Alice shook her head, and stooped to readjust their daughter’s hat. Her action hid the smile at her husband’s simplicity. A good wife learns many things without questioning.
“You see I know I shall be told when it becomes expedient. How would you like to make hay in these lovely open fields, Marjorie?” she asked the violet-eyed child, gazing so steadfastly at this new world about her.
But Marjorie shook her head. She was a little overpowered.
“It’s so big, mamma,” she murmured, doubtfully.
At that moment one of the two horsemen ahead beckoned to the man a little peremptorily, and he rode off. Then the child turned to her mother.
“What did you mean about the Indians, mamma?”
But the mother did not answer; she was watching her husband, who had just joined the others, and she saw that all three were watching something that looked like smoke on the northwestern horizon.
“Don’t Indians eat people, mamma?” asked the child presently.
Her mother laughed shortly, and answered, “No.” The answer came a little more sharply than she usually spoke. Suddenly she leant forward and touched the driver on the shoulder. He turned round instantly.
“What is that smoke on the horizon, Jim?” she asked.
The man looked into her steady gray eyes. Then he glanced down at the beautiful child at her side, and, in a moment, his gaze came back to the handsome dark face of the mother; but instantly he turned back to the horses.
“Don’t know,” he threw back brusquely over his shoulder.
And the woman who learned so much without asking questions knew that he lied.
The vehicle creaked on. The steady jog of the horses kept the neck-yoke rattling in the harness with a sound that was almost musical. The sun was very hot, and the sweat was caked in white streaks all over the hard-working animals’ flanks. Mother and child sat on in silence. Those two pairs of lovely eyes were looking out ahead. The child interested, and the mother thinking hard and swiftly. Curiously that smoke on the horizon had set her thinking of her husband and child, but mostly of the child. The driver chirruped at his horses as he had done from the start. He munched his tobacco, and seemed quite at his ease. Only every now and then his keen eyes lifted to the smoke. He was an old prairie hand.
The horsemen on ahead had halted where a higher billow of grass-land than usual had left a sharp, deep hollow. A hundred yards to the right of the trail there was a small clump of undergrowth. The men had dismounted. When the wagon came up the husband stepped to its side.
“We are going to camp here, Alice,” he said quietly. “There is good water close by. We can spare the time; we have come along well.”
Alice glanced at the faces of the others while he was speaking. One of the men was a long-haired prairie scout; his keen black eyes were intent upon her face. The other was a military “batman,” a blue-eyed Yorkshireman. His eyes were very bright—unusually bright. The teamster was placidly looking round his horses.
“Very well,” she answered, and passed little Marjorie out into her father’s arms. Then she sprang lightly to the ground.
Then the teamster drove the horses away into the brush, and the wagon was hidden from view. The scout and the batman pitched two “A” tents, and the mother noticed that they were so placed as to be utterly hidden in the thick foliage. The horses were off-saddled, and, contrary to custom, were tethered further still from the road, down by the water.
Little Marjorie went off with the men who were securing the horses, and Alice stood watching her husband’s movements. She was a beautiful woman of that strong, dark Celtic type, so common in Ireland. Her strong supple figure was displayed to perfection in a simple tweed suit with a jacket of the Norfolk pattern. She stood for some moments watching with deep contemplative eyes. Then she abruptly turned away.
“I will gather some fire-wood,” she said deliberately to her husband.
He looked up from his work and their eyes met.
“Don’t bother,” he said; “we will use the oil stove.”
And without further explanation the camp was arranged. There was no bustle or excitement. Yet each member of that little party, with the exception of the child, knew that the camp had been made in emergency—grave emergency.
A hearty meal was partaken of. Then the man and the scout disappeared. The others occupied themselves around the camp. The afternoon wore on. At tea the scout and his companion reappeared. The wife still asked no verbal questions. Her eyes told her all she wished to know.
During the evening meal little Marjorie made a discovery.
“Mamma,” she exclaimed, “you’ve got a belt on like daddy’s. What are these?” And she fingered a revolver holster, of which her mother’s belt supported two.
It was the rough, long-haired scout who saved the woman a deliberate falsehood.
“Guess them’s playthings,” he said, with a sombre laugh. “B’t don’t figger they’re fer kiddies to monkey with.”
After supper the man and the scout again disappeared. Three hours later the moon was high in the starlit sky. It was a glorious summer moon, and the whole country was bright with its silvery light.
Two men were lying upon their stomachs conning the northwestern sky-line.
The scout at last spoke in his slow drawling way.
“Guess it’s played out, Colonel,” he said. “We’re up agin it.”
It didn’t seem clear to what he referred, but the other understood him.
“Yes, they’re working this way,” he replied. “See, something has been fired away to the right front. They may be working round that way and will miss us here. What are our chances?”
“Nix,” responded the scout decidedly. “Them critturs hev got to git around this way. They’re on a line that’ll strike Fort Randall, wi’ a heap more military ’n they’ll notion. They’ll strike south an’ sweep round sheer through to Wyoming. We’re dead in their line.”
“Then we’d best get back and prepare. Mrs. Raynor and Marjorie will have turned in; we can do it quietly.”
“Yup.”
They rose and returned to camp.
Colonel Raynor had intended to avoid his wife’s tent. But Alice was waiting for him on the outskirts of the camp. The scout saw her and discreetly passed on, and husband and wife were left together.
“Well?”
The woman’s tone was quite steady. She was used to a soldier’s life. Besides, she understood the man’s responsibility and wished to help him. And Landor Raynor, looking into the gray eyes that were to him the gates of the heart of purest womanhood, could not resort to subterfuge.
“They will be on us before morning, dearest,” he said, and it was only by the greatest effort he could check a tide of self-accusation. But the woman understood and quickly interposed.
“I feared so, Landor. Are you ready? I mean for the fight?”
“We are preparing. I thought of sending you and little Marjorie south with Jim, on saddle horses, but——”
“No. I would not go. I am what you men call ‘useful with a gun.’” She laughed shortly.
There was a silence between them for some moments. And in that silence a faint and distant sound came to them. It was like the sound of droning machinery, only very faint.
The wife broke the silence. “Landor, we are old campaigners, you and I.”
“Yes, Al.”
The woman sighed ever so lightly.
“The excitement of the foreknowledge of victory is not in me to-night. Everything seems—so ordinary.”
“Yes.”
“When the moment comes, Landor, I should not like to be taken prisoner.”
“Nor shall you be, Al. There are four good fighting men with you. All old campaigners like—you.”
“Yes. I wasn’t thinking of that.” The gray eyes looked away. The man shifted uneasily.
There was a prolonged silence. Each was thinking over old scenes in old campaigns.
“I don’t think
I am afraid of much,” the woman said slowly, at last. “Certainly not of death.”
“Don’t talk like that, Al.” The man’s arm linked itself through his wife’s. The woman smiled wistfully up into the strong face bending over her.
“I was thinking, dearest, if death faced us, little Marjorie and me, in any form, we should not like it at the hands of an Indian. We should both prefer it from some one we know and—love.”
Another silence followed, and the sound of machinery was nearer and louder. The man stooped down and kissed the upturned face, and looked long into the beautiful gray depths he loved so well.
“It shall be as you wish, Al—as a last resource. I will go and kiss Marjorie. It is time we were doing.”
He had spoken so quietly, so calmly. But in his soldier’s heart he knew that his promise would be carried out to the letter—as a last resource. He left the woman, the old campaigner, examining the revolvers which looked like cannons in her small white hands.
* * *
One brief hour has passed. The peace of that lonely little trail-side camp has gone. War, a thousand times more fierce than the war of civilized nations, is raging round it in the light of the summer moon. The dead bodies of three white men are lying within a few yards of the tent which belongs to the ill-fated colonel and his wife. A horde of shouting, shrieking savages encircle that little white canopy and its two remaining defenders. Every bush is alive with hideous painted faces waiting for the last order to rush the camp. Their task has been less easy than they supposed. For the defenders were all “old hands.” And every shot from the repeating rifles has told. But now it is different. There are only two defenders left. A man of invincible courage—and a woman; and behind them, a little, awe-struck child in the doorway of the tent.
The echoing war-whoop sounds the final advance, and the revolvers of those two desperate defenders crack and crack again. The woman’s ammunition is done. The man’s is nearly so. He turns, and she turns to meet him. There is one swift embrace.
“Now!” she says in a low, soft voice.
There is an ominous crack of a revolver, but it is not fired in the direction of the Indians whom the man sees are within a few yards of him. He sees the woman fall, and turns swiftly to the tent door. The child instinctively turns and runs inside. The man’s gun is raised with inexorable purpose. His shot rings out. The child screams; and the man crashes to the earth with his head cleft by a hatchet from behind.
* * *
CHAPTER III
AN ALARM IN BEACON CROSSING
A horseman riding from White River Homestead to Beacon Crossing will find himself confronted with just eighty-two miles of dreary, flat trail; in summer time, just eighty-two miles of blistering sun, dust and mosquitoes. The trail runs parallel to, and about three miles north of the cool, shady White River, which is a tantalizing invention of those who designed the trail.
In the whole eighty-two miles there is but one wayside house; it is called the “half-way.” No one lives there. It, like the log hut of Nevil Steyne on the bank of the White River, stands alone, a relic of the dim past. But it serves a good purpose, for one can break the journey there, and sleep the night in its cheerless shelter. Furthermore, within the ruins of its old-time stockade is a well, a deep, wide-mouthed well full of cool spring water, which is the very thing needed.
It is sunrise and a horseman has just ridden away from this shelter. He is a man of considerable height, to judge by the length of his stirrups, and he has that knack of a horseman in the saddle which comes only to those who have learned to ride as soon as they have learned to run.
He wears fringed chapps over his moleskin trousers, which give him an appearance of greater size than he possesses, for, though stout of frame, he is lean and wiry. His face is wonderfully grave for a young man, which may be accounted for by the fact that he has lived through several Indian risings. And it is a strong face, too, with a decided look of what people term self-reliance in it, also, probably, a product of those dreaded Indian wars. He, like many men who live through strenuous times, is given much to quick thought and slow speech, which, though excellent features in character, do not help toward companionship in wild townships like Beacon Crossing.
Seth is well thought of in that city—whither he is riding now—but he is more respected than loved. The truth is he has a way of liking slowly, and disliking thoroughly, and this is a disposition the reckless townsmen of Beacon Crossing fail to understand, and, failing to understand, like most people, fail to appreciate.
Just now he is more particularly grave than usual. He has ridden from White River Farm to execute certain business in town for his foster-parents, Rube Sampson and his wife; a trifling matter, and certainly nothing to bring that look of doubt in his eyes, and the thoughtful pucker between his clean-cut brows. His whole attention is given up to a contemplation of the land beyond the White River, and the distance away behind him to the left, which is the direction of the Rosebud Indian Reservation.
Yesterday his attention had been called in these directions, and on reaching the “half-way” he had serious thoughts of returning home, but reflection had kept him to his journey if it had in no way eased his mind.
Yesterday he had observed a smoky haze spreading slowly northward on the lightest of breezes; and it was coming across the Reservation. It was early June, and the prairie was too young and green to burn yet.
The haze was still hanging in the bright morning air. It had spread right across his path in the night, and a strong smell of burning greeted him as he rode out.
He urged his horse and rode faster than he had ridden the day before. There was a silent sympathy between horse and rider which displayed itself in the alertness of the animal’s manner; he was traveling with head held high, nostrils distended, as though sniffing at the smell of burning in some alarm. And his gait, too, had become a little uneven, which, in a horse, means that his attention is distracted.
Before an hour had passed the man’s look changed to one of some apprehension. Smoke was rising in a new direction. He had no need to turn to see it, it was on his left front, far away beyond the horizon, but somewhere where the railroad track, linking the East with Beacon Crossing, cut through the plains of Nebraska. Suddenly his horse leapt forward into a strong swinging gallop. He had felt the touch of the spur. Seth pulled out a great silver timepiece and consulted it.
“I ken make it in two hours an’ a haf from now,” he muttered. “That’ll be haf past eight. Good! Put it along, Buck.”
The last was addressed to the horse; and the dust rose in great heavy clouds behind them as the willing beast stretched out to his work.
Beacon Crossing is called a city by those residents who have lived in it since the railway brought it into existence. Chance travelers, and those who are not prejudiced in its favor, call it a hole. It certainly has claims in the latter direction. It is the section terminal on the railway; and that is the source of its questionable prosperity.
There is a main street parallel to the railroad track with some stores facing the latter. It has only one sidewalk and only one row of buildings; the other side of the street is given up to piles of metal rails and wooden ties and ballast for the track. The stores are large fronted, with a mockery which would lead the unenlightened to believe they are two-storied; but this is make-believe. The upper windows have no rooms behind them. They are the result of overweening vanity on the part of the City Council and have nothing to do with the storekeepers.
The place is unremarkable for anything else, unless it be the dirty and unpaved condition of its street. True there are other houses, private residences, but these are set indiscriminately upon the surrounding prairie, and have no relation to any roads. A row of blue gum trees marks the front of each, and, for the most part, a clothes-line, bearing some articles of washing, indicates the back. Beacon Crossing would be bragged about only by those who helped to make it.
The only building worth consideration is the hotel, opp
osite the depot. This has a verandah and a tie-post, and there are always horses standing outside it, and always men standing on the verandah, except when it is raining, then they are to be found inside.
It was only a little after eight in the morning. Breakfast was nearly over in the hotel, and, to judge by the number of saddle-horses at the tie-post, the people of Beacon Crossing were very much astir. Presently the verandah began to fill with hard-faced, rough-clad men. And most of them as they came were filling their pipes, which suggested that they had just eaten.
Nevil Steyne was one of the earliest to emerge from the breakfast room. He had been the last to go in, and the moment he reappeared it was to survey swiftly the bright blue distance away in the direction of the Indian Reservations, and, unseen by those who stood around, he smiled ever so slightly at what he beheld. The two men nearest him were talking earnestly, and their earnestness was emphasized by the number of matches they used in keeping their pipes alight.
“Them’s Injun fires, sure,” said one, at the conclusion of a long argument.
“Maybe they are, Dan,” said the other, an angular man who ran a small hardware store a few yards lower down the street. “But they ain’t on this side of the Reservation anyway.”
The significant selfishness of his last remark brought the other round on him in a moment.
“That’s all you care for, eh?” Dan said witheringly. “Say. I’m working for the ‘diamond P’s,’ and they run their stock that aways. Hev you been through one o’ them Injun risings?”
The other shook his head.
“Jest so.”
Another man, stout and florid, Jack McCabe, the butcher, joined them.
“Can’t make it out. There ain’t been any Sun-dance, which is usual ’fore they get busy. Guess it ain’t no rising. Big Wolf’s too clever. If it was spring round-up or fall round-up it ’ud seem more likely. Guess some feller’s been and fired the woods. Which, by the way, is around Jason’s farm. Say, Dan Lawson, you living that way, ain’t it right that Jason’s got a couple of hundred beeves in his corrals?”
The Watchers of the Plains Page 2