CHAPTER V.
A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME.
Yahka kelapie.
The snows had dropped a soft cloak over the Kootenai hills, and buriedthe valleys in great beds of crystallized down. Rachel's prophecy hadproven a true one, for the clouds that day had been a visiting-card fromwinter.
That day was two weeks gone now; so was Stuart's leave-taking, and atthe ranch life had dropped into the old lines, but with an impression ofbrightness lost. Miss Margaret had not yet got over the habit of turningquickly if anyone entered the room, and showing her disappointment in afrown when it was not the one looked for.
Aunty Luce declared she "nevah did see a chile so petted on one whowasn't no kin."
All of them discovered they had been somewhat "petted" on the genialnature. Again the evenings were passed with magazines or cards; duringhis stay they had revived the primitive custom of taking turns tellingstories, and in that art Stuart had proven himself a master, sometimesrecounting actual experiences of self or friends, again giving voice tosome remembered gem of literature; but, whatever the theme, it was givenlife, through the sympathetic tendencies of the man who had so much thetimber of an actor--or rather an artist--the spirit that tends toreproduce or create.
If Rachel missed him, she kept quiet about it, and ridiculed the rest ifany regrets came to her ears. No one minded that much; Rachel ridiculedeveryone--even herself. Sometimes she thought Fate seemed more thanwilling to help her. One night, two weeks after that ride from the"Place of the Tamahnous," she was struck with a new conviction of thefact.
Andrews had gone to Holland's for the mail and domestic miscellany. Alittle after sun-up he had started, and the darkness was three hoursold, and yet no sign or sound. The rest had finally given up the idea ofgetting any letters that night, and had gone to bed. As usual,Rachel--the night-owl of the family--was left the last guard at the warmhearth. Upstairs she could hear Jim's voice in the "boys'" room, tellingIvans some exploit whose character was denoted by one speech that madeits way through the ceiling of pine boards:
"Yes, sir; my horse left his'n half a length behind every time it hitthe ground."
Ivans grunted. Evidently he had listened to recitals from the samesource before, and was too tired for close attention; anyway, theremarks of this Truthful James drifted into a monologue, and finallyinto silence, and no sound of life was left in the house.
She had been reading a book Stuart had sent back to her by Hardy, theday he left. She wondered a little why, for he had never spoken of it toher. It was a novel, a late publication, and by an author whose name shehad seen affixed to magazine work; and the charm in it wasundeniable--the charm of quiet hearts and restful pictures, that provedthe writer a lover of the tender, sympathetic tones of life, rather thanthe storms and battles of human emotions.
It held the girl with a puzzling, unusual interest--one that in spite ofher would revert from the expressed thoughts on the paper to thepersonality of the man who had sent it to her, and she found in manyinstances, a mystifying likeness.
She sat there thinking drowsily over it, and filled with the convictionthat it was really time to go to bed; but the big chair was socomfortable, and the little simmer of the burning wood was like alullaby, and she felt herself succumbing, without the slightestrebellion, to the restful influence. She was aroused by the banging of adoor somewhere, and decided that Andrews had at last returned; andremembering the number of things he had to bring in, concluded to go outand help him. Her impulse was founded as much on economy as generosity,for the late hour was pretty good proof that Andrews was comfortablydrunk--also that breakages were likely to be in order.
It was cloudy--only the snow gave light; the air was not cold, but hadin it the softness of rain. Over it she walked quickly, fully awakenedby the thought of the coffee getting a bath of vinegar, or the mailmucilaged together with molasses.
"Oh, here you are at last!" she remarked, in that inane way people havewhen they care not whether you are here or in the other place. "You tookyour own time."
"Well, I didn't take any other fellow's!" returned the man from the darkcorner where he was unsaddling the horse.
Andrews was usually very obsequious to Miss Rachel, and she concluded hemust be pretty drunk.
"I came out to help you with the things," she remarked from her post inthe door-way; "where are they?"
"I've got 'em myself," came the gruff tones again from the corner. "Ireckon I'll manage without help. You'd better skip for the house--you'llcatch cold likely."
"Why, it isn't cold--are you? I guess Aunty left a lunch for you. I'llgo and warm the coffee."
She started, and then stopped.
"Say, did you get any letters for me?"
"No."
With a grumble about her ill-luck, she started back toward the house,the late arrival following a little ways behind with something over hisshoulder. Once she looked back.
"I rather think Andrews gets on dignified drunks," she soliloquized; "heis walking pretty straight, anyway."
She set the coffee-pot on the coals and glanced at the bundle he haddropped just inside the door--it was nothing but a blanket and a saddle.
"Well, upon my word!" she began, and rose to her feet; but she did notsay any more, for, in turning to vent her displeasure on Andrews, shewas tongue-tied by the discovery that it was not he who had followed herfrom the stable.
"Genesee!" she breathed, in a tone a little above a whisper. "Alah mikachahko!"
She was too utterly astonished either to move toward him or offer herhand; but the welcome in her Indian words was surely plain enough forhim to understand. It was just like him, however, not to credit it, andhe smiled a grim understanding of his own, and walked over to a chair.
"Yes, that's who it is," he remarked. "I am sorry, for the sake of yourhopes, that it isn't the other fellow; but--here I am."
He had thrown his hat beside him and leaned back in the big chair,shutting his eyes sleepily. She had never seen him look so tired.
"Tillikum, I am glad to see you again," she said, going to him andholding out her hand. He smiled, but did not open his eyes.
"It took you a long time to strike that trail," he observed. "Whatbrought you out to the stable?"
"I thought you were Andrews, and that you were drunk and would breakthings."
"Oh!"
"And I am glad to see you, Jack."
He opened his eyes then. "Thank you, little girl. That is a good thingfor a man to hear, and I believe you. Come here. It was a good thing forme to get that word from Kalitan, too. I reckon you know all that,though, or you wouldn't have sent it."
She did not answer, but stooped to lift the pot of coffee back from theblaze. The action recalled him to the immediate practical things, and hesaid:
"Think I can stay all night here?"
"I don't know of any reason to prevent it."
"Mowitza was used up, and I wanted a roof for her; but I didn't allow tocome to the house myself."
"Where would you have slept?"
"In my blanket, on the hay."
"Just as if we would let you do that on our place!"
"No one would have known it if you had kept away from the stable, and inyour bed, where you ought to be."
"Shall I go there at once, or pour your coffee first?"
"A cup of coffee would be a treat; I'm dead tired."
The coffee was drank, and the lunch for Andrews was appropriated forGenesee.
"Have you come back to the Kootenai country for good?" she asked, afterfurnishing him with whatever she could find in the pantry withoutawakening the rest.
"I don't know--it may be for bad," he replied doubtfully. "I've takenthe trail north to sound any tribes that are hostile, and if troops areneeded they are to follow me."
"Up into this country?"
"I reckon so. Are you afraid of fighting?"
She did not answer. A new idea, a sudden remembrance, had supersededthat of Indian warfare.
"How long since you left Fort Owens?" she asked.
"Fifteen days. Why?"
"A friend of MacDougall's started in that direction about two weeks ago.Davy sent a kind message by him; but you must have passed it on theway."
"Likely; I've been in the Flathead country, and that's wide of the trailto Owens. Who was the man?"
"His name is Stuart."
He set the empty cup down, and looked in the fire for a moment with asteadiness that made the girl doubt if he had either heard or noticed;but after a little he spoke.
"What was that you said?"
"That the man's name was Stuart."
"Young or old?"
"Younger than you."
"And he has gone to Fort Owens?"
"Started for there, I said."
"Oh! then you haven't much faith in a tenderfoot getting through thehostiles or snow-banks?"
"How do you know he is a tenderfoot?"
He glanced up; she was looking at him with as much of a question in hereyes as her words.
"Well, I reckon I don't," he answered, picking up his hat as if to endthe conversation. "I knew a man called Stuart once, but I don't knowthis one. Now, have you any pressing reason for loafing down here anylonger? If not, I'll take my blanket and that lounge and get some sleep.I've been thirty-six hours in the saddle."
In vain she tried to prevail on him to go upstairs and go to bed"right."
"This is right enough for me," he answered, laying his hat and gloves ona table and unfastening his spurs. "No, I won't go up to the men's room.Good-night."
"But, Jack--look here--"
"I can't--too sleepy to look anywhere, or see if I did look;" and hisrevolvers and belt were laid beside the growing collection on the table.
"But Hen will scold me for not giving you better lodging."
"Then he and another man will have a shooting-match before breakfastto-morrow. Are you going?"
He was beginning to deliberately unfasten his neck-gear of scarlet andbronze. She hesitated, as if to make a final protest, but failed andfled; and as the door closed behind her, she heard another half-laughing"Klahowya!"
Early in the morning she was down-stairs, to find Aunty Luce half wildwith terror at the presence of a stranger who had taken possession ofthe sitting-room during the night.
"Cain't see his face for the blanket, honey," she whispered shrilly,"but he's powerful big; an'--an' just peep through the door at the gunsand things--it's wah times right ovah again, shueh as I'm tellen' yo',chile."
"Be quiet, Aunty, and get breakfast; it's a friend of ours."
"Hi-yi! I know all 'bout them kind o' friends, honey; same kind as comesSouth in wah times, a trampen' into houses o' quality folks an sleepen'whah they liked, an' callen' theyselves friends. He's a moven'now!--less call the folks!"
The attempted yell was silenced by Rachel clapping her hand over thefull lips and holding her tightly.
"Don't be a fool!" she admonished the old woman impatiently. "I let theman in last night; it's all right. Go and get him a good breakfast."
Aunty Luce eyed the girl as if she thought her a conspirator against thesafety of the house, and despite precautions, managed to slip upstairsto Tillie with a much-garbled account of thieves in the night, andwartimes, and tramps, and Miss Rache.
Much mystified, the little woman dressed quickly, and came down thestairs to find her husband shaking hands quite heartily with Genesee.Instantly she forgot the multitudinous reasons there were for banninghim from the bosom of one's family, and found herself telling him he wasvery welcome.
"I reckon in your country a man would wait to hear someone say thatbefore stowing his horse in their stables, or himself in their beds," heobserved.
His manner was rather quiet, but one could see that the heartiness oftheir greeting was a great pleasure, and, it may be, a relief.
"Do you call that a bed?" asked Tillie, with contemptuous warmth. "I dothink, Mr. Genesee, you might have wakened some of us, and given us achance to treat a guest to something better."
"I suppose, then, I am not counted in with the family," observed Rachel,meekly, from the background. "I was on hand to do the honors, but wasn'tallowed to do them. I even went to the stable to receive the late-comer,and was told to skip into the house, and given a general understandingthat I interfered with his making himself comfortable in the hay-mow."
"Did she go out there at night, and alone, after we were all in bed?"And Tillie's tone indicated volumes of severity.
"Yes," answered Genesee; for Rachel, with a martyr-like manner, saidnothing, and awaited her lecture; "she thought it was your man Andrews."
"Yes, and she would have gone just as quickly if it had beenIndians--or--or--anybody. She keeps me nervous half the time with hererratic ways."
"I rather think she's finding fault with me for giving you that coffeeand letting you sleep on the lounge," said Rachel; and through Tillie'squick disclaimer her own short-comings were forgotten, at least for thetime. The little matron's caution, that always lagged woefully behindher impulse, obtruded itself on her memory several times before thebreakfast was over; and thinking of the reasons why a man of suchcharacter should not be received as a friend by ladies, especiallygirls, she was rather glad when she heard him say he was to push on intothe hills as soon as possible.
"I only stopped last night because I had to; Mowitza and I were bothused up. I was trying to make MacDougall's, but when I crossed the trailto your place, I reckoned we would fasten to it--working through thesnow was telling on her; but she is all right this morning."
Rachel told him of her visit to the old man, and his care of the cabinon the Tamahnous ground; of rumors picked up from the Kootenai tribeas to the chance of trouble with the Blackfeet, and many notes that wereof interest to this hunter of feeling on the Indian question. Hecommented on her Chinook, of which she had gained considerable knowledgein the past year, and looked rather pleased when told it had been gainedfrom Kalitan.
"You may see him again if I have to send for troops up here, and itlooks that way now," he remarked, much to the terror and satisfaction ofAunty Luce, who was a house divided against itself in her terror ofIndian trouble and her desire to prove herself a prophetess.
Jim was all anticipation. After a circus or a variety show, nothing hadfor him the charm that was exerted by the prospect of a fight; but hishopes in that direction were cooled by the scout's statement that thetroops were not coming with the expectation of war, but simply to showthe northern tribes its futility, and that the Government wasstrengthening its guard for protection all along the line.
"Then yer only ringin' in a bluff on the hostiles!" ventured thesanguinary hopeful disgustedly. "I counted on business if the 'yaller'turned out," meaning by the "yaller" the cavalry, upon whoseaccoutrements the yellow glints show.
"Never mind, sonny," said Genesee; "if we make a bluff, it won't be onan empty hand. But I must take the trail again, and make up for timelost in sleep here."
"When may we look for you back?"
It was Hardy who spoke, but something had taken the free-heartiness outof his tones; he looked just a trifle uncomfortable. Evidently Tilliehad been giving him a hint of second thoughts, and while trying to adoptthem they fitted his nature too clumsily not to be apparent.
His guest, however, had self-possession enough for both.
"Don't look for me," he advised, taking in the group with acomprehensive glance; "that is, don't hurt the sight of your eyes in thebusiness; the times are uncertain, and I reckon I'm more uncertain thanthe times. I'm obliged to you for the sleep last night, and the coverfor Mowitza. If I can ever do you as good a turn, just sing out."
Hardy held out his hand impulsively. "You did a heap more for us a yearago, for which we never had a chance to make return," he said in hisnatural, hearty manner.
"Oh, yes, you have had," contradicted Rachel's cool tones from theporch; "you have the chance now."
Genesee darted one quick glance at her face. Something
in it wasevidently a compensation, and blotted out the bitterness that had creptinto his last speech, for with a freer manner he took the profferedhand.
"That's all right," he said easily. "I was right glad of the tripmyself, so it wasn't any work; but at the present speaking the days arenot picnic days, and I must 'git.' Good-bye, Mrs. Hardy, good-bye;boys."
Then he turned in his saddle and looked at Rachel."Klahowya--tillikum," he said, lifting his hat in a final farewell toall.
But in the glance toward her she felt he had said "thank you" as plainlyas he had in the Indian language called her "friend."
"Oh, dear!" said Tillie, turning into the house as he rode away. "I wishthe man had staid away, or else that we had known more about him when wefirst met him. It is very awkward to change one's manner to him,and--and yet it seems the only thing to do."
"Certainly," agreed Rachel, with an altogether unnecessary degree ofcontempt, "it is the only thing for you to do."
Tillie sat down miserably under this stroke, the emphasis denoting veryplainly the temper of the speaker.
"Oh, don't be ugly, Rache," she begged. "I really feel wretched aboutit. I thought at first all the freedom of social laws out here was sonice but it isn't. It has a terrible side to it, when the greatest scampis of as much account as the finest gentleman, and expects to bereceived on the same footing. He--he had no right to come imposing on usat the first;" and with this addition to her defense, Tillie tried toensconce herself behind the barricade of injured faith, but feeling thather protests were only weakening her argument.
"To the best of my recollection," said the girl, with a good deal of thesupercilious in her manner, "he neither came near us nor advanced anydesire for friendship on his own account. We hunted him up, and insistedon talking natural history and singing songs with him, and pressing onhim many invitations to visit us, invitations which he avoidedaccepting. He was treated, not as an equal of the other gentlemen, butas a superior; and I believe it is the only time we ever did himjustice."
"Yes, he did seem very nice in those days; but you see it was all falsepretense. Think of the life that he had come from, and that he went backto! It's no use talking, Rachel--there is only a right way and a wrongway in this world. He has shown his choice, and self-respecting peoplecan only keep rid of him as much as possible. I don't like to hurt hisfeelings, but it makes it very awkward for us that we have accepted anyfavors from him."
"The obligation rests rather lightly on your shoulders to cause you muchfretting," said the girl bitterly; "and he thought so much of you,too--so much."
Her voice, that began so calmly, ended a little uncertainly, and shewalked out of the door.
Hardy, coming in a moment later, found Tillie divided between penitenceand pettishness, and fighting her way to comfort through tears.
"I know I'm right, Hen, about the whole question," she whimpered, whensafely perched on the stronghold of his knee, "and that is what makes itso aggravating."
"To know you're right?"
"No; but to have Rachel, who knows she is in the wrong, take thathigh-handed way about the affair, and end up by making me feel ashamed.Yes, she did, Hen--just that. I felt so ashamed I cried, and yet I knewI was right all the time--now what are you laughing at?"
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 14