The Watchers of the Plains

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  Some such thoughts as these may have passed through Charlie Rankin’s mind when he saw her as he passed on his way to the farm. For men are like this. Married or single they always have an eye for feminine beauty, only when they are married they generally keep their observations to themselves—if they be wise.

  The sun was almost upon the horizon when the girl reached the ford. The rift in the woods, which formed a wagon trail, was very narrow, and even though the sun had not yet set, the spot was dark and sombre by reason of the wall of pine trees which lined it upon each side.

  Just for a second Rosebud experienced the dark moody influence of the gloomy pine canopy beneath which she was to plunge. Like all high-spirited creatures she had no love for any form of gloom. And there is nothing in nature that can compare with the American pinewoods for gloom. Stately, magnificent, if you will, but funereal in their gloom.

  Something of her surroundings now found reflection in the expression of her fair face as she plunged down the solemn aisles of black, barren tree trunks, like columns supporting the superstructure of some Gothic cathedral.

  Her broncho was forced to take his way carefully, and thus his gait was reduced to little better than a walk. Further in, the tree-trunks gave way occasionally to patches of undergrowth. Then they became mixed with other growths. Maple and spruce held place and made her course more awkward, and further hindered her. The blue gums crowded so closely that frequently she was driven to considerable detour. Gradually the maze began to confuse her. She started to reckon the whereabouts of the river, a process which confused her more. But she kept on, her whole attention concentrated,—so much so that even her object was almost forgotten.

  So engrossed was she that she failed to notice that her horse had suddenly become very alert. His large, low-bred ears, that weathercock of the horseman, were pricked up, and he looked inquiringly from side to side as he picked his way. Once he gave a short, suppressed whinny.

  The girl’s perplexity, however, was strong upon her. She did not hear it, or, if she did, it conveyed nothing to her. Her brows were puckered, and she gazed only ahead. Had she paused she must have heard that which had drawn her horse’s attention. But she kept on, struggling with the maze about her, and so heard no sound of the breaking brush upon either side of her.

  She was more than half-way to the bridge, when, to her intense relief, she saw daylight ahead through the overshadowing foliage. She pushed on urgently, and sighed her relief; it was a clearing. That opening meant more to her than she would have admitted. To see the sky again, to breathe air that was fresh, free from the redolence of the forest underlay, was all she desired.

  The clearing was fringed with a low, thorny brush, which, as she came to it, caught her skirt, and forced her to draw rein, and stoop to release it.

  While thus occupied her broncho threw up his head and gave a tremendous neigh. The sound startled her, as these things will startle the strongest when all is profoundly silent. But what followed was more startling still. Not one, but half a dozen echoes at least responded, and, with a thrill, the girl sat up. The next moment she had spurred her horse and charged, regardless of the thorns, into the midst of the clearing.

  As she came a wave of horror swept over her. Simultaneous with her entry a mounted Indian appeared from the opposite side. Others appeared, each from a different direction, silent, but with automatic precision. To her right she saw them; to her left; and behind her, too. A deliberate ring of silent sentries had formed themselves about her, almost in the twinkling of an eye.

  The girl’s first terror was almost overwhelming, and her impulse was to shriek aloud. But the shock of that ghostly appearance passed, not because the danger appeared to lessen, but because her nerves were healthy, and she somehow possessed sympathy with the red men. Mechanically she noticed, too, that they were blanketed, as in peace. They had donned no feathers or paint. Nor could she see aught of any firearms. So her courage returned, but she did not attempt to move or speak.

  She was not long left in doubt. With crude, dramatic effect Little Black Fox suddenly appeared from the adjacent woods. He rode into the ring on his black pony, sitting the sleek beast in that haughty manner which is given to the Indian alone, and which comes from the fact that he uses no saddle, and sits with the natural pose of a lithe figure that is always carried erect.

  He wore no blanket. He was clad from head to foot resplendent in beaded buckskin, his long black hair flowing beneath his crown of feathers and falling upon his shoulders. His handsome face was unscarred by any barbaric markings such as many of his warriors displayed. He was fresh and young; his eyes were flashing with deep emotion, and lit up his dusky countenance with a smile that had nothing gentle in it. He was every inch a chief. Nor was there any mistaking the barbaric lover that looked out of his eyes.

  Rosebud unconsciously drew herself up. There was no responsive smile upon her face. She knew there was mischief looming, and the woman in her was stirred to the depths. Young as she was she realized that that ring of sentries about her could mean but one thing. Now, when it was too late, she recalled Seth’s many warnings, and bitterly repented her unutterable folly in ever going near this wild, untried young chieftain.

  She kept silent. But the seconds that passed as the man rode up were trying. He rode to within six inches of her, and their horses stood head to tail. Then he spoke in his native Sioux tongue, which so lends itself to the expression of ardent passion.

  “The sun has no brightness like the eyes of the paleface princess,” he said, his proud face serious, and his eyes steady and flashing. There was almost a flush under the dusky skin of his cheeks. “The waters of the great lakes are deep, but the depth is as nothing to the blue of the princess’s eyes. She is queen of her race, as Little Black Fox is king of his race. The king would wed the queen, whose eyes make little the cloudless summer sky. He loves her, and is the earth beneath her feet. He loves her, and all his race shall be her servants. He loves her, and all that is his is hers. So there shall be everlasting peace with her people and his. His heart is swept with a passion which is like to the fiercest blizzard of the plain. But its blast is hot; hotter and swifter than the fiercest heats of earth. There is no peace for him without the white princess. He is ever at war. The body fights with the brain, and his heart is torn. So he would wed the princess.”

  Even in her extremity something of the real passion of this wild youth found a chord of sympathy in Rosebud’s heart. His sincerity, his splendid personality, savage though he was, made her listen attentively. The woman in her was not insensible to his address, but the very truth of his passion roused her fears again to the topmost pitch. There was no mistaking those horsemen surrounding her. She gave one little helpless glance around at them that surely would have melted the heart of any white man. But the impassive faces held out no hope to her. She was at this man’s mercy.

  Now, oddly enough, when she might have been expected to cry out in her terror, her anger rose. That quick rising anger which Seth understood so well and smiled at. And she spoke without a shadow of fear in her tone. Her use of the Sioux tongue was not perfect, and her words gained force therefrom.

  “The princess cannot wed the chief,” she said. “It is not according to the law of the palefaces. Go—go back to your tepees, and the squaws of your race. Leave me to go in peace. I have to go back to my people.”

  There was a moment’s pause, during which a dog’s yelp might have been heard by any less occupied. The sound was such as is the yelp of a foxhound drawing a cover. The chief’s face had changed its expression; his passion was subservient to his native ferocity, and his face displayed it.

  “I have asked,” he said, “I, Little Black Fox, who am chief. I have said come to me. The paleface girl treats me like any dog. So. I have done. The spirit of Big Wolf, my father, enters my body. Like him, who took the princess and held her for his son, I will take that for which I have asked. There shall be no peace with your race.”

  He r
aised an arm to seize her by the waist. The girl saw his intention, and a wild fear dilated her eyes. But she did not lose her head. She suddenly spurred her broncho with a little vicious stab. The animal, already on his mettle, charged forward desperately, taking the pony of the Indian facing it in the chest and throwing it back upon its haunches. But the chief was round like lightning. He saw nothing, heeded nothing but the possible escape of this white girl, and that he had no intention of permitting. Had he been less engrossed he would have seen a dog rush madly into the clearing, and, in the manner of a cattle dog, incontinently begin a savage assault on the heels of the Indians’ ponies. No human intelligence could have conceived a more effective plan, for the braves were thrown into utter confusion.

  Little Black Fox came up with the fugitive, and, leaning over, caught the girl in his strong young arms. He meant to lift her from the saddle, but he held her thus only for a bare second. There was the sharp crack of a revolver, and Rosebud felt his grasp relax. He sat up on his horse and looked about him fiercely, then he reeled and clutched his pony’s mane, while Seth, shouting encouragement to the terrified girl, came at him from out of the woods.

  He came with such a cry of rage and fury that his voice was almost unrecognizable. His face, usually so calm, was flaming. His smoking revolver was raised aloft and, as his horse charged into that of the wounded chief, it fell crashing on to the befeathered head, and the man went down like a log.

  “You gol durned black heathen!” Seth cried. Then his rage died out before the greater emergency. “Ride, Rosebud! The woods, and turn left. Ride like hell!”

  It was all he had time for. He turned again in time to empty another chamber of his gun into the stomach of an Indian, who came at him with an upraised axe. Then, as the man rolled from his horse, he saw that the rest had discarded their blankets—their wearing of which had probably saved him—and now meant battle to the death.

  He fully realized that he had no chance of escape, but he meant to give them all he could before the end came. One Indian raised a queer old rifle at him, but he let it drop before it was discharged. Another bullet had found its billet in the pit of the man’s stomach.

  General, who had taken himself off when Rosebud departed, now returned to the scene. He came with his fierce, canine worrying just as the rest of the Indians charged their solitary adversary. His diversion helped to check their onslaught, but only for a second. They had abandoned their firearms in favor of their native weapons as they came.

  Seth was powerless against such odds. There was no hope. His revolver cracked and more than one man fell, but they closed with him, and, as his last barrel was emptied, he felt the flesh of his left shoulder rip under the slashing blow of an axe. His horse reared and for the moment took him clear of the horde, and at the same instant, he heard the deep tones of Rube’s voice shouting to him. The Indians heard it, too. They turned, and the fire of revolvers from this new direction greeted them. They could murder one man, but reinforcements were different. It was enough. As Rube and Charlie Rankin galloped into the clearing they broke and fled.

  “Rosebud?” cried Rube in a voice of agonized suspense.

  Seth had swung his horse round and led the way out of the clearing in the track the girl had taken.

  “Come on!” he cried. And, in a moment, the battle ground was deserted by all but the wounded Indians.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE LETTER FROM ENGLAND

  “La, child, an’ why did you go for to do it?”

  Ma was bending over Seth, bathing the ugly flesh wound in his shoulder. Her old eyes were pathetically anxious behind her spectacles, but her touch was sure and steady. Her words were addressed to Rosebud, who was standing by with a handful of bandages. The girl made no reply, and her eyes were fixed on this result of her escapade. She was pale, and her young face looked drawn. The violet of her eyes was noticeably dull, and it was easy to see that she was struggling hard to keep tears back. She simply could not answer.

  Seth took the task upon himself. He seemed to understand, although he was not looking her way.

  “Don’t worrit the gal, Ma,” he said, in his gentle fashion, so that Rosebud felt like dropping the bandages and fleeing from the room. “Say, jest git right to it an’ fix me up. I ’low ther’s li’ble to be work doin’ ’fore this night’s out.”

  “God a-mussy, I hope not, Seth, boy!” the old woman said, with a deep intake of breath. But her busy fingers hastened. She tenderly laid the wool, saturated in carbolic oil, upon the gash. Seth bore it without flinching. “More’n six year,” she added, taking the bandages from Rosebud and applying them with the skill of long experience, “an’ we’ve had no trouble, thank God. But I knew it ’ud come sure. Rube had it in his eye.”

  “Wher’s Rube now?” asked Seth, cutting her short.

  “Doin’ guard out front.”

  The bandage was adjusted, and Seth rose and was helped into his coat.

  “Guess I’ll git out to him.”

  He found it hard, for once, to sit in there with the womenfolk. His feeling was one common to men of action.

  “You’re feelin’ easy?” Ma asked him anxiously, as he moved to the door.

  “Dead right, Ma.”

  The old woman shook her head doubtfully, and Rosebud’s troubled eyes followed him as he moved away. She had scarcely spoken since they returned to the house. Her brain was still in a whirl and she was conscious of a weak, but almost overpowering, inclination to tears. The one thing that stood out above all else in her thoughts was Seth’s wound.

  No one had questioned her; no one had blamed her. These simple people understood her feelings of the moment too well. Later they knew they would learn all about it. For the present there was plenty to be done.

  Rube had been making preparations. Their plans needed no thinking out. Such an emergency as the present had always been foreseen, and so there was no confusion. Charlie Rankin had gone on to old Joe Smith, and that individual would be dispatched post-haste in the direction of the white tents that had been seen on the plains. For the rest the horses in the barn were ready harnessed, and Ma could be trusted to get together the household things ready for decamping. There was nothing to do but to keep a night-long watch.

  Seth had crossed the passage, and was passing through the parlor, out of which the front door opened. Rosebud hesitated. Then with something almost like a rush she followed him. She was at his side in a moment, and her two small hands were clasping his rough, strong right hand.

  “Seth,” she whispered, tearfully. “I——”

  “Don’t, little Rosie!” the man interrupted, attempting to draw his hand gently from her grasp. “Guess ther’ ain’t no need to say anything. Mebbe I know.”

  But Seth had misinterpreted her action. He thought she meant to explain. She kept hold of his hand, and tears were in her lovely eyes as she looked up into his dark face, now little more than a shadow in the faint light that came from the passage.

  “Oh, Seth, Seth, it was all my fault!” she cried, in her distress. “Your poor shoulder! Oh, what should I do if you were to die! Oh——” And the girl fell on her knees at his side and kissed the hand she was clinging to. The long threatened tears had come at last, and her voice was choked with sobs.

  Seth had been unprepared for this outburst. It took him quite aback, and he felt a great lump rise in his throat. Unconsciously he almost roughly released his hand. But the next moment it was laid tenderly upon the bowed head.

  “Git up, little gal,” he said. And there was a world of tenderness in his voice. His effort at self-restraint was great, but his feelings found a certain amount of expression in spite of him, for he was stirred to the depths of his loyal heart. He was face to face with a scene such as he had never even pictured. His sense of duty was powerless just then before his deep, strong love for the girl. “Little Rosebud,” he went on, and he struggled hard to make his words rough, “ther’s things to do. Go right back to Ma an�
�� help her. I must go out to Rube. He’s doin’ all the work, an’ so is she.”

  The girl made no move to rise. Her sobs were heart-breaking. Seth turned sharply and left her where she was. He simply dared not stay there another moment.

  Outside General was lying a few yards away from the house, crouched alertly, and gazing out prairiewards. He called the dog to him.

  “Injuns, boy,” he said, in a low tone. “S-seek ’em!”

  The dog responded with a low growl, and then moved off out into the darkness, with the prowling gait of a puma stalking its prey.

  “He’ll keep us posted,” Seth observed quietly to Rube.

  “You kind o’ understan’ him.”

  “He understands Injuns,” the dog’s master returned significantly. No more was said for a while, and the two men peered out into the darkness with eyes trained to such watchfulness.

  “’Bout them tents?” said Rube later on.

  “They’re the troops. The postmaster told me they were comin’ hard.”

  “Kind o’ handy.”

  It was very dark. The moon had not yet risen. Presently Seth fetched a chair. The older man watched him seat himself a little wearily.

  “Hurt some?” he said.

  “Jest a notion,” Seth replied in his briefest manner.

  “Say, you got around jest in time.”

  “Yup. Wanaha put me wise after I left here, so I came that aways. Say, this is jest the beginnin’.”