away upon the bluffs.