A Daughter of the Sioux

by King, Charles

  "Craps—I mean the Frenchman, sir, says it was after four, perhaps half past, when they started, Pete drivin'. He didn't see who was in it. 'Twas the covered buckboard he took, sir—the best one."

  And then, little by little, it transpired that Hay, the post trader whom the general had need to see, had taken his departure by way of the Rawlins road, and without so much as a whisper of his purpose to any one.

  "I knew he had thought of going. He told Major Webb so," said Dade, presently. "But that was before the outbreak assumed proportions. He had given up all idea of it yesterday and so told me."

  "Has anything happened to—start him since then?" demanded the bearded general, after a moment's thought.

  Dade and the doctor looked into each other's eyes, and the latter turned away. It was not his affair.

  "W-ell, something has happened, general," was Dade's slow, constrained reply. "If you will step this way—I'll see you later, gentlemen—" this to his subalterns—"I'll explain as far as I can."

  And while Dr. Waller fell back and walked beside the aide-de-camp, gladly leaving to the post commander the burden of a trying explanation, the general, slowly pacing by the captain's side, gave ear to his story.

  "Hay cleaned up quite a lot of money," began the veteran, "and had intended starting it to Cheyenne when this Indian trouble broke out. The courier reached us during the night, as you know, and the major ordered Ray to start at dawn and Field to go with him."

  "Why, I thought Field was post adjutant!" interposed the general.

  "He was, but—well—I beg you to let Major Webb give you his own reasons, general," faltered Dade, sorely embarrassed. "He decided that Field should go——"

  "He asked to go, I suppose—It runs in the blood," said the general, quickly, with a keen look from his blue-gray eyes.

  "I think not, sir; but you will see Webb within a few days and he will tell you all about it. What I know is this, that Field was ordered to go and that he gave the major an order on Hay for two packages containing the money for which he was accountable. Field and Wilkins had had a falling out, and, instead of putting the cash in the quartermaster's safe, Field kept it at Hay's. At guard mounting Hay brought the package to the major, who opened both in presence of the officers of the day. Each package was supposed to contain three or four hundred dollars. Neither contained twenty. Some paper slips inserted between five dollar bills made up the packages. Field was then far to the north and past conferring with. Hay was amazed and distressed—said that someone must have duplicate keys of his safe as well as of his stables."

  "Why the stables?" asked the chief, pausing at the gate and studying the troubled face of the honored soldier he so well knew and so fully trusted. He was thinking, too, how this was not the first occasion that the loss of public money had been hidden for the time in just that way—slips inserted between good currency.

  "Because it transpires that some of his horses were out that very night without his consent or ken. No one for a moment, to my knowledge, has connected Field with the loss of the money. Hay thought, however, it threw suspicion on him, and was mightily upset."

  "Then his sudden departure at this time, without a word to anybody looks—odd," said the general, thoughtfully. "But he had no need of money. He's one of the wealthiest men in Wyoming. And she—his wife,—needs nothing. He gives her all she can possibly want." By this time they were at the door. A lamp still burned dimly in the hallway, and Dade blew it out, as he ushered the general into the cosily lighted dining-room.

  "You'll excuse Mrs. Dade and Esther, I hope, sir. They are not yet up—quite overcome by anxiety and excitement,—there's been a lot about Frayne the last two days.—Take this chair, General. Coffee will be served at once. No, sir, as you say, the Hays have no need of money—he and his wife, that is."

  "But you suspect—whom?" asked the general, the blue-gray eyes intent on the troubled face before him, for Dade's very hesitancy told of some untold theory. The doctor and the aide had taken seats at the other end of the table and dutifully engaged in low-toned conversation.

  "That is a hard question for me to answer, General," was the answer. "I have no right to suspect anybody. We had no time to complete the investigation. There are many hangers-on, you know, about Hay's store, and indeed, his house. Then his household, too, has been increased, as perhaps you did not know. Mrs. Hay's niece—a very brilliant young woman—is visiting them, and she and Field rode frequently together."

  The general's face was a study. The keen eyes were reading Dade as a skilled physician would interpret the symptoms of a complicated case. "How old—and what is she like, Dade?" he asked.

  "The women can answer that better than I, sir. They say she must be twenty-four;—Mrs. Hay says nineteen—She is very dark and very handsome—at times. Most of our young men seem to think so, at least. She certainly rides and dances admirably, and Mr. Field was constantly her partner."

  The general began to see light. "Field was constantly with her, was he? Riding just by themselves or with others when they went out?" he asked.

  "By themselves, sir. I doubt if any other of our equestriennes would care to ride at her pace. She rather outstrips them all. The major told me they seemed to go—well, every time he saw them, at least,—up to Stabber's village, and that was something he disapproved of, though I dare say she was simply curious to see an Indian village, as an Eastern girl might be."

  "Possibly," said the general. "And what did you tell me—she is Mrs. Hay's niece? I don't remember his having any niece when they were at Laramie in '66, though I knew something of Mrs. Hay, who was then but a short time married. She spoke Sioux and patois French better than English in those days. What is the young lady's name?"

  "Miss Flower, sir. Nanette Flower."

  The chief dropped his head on his hand and reflected. "It's a good twenty years, and I've been knocking about all over the West since then, but, I'd like to see Mrs. Hay and that young woman, Dade, whether we overhaul Bill or not. I must go on to Beecher at once."

  "You will wait for the cavalry from Laramie, will you not, sir?" asked the captain, anxiously.

  "I can't. I'll get a bath and breakfast and forty winks later; then see Mrs. Hay and Bill, if he is back. They ought to catch him before he reaches Sage Creek. There are your couriers now," he added, at the sound of spurred heels on the front piazza.

  The captain stepped forth into the hallway. A trooper stood at the front door, his hand lifted in salute. Another, in saddle, and holding the reins of his comrade's horse, was at the gate. A rustle of feminine drapery swept downward from the upper floor, and Dade glanced up, half dreading to see Esther's face. But it was his wife who peered over the balustrade. "I shall be down in ten minutes," she said, in low tone. "Esther is sleeping at last. How did—he—seem this morning?"

  "Sleeping, too, but only fitfully. Dr. Waller is here," and then Dade would have ended the talk. He did not wish to speak further of Field or his condition. But she called again, low-toned, yet dominant, as is many a wife in and out of the army.

  "Surely you are not letting the general start with only two men!"

  "No, he goes by and by." And again Dade would have escaped to the piazza, but once again she held him.

  "Then where are you sending these?"

  "After Mr. Hay. He—made an early start—not knowing perhaps, the general was coming."

  "Start!" she cried, all excitement now. "Start!—Start for where?" and the dressing sacque in aspen-like agitations came in full view at the head of the stairs.

  "Rawlins, I suppose. I don't know what it means."

  "But I do!" exclaimed his better half, in emotion uncontrollable. "I do! It means that she has made him,—that she has gone, too—I mean Nanette Flower!"

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV

  A WOMAN'S PLOT

  Woman's intuition often far outstrips the slower mental process of the other sex. The mother who has to see a beloved daughter's silent suffering, well knowing ano
ther girl to be, however indirectly, the cause of it, sees all manner of other iniquities in that other girl. Kind, charitable and gentle was Mrs. Dade, a wise mother, too, as well as most loving, but she could look with neither kindness nor charity on Miss Flower. She had held her peace; allowed no word of censure or criticism to escape her when the women were discussing that young lady; but all the more vehement was her distrust, because thus pent up and repressed. With the swiftness of feminine thought, for no man had yet suspected, she fathomed the secret of the trader's sudden going; and, carried away by the excitement of the moment and the belief that none but her husband could hear, she had made that startling announcement. And her intuition was unerring. Nanette Flower was indeed gone.

  Yet for nearly an hour she stood alone in her conviction. Her husband quickly cautioned silence, and, going forth, gave instructions to the couriers that sent them speeding for the Rawlins road. But at seven o'clock Mrs. Hay herself appeared and asked to see the general, who was taking at the moment his accustomed bracer, tonic and stimulant,—the only kind he was ever known to use—a cold bath. So it was to Mrs. Dade, in all apparent frankness and sincerity, the trader's wife began her tale.

  Everyone at Frayne well knew that her anxiety as to the outcome of the battle on the Elk had well nigh equalled that of the wives and sweethearts within the garrison. While her niece, after the first day's excitement, kept to her room, the aunt went flitting from house to house, full of sympathy and suggestion, but obviously more deeply concerned than they had ever seen her. Now, she seemed worried beyond words at thought of her husband's having to go at just this time. It was mainly on Nanette's account, she said. Only last night, with the mail from Laramie, had come a letter posted in San Francisco the week before, telling Miss Flower that her dearest friend and roommate for four years at school, who had been on an extended bridal tour, would pass through Rawlins, eastward bound, on Friday's train, and begging Nanette to meet her and go as far at least as Cheyenne. Her husband, it seems, had been hurriedly recalled to New York, and there was no help for it. Nanette had expected to join her, and go all the way East in late October or early November; had given her promise, in fact, for she was vastly excited by the news, and despite headache and lassitude that had oppressed her for two days past, she declared she must go, and Uncle Will must take her. So, with only a small trunk, hastily packed, of her belongings, and an iron-bound chest of the trader's, the two had started before dawn in Uncle Bill's stout buckboard, behind his famous four mule team, with Pete to drive, and two sturdy ranchmen as outriders, hoping to reach the Medicine Bow by late afternoon, and rest at Brenner's Ranch.

  Confidentially, Mrs. Hay told Mrs. Dade that her husband was glad of the excuse to take the route up the Platte instead of the old, rough trail southeastward over the mountains to Rock Creek, for he had a large sum in currency to get to the bank, and there were desperados along the mountain route who well knew he would have to send that money in, and were surely on lookout to waylay him—or it. Ever since pay-day two or three rough characters had been hanging about the store, and Hay suspected they were watching his movements, with the intention of getting word to their comrades in crime the moment he started, and it was almost as much to steal a march on them, as to oblige Nanette, he so willingly left before it was light. The Rawlins road followed the Platte Valley all the way to Brenner's, and, once there, he would feel safe, whereas the Rock Creek trail wound through gulch, ravine and forest most of the distance, affording many a chance for ambuscade. Of course, said Mrs. Hay, if her husband had for a moment supposed the general would wish to see him, he would not have gone, adding, with just a little touch of proper, wifelike spirit, that on the general's previous visits he had never seemed to care whether he saw Mr. Hay or not.

  All this did Mrs. Dade accept with courteous yet guarded interest. They were seated in the little army parlor, talking in low tone; for, with unfailing tact, Mrs. Hay had asked for Esther, and expressed her sympathy on hearing of her being unnerved by the excitement through which they had passed. Well she knew that Field's serious condition had not a little to do with poor Esther's prostration, but that was knowledge never to be hinted at. Dade himself she did not wish to meet just now. He was too direct a questioner, and had said and looked things about Nanette that made her dread him. She knew that, however austere and commanding he might be when acting under his own convictions, he was abnormally susceptible to uxorial views, and the way to win the captain's sympathies or avert his censure, was to secure the kindly interest of his wife. Mrs. Hay knew that he had sent couriers off by the Rawlins road—a significant thing in itself—and that couriers had come in from the north with further news from Webb. She knew he had gone to the office, and would probably remain there until summoned for breakfast, and now was her time, for there was something further to be spoken of, and while gentle and civil, Mrs. Dade had not been receptive. It was evident to the trader's wife that her lord and master had made a mistake in leaving when he did. He knew the general was on the way. He knew there was that money business to be cleared up, yet she knew there were reasons why she wanted him away,—reasons hardest of all to plausibly explain. There were reasons, indeed, why she was glad Nanette was gone. All Fort Frayne was devoted to Esther Dade and, however unjustly, most of Fort Frayne,—men, women and children,—attributed Field's defection, as they chose to call it, to Nanette—Nanette who had set at naught her aunt's most ardent wishes, in even noticing Field at all. Money, education, everything she could give had been lavished on that girl, and now, instead of casting her net for that well-to-do and distinguished bachelor, the major, thereby assuring for herself the proud position of first lady of Fort Frayne, the wife of the commanding officer, Nanette had been deliberately throwing herself away at a beardless, moneyless second lieutenant, because he danced and rode well. Mrs. Hay did not blame Mrs. Dade at that moment for hating the girl, if hate she did. She could have shaken her, hard and well, herself, yet was utterly nonplussed to find that Nanette cared next to nothing how badly Field was wounded. What she seemed to care to know was about the casualties among the Sioux, and, now that Stabber's village, the last living trace of it, old men, squaws, children, pappooses, ponies and puppies and other living creatures had, between two days, been whisked away to the hills, there were no more Indians close at hand to whisper information.

  She was glad Nanette was gone, because Field, wounded and present, would have advantages over possible suitors absent on campaign—because all the women and a few of the men were now against her, and because from some vague, intangible symptoms, Mrs. Hay had satisfied herself that there was something in the wind Nanette was hiding even from her—her benefactress, her best friend, and it seemed like cold-blooded treachery. Hay had for two days been disturbed, nervous and unhappy, yet would not tell her why. He had been cross-questioning Pete, "Crapaud" and other employees, and searching about the premises in a way that excited curiosity and even resentment, for the explanation he gave was utterly inadequate. To satisfy her if possible, he had confided, as he said, the fact that certain money for which Lieutenant Field was accountable, had been stolen. The cash had been carefully placed in his old-fashioned safe; the missing money, therefore, had been taken while still virtually in his charge. "They might even suspect me," he said, which she knew would not be the case. "They forbade my speaking of it to anybody, but I simply had to tell you." She felt sure there was something he was concealing; something he would not tell her; something concerning Nanette, therefore, because she so loved Nanette, he shrank from revealing what might wound her. Indeed, it was best that Nanette should go for the time, at least, but Mrs. Hay little dreamed that others would be saying—even this kindly, gentle woman before her—that Nanette should have stayed until certain strange things were thoroughly and satisfactorily explained.

  But the moment she began, faltering not a little, to speak of matters at the post, as a means of leading up to Nanette—matters concerning Lieutenant Field and his financial affairs,�
��to her surprise Mrs. Dade gently uplifted her hand and voice. "I am going to ask you not to tell me, Mrs. Hay," said she. "Captain Dade has given me to understand there was something to be investigated, but preferred that I should not ask about it. Now, the general will be down in fifteen or twenty minutes. I suggest that we walk over the hospital and see how Mr. Field is getting on. We can talk, you know, as we go. Then you will breakfast with us. Indeed, may I not give you a cup of coffee now, Mrs. Hay?"

  But Mrs. Hay said no. She had had coffee before coming. She would go and see if there was anything they could do for Field, and would try again to induce Mrs. Dade to listen to certain of her explanations.

  But Mrs. Dade was silent and preoccupied. She was thinking of that story of Nanette's going, and wondering whether it could be true. She was wondering if Mrs. Hay knew the couriers had gone to recall Hay, and that if he and Nanette failed to return it might mean trouble for both. She could accord to Mrs. Hay no confidences of her own, and had been compelled to decline to listen to those with which Mrs. Hay would have favored her. She was thinking of something still more perplexing. The general, as her husband finally told her, had asked first thing to see Hay, and later declared that he wished to talk with Mrs. Hay and see Nanette. Was it possible he knew anything of what she knew—that between Hay's household and Stabber's village there had been communication of some kind—that the first thing found in the Indian pouch brought home by Captain Blake, was a letter addressed in Nanette Flower's hand, and with it three card photographs, two of them of unmistakable Indians in civilized garb, and two letters, addressed, like hers, to Mr. Ralph Moreau,—one care of the Rev. Jasper Strong, Valentine, Nebraska, the other to the general delivery, Omaha?