THE SPIRIT OF THE FRONTIER
A broken crutch lying close to the shack on the river side, a
blood-bespattered pane in the window just above, a rifle ball, embedded
deep at a gun's length beyond the pane--these were the traces that, on
the following morning, gave an inkling of a deadly clash.
Squaw Charley found them, when the day was yet so young that no human
eyes, save those of an Indian, could have used its scanty light. Four
raps upon the warped door had brought no answer. Loudly repeated, they
had set the wooden latch to shaking lonesomely. Mistrustful, he had
entered and groped about the dark room. Table and benches were in place.
The blankets hung before the bunk. To one side, rolled up neatly, was
the mattress upon which Dallas and Marylyn slept. But nothing else met
his expectant hand and foot. Next, he had visited the lean-to, where he
felt his way carefully from stall to stall, discovering no occupant.
Then, he had gone out to pry around the yard. And lit upon the marks
that told of the struggle.
The absence of the wagon was a clue. He stole along the out-going
tracks, between which, small, circular and clearly stamped, were the
hoof-prints of two mules. Near the coulee-crossing, the tracks ran into
others, and fresher ones, that diverged sharply into the corn. The
hoof-prints between these pointed eastward. He forsook the out-going
and turned back across the field.
At first, the course of the wagon puzzled. After veering north until the
canyon yawned, the team had made along the brink, keeping perilously
near it; farther on, at the upper end of the plowed strip, the direction
abruptly changed. The mules had swung out to the right upon the open
prairie, travelling straight for the middle of the gap. So far they had
gone at a furious gallop. Now, however, they slowed to a walk. When the
course no longer puzzled. To and fro, it wended, this way for a few
feet, then, the other--proof that Ben and Betty had fed.
The Squaw halted. The horizon was faintly yellow. Upon it was a moving
black object, which presently took the clearer form of a wagon and span.
He set off, his loose hair whipping at his back. The team was also
travelling rapidly. Behind was a reddish follower that lowed in protest
of the speed.
When the mules came by, Dallas was standing at the dashboard, plying the
lash. Her face was ashen, her eyes were hollow. She did not see the
Indian, for her gaze was upon the shack. He swung himself into the
rattling box. There lay Marylyn, still in the grasp of the stupor that
had bound them, brain and body, through the night.
Before the mules brought up at the lean-to, Dallas was over a wheel and
tottering in quest of her father. Out of the shack, as she searched it,
sounded her plaintive cry: "Daddy! daddy! where are you? Oh, Daddy!
_daddy!_ come back!"
Squaw Charley, bringing Marylyn in, found the elder girl kneeling
behind the partition, her arms thrown out to grasp the vacant bunk.
He put his load down gently; then, unbidden, rushed through the door for
Brannon.
When Captain Oliver arrived, with Fraser, a surgeon and a detachment of
mounted men, Dallas was seated in the doorway, rocking Marylyn against
her breast. She looked up, dry-eyed, as he hurried to her.
"What'd they do it for?" she asked him, brokenly. "How could they hurt
you, dad? Oh, the land wasn't worth it! the land wasn't worth it!"
Something to quicken life in Marylyn was the first thought. Then, food
and drink were given the girls. Meanwhile, the troopers were sent out
under Fraser to range the bend and beat the coulee.
Oliver stayed. But to his questions, Dallas, her reason tottering like
her steps, could only return others that were heartrending:
"He'll come back, won't he? They wouldn't kill him? Oh, you don't think
he's dead?"
"We'll find him," said the captain. He was pitiful in his regret. This
tragedy was striking home to him as even the Jamieson failure had not.
His long, sad face was more like a walrus' than ever.
"Mr. Bond said we'd have good luck here," she went on despairingly. "But
there _was_ danger by night, wasn't there? There _was_ danger!"
"She's knocked silly," Oliver murmured to the surgeon. "The child
doesn't know what she's saying."
"You're right. Clean blunted," was the answer. "But I'll straighten 'em
both out by noon."
A long halloo summoned the captain to the door. A group of men were
gathered in the swale between the shack and Shanty Town. Fraser was
among them. Oliver signalled, and the young officer wheeled and came
galloping in.
"What is it?"
"Old man's gun, discharged, out there in the grass----"
"Yes?"
"And two sets of footprints coming and going across that bit of low
ground. One set looks about two days old, and was made by boots. Other
is newer, and made by moccasins."
"Ah!"
"There's something strange about these last: Coming this way, the marks
are so light you can hardly see 'em; going back, they're sunk way down."
"Carried a load, eh?"
"It looks like it." Oliver mounted, and they rode off to the swale.
Noon was past when the captain called at the shack again. He found the
surgeon gone, but his promise fulfilled: Food and medicine had gone far
to revive his patients physically; tears had mercifully combined with
returning strength to right their minds.
This time, the elder girl met Oliver with no incoherence, but with brave
quiet. All her self-command had returned. She asked him in, and showed a
tender forethought for Marylyn by sending her out into the sunshine and
the garden before she listened to what he had to tell. When he was done,
she began her story with the finding of the pole.
"Redskins!" he exclaimed.
"Boot-marks were around it, though," she said.
"You are sure? I wish your father had asked my advice. I feel as if I
had come short in my duty."
"Please don't," she entreated. "You see, we thought we could tend to
it--long's we knew who it was."
He turned astonished eyes upon her. "Knew!" he exclaimed. "Well, for
Heaven's sake out with it, then!"
"Matthews--he wanted the land."
"The interpreter! But last night's tracks were made by moccasins.
There's one Indian free----"
She let him get no further. "It's not Charley," she declared. "Matthews
meant us to think it was Indians. Moccasins are easy to get."
"That's true." He frowned. "Hm!--Well, I shall inquire into his
whereabouts during the last two days." And the captain fell to studying
the figures on the Navajos.
Outside, Lieutenant Fraser was passing the shack. He rode on to the
cornfield, where he flung himself off his horse.
"Marylyn! Marylyn!" he said tremblingly. "You poor girl! I'm so
sorry--What can I say? It's my fault."
She lifted a scared face to his. "No, it's mine," she answered; "if I'd
told Dallas about you, we'd never 'a' gone to Clark's----"
"Thank goodness you did! But if your father had known about me--if I
could have come to the house. I must after this. We'll tell your sister
about us now. Come on."
She shrank back in sudden fright. "No, no. Don't you see? She'd think it
was awful I didn't say something yesterday!"
"Why didn't you, Marylyn?"
She looked down. "You don't know Dallas. She don't like soldiers any
more'n pa. She said so, and she'd----"
"Oh, I think she does," he argued. "Now, let's try her--let's make a
clean breast of it."
Her hands came out in wild imploring. "You won't, you won't, you
_won't_," she begged. "Don't you understand?--my keeping still was just
as if I'd killed pa! Oh, it was! So I _can't_ tell--_now_!"
"Marylyn----"
"Promise you won't, oh, promise you won't!" And she went down, crumpling
into a little, miserable heap.
Quickly, he lifted her. "Well, we won't tell her then, not if you don't
want to--but we'll have to some day."
"Some day--maybe--but _not now_."
"All right, then--not now." He led her from garden to coulee and back
again, trying to comfort her all the while as best he could.
"You see, Marylyn," he said, "you're wrong about its being your fault.
It's mine. I promised Lounsbury I'd look after you folks."
She stopped short. "Did you tell him about you and me?"
"No."
"Oh." She was relieved. "You mustn't, either. Not him, or anyone."
"I don't see how I can ever look Lounsbury in the face again," he said
bitterly.
Whereupon, she straightway began to comfort him.
At the shack, Oliver and Dallas had arrived at the question of future
safety.
"I must insist," the captain was saying, "upon your coming to live at
the Fort. I cannot spare a permanent guard for this side of the river--a
scouting party up and down once a day is about the best I could do. We
have our hands full already."
"Live at the Fort----" Her lips tightened a little. She got up to walk.
She was thinking of the cold stares, the "Ahs," the "Ohs," and the
laughter of the post ladies in their bowling ambulance; the nudges and
the grins of the passing musicians; and "There's allus room at the Fort
when there's good-lookin' gals in the fambly."
She shook her head.
"You love your sister," he reminded. "Think of her."
"I _am_ thinking of her. I'd go to the Fort if there was danger.
But--answer me honest--outside of what's happened here, do you think
there's really any danger?"
"From Indians, you mean? Well, I'll tell you--this _was_ a complete
surprise, a shock to me. Because so far we haven't seen a sign of the
hostiles beyond that signal in the spring. North of here, at Lincoln,
they've shown themselves. But they're largely concentrated in the
northwest, to meet the troops."
"Then, there's no danger from Indians."
"Still, there might be, and I want you to come. Frankly, I've omitted to
tell you of one disquieting report that has reached us. After the recent
battle on the Rosebud, one of the warriors of Crazy Horse was captured
by General Crook. The prisoner said that within a day's ride to the west
of here, our--and your--aged friend----"
She stopped him, lifting her hands to her face. "Not him!" she
whispered; "not _him_! Oh, he was so good to us, Captain!"
Oliver sighed. "I fear it's so--yet it's only a report."
Some time went by. Meanwhile, she walked about the room in silence. Her
lips were trembling.
"You'll come?" he said.
"When you're sure"--she spoke with difficulty--"the Indians are going to
make trouble, I will. But--but I think I'd rather stay. I made dad a
promise once--I'd hate to break it--_now_."
"Your father didn't like us, I understand. I'm sorry. And of course you
feel that you should keep your promise to him. Well, I can send a convoy
with you to Bismarck."
"We haven't a cent. You see, I'm counting a heap on my garden."
"Oh, we would get something together for you."
She flinched. "No, I wouldn't like that. And dad'd hate it worse than if
I broke the promise. Besides, I'm going to pay back B Troop."
"B Troop! My troop? What do you owe B Troop?"
"Why, B Troop's been sending us its surplus rations."
"You sure?"
"Well, the sutler said so."
"I think there's a mistake. B Troop has had no surplus rations."
"Had no----" she began, amazed.
"Must have been the sutler's own stuff."
"But he wrote----" From between the leaves of a book on the mantel, she
produced a folded paper.
"Or someone else's," went on Oliver.
She had been about to hand him Blakely's letter. Now, as if struck by an
idea, she put it back into the book. When she turned, her eyes were
swimming.
"It likely _was_ 'someone else,'" she said.
"God bless you anyway! To think of such a thing in the midst of your
worry! Even if you did owe B Troop, it would vote you its full rations,
and be proud to go hungry. Please think again about Bismarck for the
summer."
"I can't give up the claim, Captain. I want to know what happened--I
want to be here if--if dad comes back."
"But aren't you forgetting that, Indians or no Indians, there's danger
from this secret enemy?"
"Secret enemy," she echoed; "secret enemy. Go to Bismarck is just the
thing he wants to see us do. You heard what he did in the winter? Well,
he came again yesterday. He saw the wagon leave, and he thought it was a
good chance to move in."
"Move in?" rejoined Oliver. "If that was all, why did he bother about
moccasins?"
"You're right," she cried. "He meant to kill!"
And now as if some great hidden spring of feeling had been touched, she
came round upon the officer, defiant, resolute and undaunted.
"Maybe I'd 'a' gone before--I'd go this minute for Indians. But that
man!--he's had his price for this claim, he's had his price! Now, the
Bend belongs to _me_--and I'm going to stay."
The captain bent toward her. "Too risky, too risky, Miss Lancaster," he
advised, "unless we get the man. For how could you ever do any outside
work----"
Dallas interrupted, intrepid spirit ringing in her voice.
"Get him or not, I'll stick it out all the same. And my outside
work--I'll plow and I'll plant just like I used to. But _this_ time,
I'll do it with a gun!"