A WILD WEST PERFORMANCE
“Oh, Doris, darling! how can I bear it? The very meanest,
disappointingest thing that ever happened in this world! Oh, oh!” and
poor Sin threw herself face downward on the grass in Doctor Brown’s back
yard and sobbed tumultuously. All of her friend’s blandishments were of
no effect, and she remained dead to the world until Scotty’s cold nose
poked inquisitively into her ear aroused her at last. Springing to her
feet, she rebuked him with energy, and only then consented to retail her
woes.
“Buffalo Bill’s coming to Westwood next week, and will you believe it,
mother won’t take me! Says it’s too hot, and circuses and such things
always give her a headache. And you know it’s been the _dream of my life_
to see Buffalo Bill! There now, Doris Brown, see if you wouldn’t cry!”
“Um, um,” was all Doris said, for she was a maid of action rather than of
many words. The case, as it seemed to her, was by no means hopeless, but
she reserved her judgment.
Having had her cry out and relieved her feelings, Cynthia was soon
engaged in a boisterous game with Sir Walter and an old tennis-ball
that he had rooted out of some hiding-place or other, while canny Doris
slipped into the house and shortly returned with a plate full of Mother
Brown’s famous raisin cookies, and a piece of news that quite electrified
her impulsive friend.
“Mother says, if your mother’ll let you go with us, she’ll take a party
to Westwood to the matinee—you an’ me an’ Stella an’ Ethan an’ Miss
Morrison too, if she wants to go,” she calmly stated.
And so it fell out that on the appointed Saturday afternoon in July, a
radiantly happy party of six occupied seats in the big tent; the three
girls looking their prettiest in simple white frocks, Ethan solemn as an
owl in glasses and a natty linen suit, and good Mrs. Brown sweltering in
the inevitable black dress of village propriety, but all alike absorbed
in the stirring spectacle.
The Rough Riders of all nations and costumes; the wonderful
rifle-shooting of the short-skirted, sombreroed cow-girl, the
hair-raising hold-up of the ancient stage-coach—each and all yielded a
separate thrill; but of course the best of all were the Indians—real,
painted, plumed, ferocious warriors and daring horsemen of the plains!
Everybody drew a long breath when they galloped into the arena.
“Doesn’t it make you think of home?” whispered Cynthia to Stella, with
characteristic frankness speaking out what the others had only thought.
“Well, you see,” objected Yellow Star, “our men all dress like farmers
now, and ’most all wear their hair short. _I_ never saw anything like
this before—except once on a Fourth of July, when some white people paid
our Indians to dress up and give a war-dance.”
“But—but they used to dress this way?” faltered Sin, rather taken aback,
while the rest pricked up their ears.
“Well, not when they went to war, anyway. They wouldn’t want to be
bothered with all those fixings if they really had to ride far, or fight,
or anything like that. I think, myself, they only dressed up at councils
and dances, and maybe not quite so much, even then,” (with just a flicker
of a smile.) “I know one thing: lots of those beaded things are not
Sioux.”
“Not Sioux, my dear! Why, what do you mean?” wondered Mrs. Brown.
“You see, Mrs. Brown,” explained Stella, “most of these very men are
Sioux from our agency. I used to hear Father Waring and the agent talking
about the show people. There are men at home, and a few women, that have
been all over this country and in England and France and Germany. One of
them brought home a German wife who didn’t know a word of our language,
and he couldn’t speak German, either!
“Now, here they are, dressed up in all the beaded things they could make
or beg or borrow from some other tribe—not Sioux at all! To us, that
looks as if you wore a fireman’s boots and trousers and a priest’s
cassock and a soldier’s hat,” she suggested, with another little quirk
at the corners of the serious mouth, but subsided when she observed
that several people beside their own party were listening with evident
interest.
After the performance, four or five of the Indians passed out among the
audience, and as they approached the Laurel party, Yellow Star gazed
earnestly into their painted faces. She recognized several, but hesitated
to speak to these men, whom, as a modest young girl of her people, she
would not have thought of addressing at home, much as she longed to hear
again the dear accents of her mother tongue.
At last, however, there came a woman with a child on her back, in its
gorgeously beaded cradle, attracting the lion’s share of interest and
attention. Many gave the mother a bit of silver in return for the
privilege of a peep at its tiny face, or for one of the highly colored
photographs she offered. When she actually held one out to Yellow Star
among the rest, the girl couldn’t help murmuring, in the soft syllables
of their native Dakota:
“Oh, I am so glad to see you! Don’t you know me? I am from home, too; I
am The-One-who-was-left-Alive!”
The woman stared, then seized Stella’s hands eagerly and burst into a
flood of low-voiced dialect. The two unconsciously made a picture which
was thoroughly appreciated by several of the bystanders. The tall, slim
girl in her virginal white frock and modest hat, with the big, black bow
tying up her heavy braids of hair, stood glowing all over her expressive
face and quite forgetting her shyness, while the sad and rather stolid
countenance of the gaudily attired stranger softened and brightened
wonderfully at the sight of a friend.
“Oh, the dear baby!” cooed Yellow Star, presently, lifting a corner of
the shawl and looking closely at the little olive face. “But he doesn’t
look well!” she exclaimed, anxiously.
“He is sick for two days now, and I know not what to do, for we must
travel all time and it is so bad for him,” grieved the mother, looking
at her with the pleading black eyes of a hurt animal. “My husband, Young
Eagle, he say it is nothing; but me, I not like to dress him up and take
around for the white people to stare at when he is sick.”
“Take him back to your tent, now, or wherever you stay, and bring Young
Eagle to me. I will talk to him,” flashed Yellow Star, and she turned to
her party with an impulsive:
“I must go with her for a little while, please: she is my friend; she is
in trouble and among strangers.”
“I’ll go with you, dear,” put in Miss Morrison, quickly. “We will meet
you at the station, Mrs. Brown; or no—I must take an earlier train; but
there is time to go with Stella and the baby first—” and before any one
could speak they were all three lost in the crowd, followed by admiring
and envious glances from Cynthia and Doris, who fancied that a glimpse
behind the scenes must hold more of wonder and romance than all the rest.
Neither Stella nor her teacher was at the station when the others
arrived, and after a thorough search took the 5.40 train, remembering
that Miss Morrison had said something about an engagement, and having to
leave early, and in any case she would surely have kept Stella with her.
Great was the consternation, therefore, when they reached Laurel and
found that Mrs. Waring had seen or heard nothing of her “little girl,”
while a telephone message to Miss Morrison disclosed the fact that she
had been obliged to hurry away and leave Stella with her new-found
friends, who were to see that she met her party at the station in time
for the 5.40.
The long, hot, dusty day was sinking into twilight, and the precious waif
last seen with a travelling show, in a strange city twenty miles from
home! Miss Morrison was conscience-smitten, Lucy Waring in tears, in
which Cynthia and Doris were quite ready to join, and poor Mrs. Brown all
but overcome by this unexpected ending to their exciting day.
There was no train for Westwood that night. Of course, there were always
the telegraph and telephone, but no one knew just how to reach any
responsible person, or even whether the “Wild West” might not be already
on its way to Hartford or elsewhere. That, Miss Sophia said, was in all
probability the case.
“You may be sure,” she announced, with her usual cold precision, “that
the wretched child has run away with the show. What else could you
expect, indeed, after deliberately putting her in the way of temptation?
You will remember that I advised against it from the first. The sight
of the beads and feathers and all the rest of the savage finery was too
much for her, no doubt, and she will be exhibiting herself in them, if
possible, this very evening. Perhaps this painful incident may convince
you, my dear Lucy, that you can not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!”
After all, the only person to keep all his wits about him in this
emergency was Ethan Honey. That youth stopped to consult nobody, but
hastily recollecting that an express train for Westwood stopped at the
next town, three miles off, in twenty minutes, he felt in his pockets to
assure himself that he had just money enough for the fare, sprang on his
bicycle and was off. Breathless and dusty, he arrived barely in time to
turn the wheel over to the agent and board the express, which landed him
at eight o’clock in the evening, anxious, supperless and penniless, among
the flaring lights of the big town.