THE SMOKING MOUNTAIN
Medicine Mountain was a volcano. Out of its rocky summit and into the
quiet air of the May morning was rising a straight, blue column of
smoke.
A flag wigwagged from the southern lookout station to herald the
phenomenon, and in a moment the post was agog. Keen-sighted scouts
hurried to points of vantage, where they studied the mounting plume.
Far-reaching glasses were trained amid lively surmise from the galleries
fronting the parade. While at barracks, blocking the windows and
thronging the porch, the eager troopers gossiped and craned.
But in the stockade interest reached its highest pitch. Braves, squaws,
and children were strung along the upper end of the enclosure,
breathlessly watching the vapour-thread. Each swarthy face had dropped
the mask of listlessness; each figure was rooted. Not an eye forsook a
straight line to the belching mountain-top.
For full three minutes, the distant fire sent up a steady pillar. Then,
fort and stockade saw that pillar suddenly wobble, as if caught in the
vagaries of a fitful breeze--saw it wobble, thicken, break, and
disappear; when the butte again stood, a jagged tooth, against the sky.
Above it, innocently white, floated a hand's breadth of cloud.
And now the trumpet rang. Obeying it, two detachments mounted. One
spurred away down-river, keeping close in the lee of the bluffs. The
other boarded the ferry and was landed at the cut north of Shanty Town,
from where it made toward the Norwegian's. Behind, an envious, but
feverishly happy, garrison set about putting an extra polish on its
arms. The grass was too short for a war-pony. Active duty had not been
expected within the month. Yet the time of dreary waiting was up at
last. For here, within striking distance, were the hostile reds!
The warriors in the stockade knew better. Like so many whipped dogs,
they were scattered to cover, there to hide their bitter chagrin. No
war-party was come to harry Brannon, to lure the troopers into battle,
to free the captive village. A lone Indian--the looked-for
messenger--had fanned that signal-fire on the mountain. And, by a wave
of his blanket, he had told them evil news!
To Colonel Cummings, the seeming early boldness of the enemy gave an
inkling of what might be expected later on--in the summer--when there
would be good grazing, and a smaller force at the post. Already he
feared for the safety of the settlers living within sight of the
garrison flag. The detachment landed at the cut was ordered to warn two
of them. The third was Evan Lancaster. To him the commanding officer
sent David Bond.
But it was Dallas whom the evangelist sought. He found her at work upon
the plowed strip, cross-dragging it in preparation for the planting of
the corn. As she drove up and down, she walked hatless in the sun. Her
hair was down, and hung forward in two braids. She wore the snug jersey
that had been her mother's. Her skirt was tucked up, back and front, to
be out of the way. It disclosed no red flannel petticoat, however.
Not far away was Simon, a starling riding him to gobble the greenheads
as they bit. The bull was revolving sulkily on his picket-rope, and
shedding his long winter coat upon the new grass. In deference to his
inborn dislike, Dallas was wearing an underskirt of blue.
Though the evangelist had never seen her trudging behind the mules, he
had often spoken of it pityingly. Yet, as he came toward her now, he
felt only an unbounded pride--in her unselfishness, and in her brave
efforts to wrest a living from the soil.
"A splendid Ruth," he murmured, advancing, "a splendid Ruth, toiling in
the fields!"
Seeing him, she gave a swift, troubled glance at the shack. Then,
avoiding his eyes, and without speaking, she pulled up Ben and Betty and
held out a hand.
When he took it, the pride of a moment before changed to compassion. He
remembered that he must tell her what would alarm. For in her face he
saw the traces of many a sleepless night, and of a sapping worry.
"Daughter, you are ill!" he declared, and kept a tight hold on her
fingers.
"No, there ain't anything the matter with me. Only"--still avoiding his
eyes, she turned to survey the harrowed land--"only, I'm some put out.
This sod----"
"Never mind the sod," he said gravely. "I want to ask--did you see the
mountain?" He loosed her fingers, and pointed an arm to the south.
She laughed, following his pointing. "Yes, I did. Looks as if claims
_are_ getting scarce, don't it? When a nester has to file up there!"
Midway between shack and butte was an ox-team that had been travelling
to and fro across a quarter-section since dawn. The team was now at a
stand, and their driver was slouching against his plow. Beyond him were
several galloping dots.
"And you saw the cavalry?" said David Bond.
She assented.
"One word will tell you what it means, Dallas. It's Indians!"
She showed no sign of disquiet. Presently, when she had thought over the
announcement, she turned round to him, frankly meeting his gaze for the
first time. "That's funny," she said. "Why, last year, all the way up
from Texas, there wasn't an Indian bothered us!"
"Last summer, before you came, the soldiers at Brannon did not dare go
more than a mile outside the lines to hunt. It will be the same this
summer. There is that stockade full of prisoners, and four of them are
condemned to be hanged. Before long the Indians will be circling the
post."
She looked away at the ox-team. They were being taken from the plow and
put to a wagon.
Then, again, she turned squarely. "What about Shanty Town?" she said
with meaning.
He understood. "Shanty Town goes when the troops go.
But"--hesitatingly--"Matthews does not. He will stay at Brannon to act
as interpreter."
"He will!" she said, and coloured.
He coloured, too, feeling himself reproved. But from under the wide,
battered felt that had supplanted the nubia, his eyes shone with no
resentment, only fatherly tenderness.
"You wonder why I do not remain," he began, "so that Matthews could be
sent away. I shall tell you."
She let the reins fall to the drag. "That isn't it," she answered
quickly. "We have no right to ask you to do anything after the way dad
treated you. But the Colonel sent you over to tell us to look out.
Didn't he? And he keeps a man over there--pays him to stay--and that man
is a sight worse than an Indian!"
"I could have that man dismissed," he said slowly. "Please let me tell
you why I don't. In the first place, the Indians are beginning to act
badly--very badly. They are invading Crow territory, and stealing from
peaceful bands. They are molesting whites wherever they can find them,
and murdering. So we can judge that there will be hard fighting. For the
troops will seek to pay them up.
"Oh, Dallas, how I pray to see trouble stop! I am going to the Indians.
I know their leaders--have known them for ten years or more. I shall ask
them to consider the good of their squaws and children and property, and
ask them to accept reservation life. If they won't, I shall beg a few of
them to come in with me and at least talk treaty.
"That is the first reason for my going. The second is the Jamiesons. If
I find those poor women, and tell their captors that the four chiefs
here are in danger, I know mother and daughter will be handed over to
me----"
"You're right! You can save them!"
"God bless you for saying that! It won't be pleasant with Matthews
here----"
"But you must go. Never mind about Matthews."
"I cannot go without being satisfied that you and Marylyn will be safe.
The Colonel said----"
"The Colonel," she interrupted. Then, half resentfully, "Did the women
folk send any word?"
He was mildly surprised. "N-n-no," he answered, "they didn't, but----"
She laughed, and picked up the reins.
"Well, dad'll never leave this quarter," she said decisively, "if
_that's_ what the Colonel wants."
The evangelist shook his head. "'Thou dwellest in the midst of a
rebellious house,'" he quoted sadly. "Now, if you come to the Fort to
live----"
"Matthews could move into the shack."
"Hardly that, with the backing you have. The boys at the post would
never see Matthews take your home. Believe me, as long as you and your
father care to live here, you can. Public opinion over there"--he
pointed to Brannon--"is strong in your favour. And there is Lounsbury,
too. Why, that man is helpless."
She averted her face.
"So you will lose nothing by coming to the Fort," he persisted, "while
you may save a great deal--your lives!"
"Dad will never go to the Fort. He hates 'em like poison."
"Yes--yes--he's foolish and stiffnecked. For such is punishment meted
out. See!" The ox-team was travelling toward them, prodded by the
driver.
They stood in silence for a while.
"Then, go to Bismarck," urged David Bond, finally. "Stay there until the
autumn."
"Live on what?" she asked.
From a hind pocket he slowly brought forth a narrow buckskin pouch, tied
with a thong. He opened it, and emptied a handful of coins upon a palm.
"This is only a little," he said apologetically. "But it will help.
And--you must think first of your safety."
"I can't take it," she said, her voice all gentleness. "Even if I
did--what about next winter? I must stay and raise things. Don't you
see?"
"At Bismarck you would have a double market, Dallas. There is Fort
Lincoln, and the town."
"I'd--I'd have to plow new ground," she went on. "And--we'd have to
build again, and dig another well----"
"There are men in Bismarck who----"
Suddenly she lowered her voice and stepped nearer. "That's just the
reason dad wouldn't go there," she said. "We'd be close to town. We'd
have to meet folks. Here, he keeps away from the Fort, and you, and Mr.
Lounsbury--everyone but Charley."
"Oh--oh--oh," breathed the evangelist, helplessly.
"Now, you know. It's no use. I don't complain. But, he's fastened to the
Bend with a diamond hitch!"
"Now, I know!" David Bond exclaimed.
A halloo sounded from the shack. Facing that way they saw the
section-boss. He was standing just outside the door, balanced on one
crutch. The other he was thrusting angrily at the ground.
"You see!" said Dallas. "You see! And he can't help it. Poor dad!"
The evangelist groaned and held out a hand. "Dear girl," he said, "it is
good-by. God keep you all, and God help me! I see truly that you are
tied; that I can do no good. The Colonel will surely take care that you
are protected. Lounsbury and Charles will watch. I must go with that
comforting knowledge. My love to Marylyn--Good-by."
She steadied her voice to answer. "I watch," she said. "I don't sleep
well, so it's easy. If they heard a gun at Brannon----"
He raised his hand to bless her. Then, without speaking again, walked
slowly away. She unhooked the tugs and headed the mules for home.
"Wal," called her father, sarcastically, as she approached, "what's thet
ol' sniffler want? Is day aft' t'morrow th' en' o' th' world?"
She ignored his questions, and told him of the warning.
Instantly, his anger rose. Planting himself before her, he shook a
finger close to her face. "So th' Kunnel's tryin' t' skeer us, is he?"
he demanded. "Tryin' t' git us t' come in an' leave th' Ben'.
Wal!--ain't we right under his nose? Kain't he watch out fer us? W'at's
he here fer? W'at's he paid fer?"
Then, riding in on the tide of his wrath, came dark suspicion. "An'
w'at's he so crazy t' git us away fer?" he queried. "Yah! yah! Ah'd like
t' know--Ah do know! He's got thet low-down card-sharp of a Matthews fer
his interpreter. He knows thet card-sharp wants this lan'. _Thet's_ his
game! _An' he kain't fool me!_"
"Maybe, maybe," said Dallas, leaving him to stand beside Marylyn. "But,
of course, dad, we mustn't forget that he's warned the other folks on
this side, too."
Her father glared at her. "You takin' his part, _ain't_ y'?" he said.
"M-m-m! how's thet? Are _you_ so all-fired anxious t' git t' Brannon?"
"No, dad, I'll never go to Brannon. Never! never! If I did, you, my
father, oughtn't t' misunderstand it."
He quailed before her vehemence, and hobbled shamefacedly toward the
door. "O' course, if th' Injuns come----" he began.
"They won't." She drew Marylyn to her. "And if they do, a shot'll bring
help."
He was in the doorway, now. "W'y," he cried, "here's thet fool Norwegian
goin' t' th' landin'. Wal, he is pritty shy on sand!"
"We'll be killed if the Indians come, Dallas." It was Marylyn,
whispering up fearfully to her sister.
"We'll be careful, honey. Keep away from the coulee after this. Walk
toward Brannon, always."
Dallas spent the afternoon out of doors, where everything spoke of
peace. Not even a hand's breadth of cloud floated upon the sky. The air
was warm, and fragrant with the new growth. Magpies chattered by. The
bobolinks sent up their hearty song.
When she left off work, she saw the settler from the "little bend" drive
by with his wife and children. Going home, she found her father cleaning
and caressing the Sharps. But in her ability to sense danger, as in her
love of the gloaming, Dallas was like a wild thing. And she felt not the
slightest disquiet.