CHAPTER I
HOW IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT
His baptismal name was William Barclay, but before the corn-colouredpencilling on his upper lip had foretold the coming of a moustache, hewas known throughout that wide-flung region lying between the Platte andthe Rio Grande, the Missouri and the Mountains, as Bat. This honour fellto the boyish share of Mr. Masterson because his quick eye, steady hand,and stealthy foot rendered him invincible against bears and buffaloesand other animals, _ferae naturae_, and gray oldsters of the plains werethereby reminded of a Batiste Brown who had been celebrated as a hunterin the faraway heroic days of Chouteau, Sublette, Bridger, and St.Vrain.
There is no such season as boyhood on the plains, folk are children oneday, men the next, and thus it befell with Mr. Masterson. He owned,while yet his cheek was as hairless as an egg, primeval gravities andsilences, and neither asked nor answered questions, neither took norgave advice. Among his companions of the range he gained the reputationof one who "attends strictly to his own business"; and this contributedto his vogue and standing, and laid the bedplates of a popularconfidence in Mr. Masterson.
Also, Mr. Masterson, being few of years and not without a dash of theartistic, was in his way a swell. His spurs were of wrought steel tracedwith gold, the handkerchief--an arterial red for hue--knotted about hisbrown throat was silk, not cotton, while his gray sombrero had beenenriched with a bullion band of braided gold and silver, made in thelikeness of a rattlesnake, fanged and ruby-eyed. This latter device costMr. Masterson the price of one hundred buffalo robes, and existed asource of wondering admiration from Dodge to the Pueblos.
Told Him to "Vamos."]
As a final expression of dandyism, Mr. Masterson wore a narrow crimsonsash wound twice about his waist, the fringed ends descending gallantlydown his left leg. The sash had come from Mexico, smuggled in with awaggon load of Chihuahua hats, and when Mr. Masterson donned it, beingprivily a-blush to find himself so garish, he explained the same assomething wherewith he might hogtie steers when in the course of duty hemust rope and throw them. Doubtless the sash, being of a soft, reluctanttexture and calculated to tie very tight into knots that would not slip,was of the precise best material with which to hogtie steers; but sinceMr. Masterson never wore it on the range and always in the dance halls,it is suspected that he viewed it wholly in the light of a decoration.
Mr. Masterson's saddle, as exhibiting still further his sumptuousnature, was of stamped leather; while his war-bags and leggings werefaced with dogskin, the long black fell warranted to shed rain like atin roof. The one thing wanting a least flourish of ornament was Mr.Masterson's heavy, eight-square buffalo gun--a Sharp's 50-calibre rifle.
And yet this absence of embellishment was not because of Mr. Masterson'swant of respect for the weapon; rather he respected it too much. A riflewas a serious creature in the eyes of Mr. Masterson, and not to beregarded as jewelry; to mount it with silver or inlay its stock withgold would have been as unbecoming as to encrust a prayer-book withdiamonds. Mr. Masterson's rifle's name was Marie; and when abroad on therange he made remarks to it, and took it into his confidence, apropos ofevents which transpired as part of the day's work.
When Mr. Dixon, for whom Mr. Masterson was killing buffaloes along theCanadian, told that young gentleman how his visiting sister and niecewould pass a fortnight at the 'Dobe Walls, the better to realise avirgin wilderness in all its charms, Mr. Masterson made no comment.Behind his wordlessness, however, Mr. Masterson nourished a poor opinionof this social movement. At its best, the 'Dobe Walls, as well as thebuffalo range of which it lived at once the centre and the raggedflower, was rude beyond description, and by no means calculated--so Mr.Masterson thought--to dovetail with the tastes of ladies fresh fromBeacon Hill. Besides, Mr. Masterson was not satisfied as to the depthand breadth of what friendships were professed by certain Cheyennes, whohunted buffaloes in the neighbourhood of the Canadian, for theirpaleface brothers and sisters.
Mr. Masterson's opinions on this point of Cheyenne friendship was notthe offspring of surmise. Within the month, eight Cheyennes, supposed bythe authorities in Washington to be profoundly peaceful, had come uponhim while busy with both hands husking the hide from a buffalo bull.Full of the Washington impression of a Cheyenne peace, at least so faras deeds done of daylight and on the surface were concerned, Mr.Masterson paid no mighty heed to the visitors. Indeed, he paid none atall until one of them caught up his rifle from the grass, and smote himwith it on the head. The Cheyenne, cocking the gun and aiming it, toldhim in English learned at Carlisle, and, with epithets learned at theagencies, to _vamos_ or he'd shoot him in two. With the blood runningdown his face, Mr. Masterson so far accepted the Cheyenne suggestion asto back slowly from the muzzle of the rifle until he reached the edge ofa ravine, upon which he had had his mind's eye from the beginning. Thenhe suddenly vanished out of harm's way.
Once in the ravine, Mr. Masterson flew for his camp, distant not aquarter of a mile. Getting a second rifle, Mr. Masterson bushwhackedthose vivacious Cheyennes at the mouth of Mitchell's Canyon, and killedfour, among them the violent individual who had so smote upon him withhis own personal gun. The lost rifle, which was as the honour of Mr.Masterson, was recovered; and inasmuch as the four scalps were worth onehundred dollars in Dodge--for which amount they were a lien upon fundsheaped together by public generosity to encourage the collection of suchmementoes--it might be said that Mr. Masterson was repaid for his wound.He thought so, and in the language of diplomacy regarded the incident asclosed.
For all that, the business was so frankly hostile in its transactionthat Mr. Masterson, young of years yet ripe of Western wisdom, went morethan half convinced that the Panhandle, at the time when Mr. Dixondecided to have his fair relatives pay it a visit, did not offer thoseconditions of a civilised safe refinement for which ladies of culturewould look as their due. Mr. Masterson was right. Mr. Dixon's approvalof his sister and her daughter in their descent upon the 'Dobe Walls wasweakly foolish. Still, neither Mr. Masterson nor any one else felt freeto show this truth to Mr. Dixon, and preparations for the tenderinvasion went briskly forward.
As Mr. Masterson was buying cartridges in the outfitting store, whichemporium was one of the mud structures that constituted the 'Dobe Walls,he observed that Mr. Wright was clearing away the furniture from theoffice, this latter being a small room to the rear of the store.
"Going to give it to Billy Dixon's sister and her girl," explained Mr.Wright.
"When do they hit camp?" asked Mr. Masterson, mildly curious.
"Day after to-morrow, I reckon; they're coming over in a buckboard.Billy says there's a French party, a Count or something, who is comingwith them. It looks like he's going to marry Billy's niece. If he showsup, he'll have to bunk in with you buffalo killers over in Hanrahan'ssaloon."
"Just so he don't talk French to us," said Mr. Masterson, "I won't care.I've put up with Mexican and Cheyenne, but I draw the line at French."
There were a score of men at the 'Dobe Walls, and Ruth Pembertonconfessed to herself that Mr. Masterson was the Admirable Crichton ofthe array. She secretly admired his powerful shoulders, and comparedhim--graceful and limber and lithe as a mountain lion--with the tubbyCount Banti to that patrician's disadvantage. Also, Mr. Masterson'shands and feet were smaller than those of Count Banti.
Ruth Pemberton and Count Banti made brief saddle excursions up and downthe banks of the Canadian. Mr. Wright, using sundry ingenious devices tothat end, had trained one of the more sedate of the 'Dobe Walls' poniesto carry a lady without going insane. The training was successful, andthe bronco thus taught to defy the dread mysteries of skirts andsidesaddle, had been presented to Ruth Pemberton. While Ruth Pembertonand Count Banti rode abroad, Madam Pemberton uplifted herself withGeorge Eliot's novels, and the sermons of Theodore Parker.
Ruth Pemberton and her noble escort never traveled far from camp, forMr. Wright had convinced them that Cheyennes were not to be trusted. Theseveral specimens of this interestin
g sept whom they saw about the 'DobeWalls, trading robes for calico and cartridges, served by theirappearance to confirm the warnings of Mr. Wright.
When not abroad in the saddle, Ruth Pemberton developed a surprisingpassion to know intimately the West and its methods, rude and rough. Sheasked Mr. Masterson if she might go to school to him in this study sonear her pretty heart. That young gentleman, looking innocently into herslumberous brown eyes, said "Yes" directly. Or rather Mr. Masterson,lapsing into the Panhandle idiom, said,
"Shore!"
Being thus permitted, Ruth Pemberton, when Mr. Masterson galloped infrom his buffalo killing and the Mexican skinners had brought home thehides in a waggon, would repair to the curing grounds, the latter beinga flat, grassy stretch within two hundred yards of Mr. Wright's store.Once there, she looked on while Mr. Masterson pegged out the greenhides. It interested her to see him sprinkle them, and the nearby grass,with poisoned water to keep off hidebugs. The hidebug, according to Mr.Masterson, must have been an insect cousin of the buffalo, for he cameand went with the robe-hunters, and lived but to spoil hides with theholes that he bored in them.
Ruth Pemberton asked Mr. Masterson questions, to which he replied in onesyllable. Also she did not pay sufficient attention to CountBanti--giving her whole bright-eyed time to Mr. Masterson. Whereat CountBanti sulked; and presently deserting Ruth Pemberton he withdrew to Mr.Hanrahan's saloon, where he was taught draw-poker to his detriment.Count Banti, when he left Ruth Pemberton, expected that she would callhim back; she did not, and the oversight made him savage.
One morning, while they were riding among the riverside cottonwoods,Count Banti became hysterical in his reproaches; he averred that RuthPemberton tortured in order to try his love. Proceeding to extremes, hesaid that, should she drive him desperate, he would destroy Mr.Masterson. At this, Ruth Pemberton's rice-white teeth showed betweenroseleaf lips; she smiled in half admiration upon Count Banti.
"Oh!" thought Ruth Pemberton, "if only he would kill somebody I mightlove him from my heart!"
The soul of Ruth Pemberton of Beacon Hill and Vassar, having been westof the Missouri one month and at the 'Dobe Walls two days, was slippinginto savagery--so friendly is retrogression, so easy comes reversion totype! She had supposed she loved Count Banti; and here was her soulgoing out to Mr. Masterson! How she dwelt upon him, when, bronzed ofbrow, cool of eye, alert, indomitable, he rode in from the day's kill!The rattle of his spurs as he swung from the saddle was like a tune ofmusic!
Not that Ruth Pemberton wore these thoughts on her face. She hid themfrom others, she even concealed them from herself. Had one told her thatshe was beginning to love Mr. Masterson, she would have stared. CountBanti himself never thought of so hideous a possibility; his jealouspetulance arose solely from her calm neglect of himself. Ruth Pembertonasked Mr. Masterson how old he was, and it pleased her to hear that hewas several months her superior.
Civilisation is a disguise, and in travel one loses one's mask. One'snature comes out and basks openly in new suns. This is so true that theWest, when a compliment is intended, says of a man: "He'll do to crossthe plains with." What the West means is that on such an expedition,what is treacherous or selfish or cowardly in a man will appear.Wherefore, to say of one that he will do to cross the plains with, is amost emphatic declaration that the one thus exalted is unmarked ofvices.
Ruth Pemberton, who on Beacon Hill would have paled at a pin-prick andthe red bead of blood it provoked, now thought kindly of mere slaughter,and insisted on riding ten miles with Mr. Masterson to the buffalogrounds to witness the day's work.
"But, my child!" cried Madam Pemberton.
"It's the only chance, mamma, I'll ever have to see a buffalo killed."
Madam Pemberton was not a deep mind, but exceeding shallow; to say thatany chance was an only chance struck her as a reason for embracing it.
Ruth Pemberton was to journey to the buffalo grounds in the buckboard;Count Banti might accompany her, a Mexican would drive. Mr. Masterson,when told of the good company he would have on his next day's hunt, madeno objection. To the direct question as to whether the country werepossible for buckboards, he said it was.
"What do you think yourself, Bob?" asked Mr. Masterson, when thatevening he met Mr. Wright in Mr. Hanrahan's bar, and they discussed thisfeminine eagerness to see dead buffaloes. "If we cross up with a bunchof Cheyennes, there may be trouble. It's a chance they'd try to capturethe girl. Besides, they've got it in for me about that hair on mybridle."
"There's no Cheyennes about," said Mr. Wright. "When they drift withintwenty miles of us, they are sure to show up at the store, and I haven'tseen an Indian for two days."
Count Banti took a Winchester rifle with him. There were two seats inthe buckboard; Ruth Pemberton and Count Banti occupied the rear seat,the front seat being given over to the Mexican, and a basket flowingwith a refection prepared by Mr. Hanrahan's darky cook. Mr. Masterson,on his buckskin pony, Houston, rode by Ruth Pemberton's side of thebuckboard. Madam Pemberton remained behind with The Mill on the Floss.
The expedition skirted the suburbs of a prairie dog village, and theshrill citizens were set a-flutter, or pretended to be, and dived intotheir houses. The polite diminutive owls, the prairie dogs' companions,stood their ground and made obeisances. Ruth Pemberton's cheek flushedwith an odd interest as she gazed at the prairie dogs and the littlepolite ground owls.
Off to one side a dozen coyotes loafed along, not unlike a dozen loafingdogs, keeping abreast of the buckboard. Ruth Pemberton pointed to them:
"Isn't it strange," she asked, "that they should accompany us?"
There was the emphasis of a half alarm in her tones; a coyote was not,to her eyes, without formidable characteristics. Mr. Mastersonexplained.
"They go with us to the kill. When we leave, there will be a battleroyal between them and the buzzards for the beef."
Mr. Masterson pushed forward to show the buckboard Mexican his wayacross a piece of broken ground. Count Banti took note of the partedlips, and that soft sparkle of the brown eyes, as Ruth Pembertonfollowed him with her glances. Count Banti made no criticism of thesedulcet phenomena; he was too much of a gentleman and she too much of anheiress.
Count Banti, moved of a purpose to recall Ruth Pemberton from her trainof fancy, did say that since a waggon, with the skinners, must go andcome every day to bring in the buffalo hides, he was surprised that Mr.Masterson didn't ride in that waggon. It was superfluous, nay foolish,to saddle a pony under such waggon circumstances.
This idiotic conversation earned the commentator on buffalo hunters andtheir ways immediate grief. Ruth Pemberton wheeled upon Count Banti likea little lioness, that is, a little lioness subdued of Vassar and BeaconHill. Ruth Pemberton said that she had never been treated to a morepreposterous remark! It was unworthy, Count Banti! Mr. Masterson in awaggon! One might as easily conceive of Sir Launcelot or Richard theLion Heart in a waggon.
When Mr. Masterson returned to the buckboard, Ruth Pemberton deftly losther handkerchief overboard. Mr. Masterson brought Houston to the rightabout, and riding back stooped from the saddle and swept up the scrap ofcambric from the short grass.
"Because you are so good," said Ruth Pemberton, with a smile, "you maykeep it for your reward."
Count Banti ground his teeth; he expected that Mr. Masterson would bindthe sweet trophy in his sombrero. Count Banti gasped; instead of tuckingthe dainty guerdon behind that gold and silver rattlesnake, the favoureddull one continued to offer it to Ruth Pemberton.
"I've no place for it," said Mr. Masterson; "I'd lose it."
Ruth Pemberton's brow was red as she received her property; for onewrathful moment a flame showed in the brown eye like a fire in a forest.Mr. Masterson's own eye was as guileless as an antelope's. Was he afool? Was he deriding her? Ruth Pemberton decided that he was merely awhite Indian. She appeased her vanity by turning her shoulder on thecriminal and giving her conversation to Count Banti. Under these directrays of the sun, our Frenchman's noble
soul expanded like a flower; asthe fruit of that blossoming he began to brag like a Sioux.
Having caught some glint of the lady's spirit, Count Banti told ofadventures in India and Africa. He was a hero; he had hauntedwater-holes by night and killed black-maned lions; he had stalked tigerson foot; he had butchered Zulus who, moved of a tropical venom, assailedhim with battle axes.
Count Banti, pressing forward, set forth that he had been sustained ashe crossed the Atlantic by a hope that he might war with America's rednatives. Alas, they were broken and cowed; their spirit had been beatendown! He must return wrapped in disappointment.
Still--and now Count Banti became tender--it had been the most fortunatejourney of his career. If not Mars then Venus! Count Banti had found themost lovely and most lovable woman in the world! And, by the way, wouldRuth Pemberton make Count Banti delirious with joy by presenting him thehandkerchief which the aborigine on the pony had had neither the wit northe gentle fineness to accept?
For reply, Ruth Pemberton furtively wadded the poor rejected cambricinto a ball about the size of a buckshot, and dropped it overboardagain. And, because neither Mr. Masterson nor Count Banti saw its fall,there it lies among the buffalo grasses on the flat banks of theCanadian to this day.
Count Banti repeated his request and backed it with a sigh. ThereuponRuth Pemberton opened both small hands to show how that desirablecambric had disappeared. Count Banti made rueful eyes rearward as thoughcontemplating a search.
Mr. Masterson halted the buckboard; they had arrived within a mile ofthe buffaloes; he pointed where hundreds of them were grazing orreposing about the base of a gently sloping hill. The heavydust-coloured creatures looked like farm cattle to the untaught RuthPemberton.
There was a bowl-like depression a few yards from where the buckboardcame to a stop. It was grassed and regular, and one might have imaginedthat it had been shaped and sodded by a gardener. Mr. Masterson definedit as a buffalo wallow; he tried to make clear how, pivoting on onehorn, a buffalo bull, shoulder to the ground, had excavated thecup-fashioned hollow they beheld.
While the Mexican was slipping free the team's traces, and making thefew camp arrangements required for their stay, Count Banti began alively talk with Mr. Masterson.
How long would it take Mr. Masterson to complete his day's kill?
Mr. Masterson, it seems, would kill thirty buffaloes; that would take anhour.
And then they would return? Yes; or if the visitors tired, they mighthook up and start at any moment. It was not worth while to sit throughthe slaughter of thirty buffaloes. The killing of one would be as thekilling of another; to see the first was to see all.
Ruth Pemberton interposed; she would wait and return with Mr. Masterson.
Count Banti said he could see that killing buffaloes was slow, insipidsport. Now there might be a gallant thrill in fighting Indians--paintedand perilous! Count Banti would have summoned up an interest forIndians. Had Mr. Masterson ever slain an Indian? Probably not; Mr.Masterson was a young man.
Mr. Masterson bent a cold eye upon Count Banti. Saying never a word, hesauntered over to Houston, and began twisting a pair of rawhide hopplesabout his fetlocks, for Mr. Masterson, like all professional buffalohunters, killed his game on foot. As Count Banti was ruffling over Mr.Masterson's want of courtesy, the Mexican plucked him by the sleeve.
"See!" said the Mexican, pointing to the four braids of black hairhanging from Mr. Masterson's bridle. "Cheyenne skelps; four!" And theMexican held up four fingers.
"Scalps!" returned Count Banti, the burgundy colour deserting his heavyface. "Where did he get them?"
"Killed 'em here--anywhere!" vouchsafed the Mexican, waving a vague paw."Killed 'em twelve weeks ago--mebby eight--no?"
What Count Banti might have thought concerning the sinister character ofthe region into which he had stumbled, he was given no chance todivulge, for Mr. Masterson came up, rifle in hand, and speaking to RuthPemberton, said:
"Make yourself comfortable; you will be able to follow all that goes on,should you be interested in it, from the buckboard. You've brought apair of field glasses, I see. Lucky we're down the wind! I can gostraight to them."
As the ground between him and the buffaloes on the slope lay flat andopen, with not so much as a bush to act as a screen, Mr. Masterson'sremark about going straight to his quarry appeared a bit optimistic.However, Mr. Masterson did not think so, but seemed the sublimation ofcertainty; he started off at a slow, careless walk directly towards theherd.
Mr. Masterson had covered half the distance, that is to say, he hadapproached within a half mile of his game, before the buffaloesdisplayed a least excitement. When he had travelled thus far, however,those nearest began to exhibit a slow, angry alarm. They would paw thegrass and toss a threatening horn; at times one would throw up his noseand sniff the air. The wind being from the buffaloes to Mr. Masterson,these nose experiments went without reward.
Yielding to the restless timidity of the perturbed ones, who if setrunning would infallibly stampede the herd, Mr. Masterson threw himselfon his face and began to creep. His brown right hand gripped the stockof his rifle, and he dragged it over the grass, muzzle to the rear.Also, he was careful to keep his face hidden from the buffaloes behindthe wide brim of his sombrero.
The herd's interest was sensibly abated when Mr. Masterson forsook theperpendicular. So long as they were granted no terrifying glimpses ofhis face, the buffaloes would believe him some novel form of wolf, andnobody to fly from. Acting upon this wolf theory, they watched thecreeping Mr. Masterson curiously; they stood their ground, and some evenwalked towards him in a threatening mood, disposed to bully.
As Mr. Masterson, eyes to the grass, crept slowly forward, a dry"Bzz-z-z-z-z!" broke on his ear from a little distance in advance.Cautiously he lifted his eyes; the rattlesnake lay, coiled andopen-mouthed, in his path. Mr. Masterson pushed the Sharp's towards thereptile; at that it uncoiled and crawled aside.
For twenty minutes Mr. Masterson continued his slow, creeping advance.When he was within four hundred yards of the herd he rose on one knee.There was a big bull, evidently an individual of consequence, who,broadside on, stood furthest up the wind. Deliberately and withoutexcitement, the Sharp's came to Mr. Masterson's shoulder and his steadyeye brought the sights to bear upon a spot twelve inches square, justbehind the foreshoulder.
For the sliver of a second Mr. Masterson hung on the aim; then the heavybuffalo gun, burning one hundred and twenty grains of powder andthrowing a bullet eight to the pound, roared, and the bull leapedheavily forward, shot through the lungs. With forefeet spread wide,blood pumping from both nostrils, the buffalo fought desperately forbreath and for strength to stand. The battle was against him; hestaggered, caught himself, tottered, stumbled, and then with a sigh ofdespair sank forward on his knees to roll at last upon his side--dead.
At the roar of the buffalo gun, the herd, fear at their hearts' roots,began to run. Instantly a change came over them. The dying bull was towindward gushing blood, and the scent of that blood swept down upon themin a kind of madness. Their wits forsook them; they forgot their perilin the blood-frenzy that possessed them, and charged ferociously upontheir dying comrade. When he fell, they gored him with crazy horns--aherd of humped, four-legged, shaggy, senseless, bellowing lunatics!
"Bang!" from the big buffalo gun, and another bull stood bleeding outhis life. The herd, wild and frantic, fell upon him.
"Bang!" spoke the buffalo gun; a third, shot through and through, becamethe object of the herd's crazy rage.
Killing always to windward, Mr. Masterson might have stood in his tracksand slain a dozen score; the scent of the new blood would hold thefury-bitten buffaloes like a spell.
Knowing this to be the nature of buffaloes, Mr. Masterson felt profoundsurprise when after his third fire, and while still the last strickenbleeding buffalo was on his feet, the whole band seemed suddenlyrestored to their senses, and went lumbering off at a right angle.
"Cheyennes!" exclaimed
the sophisticated Mr. Masterson; "they are overthe brow of the hill!" Then he turned, and started for Ruth Pembertonand the others at a sharp trot.
While Mr. Masterson was creeping on the buffaloes, Ruth Pemberton fromher buckboard perch, followed him through the field glasses. She saw himpause, and push forward with his rifle at the rattlesnake; while shecould not see the reptile, by some instinct she realised it--coiled andfanged and venomous--and shuddered. She drew a breath of relief as Mr.Masterson re-began his stalk. She saw him when he rose to his knee; thencame the straight, streaky puff of white smoke, and the dying bull stoodstaggering and bleeding. Next there drifted to her on the loiteringbreeze the boom of the buffalo gun, blunted by distance and direction.Her glasses covered the herd when in its blood-rage it held furious wakeabout the dying ones.
And, what was most strange, Ruth Pemberton took a primal joy therein.She was conscious of the free, original sweep of the plains about her,with the white shimmer of the Canadian beyond. And sensations claimedher, to flow in her veins and race along her nerves, which archery andtennis had never called up. There abode a glow in her blood that waslike a brightness and a new joy. If the handkerchief-declining Mr.Masterson were a white Indian, what now was she? Only she never oncethought on that.
Mr. Masterson came up at top speed, and said something in Spanish to theMexican. That hare-heart became pale as paper; instead of bringing inhis team, as Mr. Masterson had commanded, he cut the hopples of thenearest horse, and went powdering away towards the 'Dobe Walls. Mr.Masterson tossed up his Sharp's with a half-notion of stopping him; thenhe shook his head cynically.
"He's only a Mexican," said he. Helping Ruth Pemberton from thebuckboard, where she sat in startled ignorance, he remarked: "Get intothe buffalo wallow; you'll be safer there."
"Safe?" whispered Ruth Pemberton.
Mr. Masterson pointed to eleven Cheyennes on the far crest of the hill.Then he led Ruth Pemberton to the buffalo wallow, where Count Banti wasalready crouching.
"You've left your Winchester on the buckboard," said Mr. Masterson.
Count Banti stared glassily, the purple of his face a dingy gray. Theman was helpless; the nearness of death had paralyzed him.
Mr. Masterson shifted his glance to Ruth Pemberton. Her eyes, shininglike strange jewels, met him squarely look for look; there was a heaveto her bosom and a red in her cheek. His own eyes were jade, and hisbrows had come sternly forward, masking his face with the very spirit ofwar. The two looked upon one another--the boy and the girl whose rearingshad been so far apart and whose natures were so close together.
"I'll get it," she said, meaning the Winchester.
Mr. Masterson made her crouch down in the bottom of the buffalo wallow,where neither bullet nor arrow might reach her. Then, walking to thebuckboard, he got the Winchester and the cartridge belt that belongedwith it.
"It's Baldy Smith's," remarked Mr. Masterson, as though Ruth Pembertonmight be interested in the news. "It's a good gun--for a Winchester."
One of the Cheyennes, glimpsing the recreant Mexican, started inpursuit; the others rode down the slope for a closer survey of the trioin the buffalo wallow. Mr. Masterson threw the loop of a lariat over thehead of Houston and fastened him, hopples and all, to the buckboard.
Understanding that no surprise was possible, the Cheyennes began at asweeping gallop to circle the garrison in the buffalo wallow, theirdainty little war ponies a-flutter of eagle feathers and strips of redcloth. As they circled, they closed in nearer and nearer; at less thansix hundred yards they opened fire.
Each attacking buck kept his pony between himself and Mr. Masterson,firing from beneath the pony's neck. The shooting was bad; the bulletsstruck the grass and kicked up puffs of dirt one hundred yards in front,and then came singing forty feet overhead. Count Banti heard the zip!zip! zip! and groaned as he lay on his face.
Mr. Masterson, who--being on his feet--was head and shoulders above thelevel of the flat, paid no heed to the terror-ridden Count Banti. Oncehe cast a look at Ruth Pemberton, making sure she was below the dangerlevel. She, for her side, watched his expression as he stood, rifle inhand, observing the attack. She felt no fear, felt nothing only a sweepand choke of exultation. It was as though she were the prize for which abattle was being fought--a battle, one against ten! Also, she could readin the falconed frown of Mr. Masterson somewhat of that temper wherewithhe had harvested those scalps on his bridle.
While Ruth Pemberton gazed in a kind of fondness without fear, the heavySharp's came to the sudden shoulder of Mr. Masterson. The roar of itfell upon her so close and loud that it was like a fog to her senses.Mr. Masterson threw open his gun, and clipped in a second cartridge. Thebrass shell flirted over his shoulder by the extractor, struck CountBanti's face. That hero--who had hunted lions by night and tigers onfoot--gave a little scream, and then lay mute.
"It was this!" said Ruth Pemberton, holding up the empty shell to Mr.Masterson.
Mr. Masterson's bullet had gone through pony and rider as though theywere papier-mache. What life might have been left in the latter wascrushed out by the falling pony who smashed chest and ribs beneath hisheavy shoulder.
The nine other circling bucks gathered about the one who had died.Clustered as they were, there could be no thought of missing, and Mr.Masterson emptied another saddle. With that, the others swooped on theslain and bore them off beyond the hill.
As they did so, far away to the right a single Cheyenne came riding; hewas yelping like twenty wolves at once, and tossing something andcatching it in his hand. The single Cheyenne was he who had followed thecraven Mexican, and the thing he tossed and played with was theMexican's scalp. When he had joined the others, and they had laid theirdead in a safe place, the whole party again came riding--open order--downthe long slope towards the fatal buffalo wallow.
Mr. Masterson picked up the Winchester and forced cartridges into themagazine until it would hold no more.
"They're going to charge," said Mr. Masterson, apologising for theWinchester. "It'll come handy to back up my Sharp's in a case of quickwork. There won't be time to load, and a Sharp's is only a single-shotgun, you know."
Ruth Pemberton did not know, and her mind was running on other mattersthan guns, single-shot or magazine.
"They're going to charge?" she asked.
"Yes; but don't lose your nerve. They'll make a heap of hubbub, but it'stwo for one I stand them off."
The assurance came as coolly as though Mr. Masterson considered thepossibilities of a shower, and was confident of the integrity of RuthPemberton's umbrella.
"One thing!" said Ruth Pemberton wistfully.
"Yes?" said Mr. Masterson, his eye on the Cheyennes, his ear on RuthPemberton.
"Don't let them take me! Kill me first!"
"I've intended to from the beginning," said Mr. Masterson steadily."First you, then me! You know the Western saying for an Indian fight:Always save your last shot for yourself!"
There was nothing of despair or lack of resolution; he spoke as speaksone who but gives a promise to one who has reason to receive it. Heoffered it without fear to one who accepted it without fear, and when hehad spoken Ruth Pemberton felt as cheerfully light as a bird. She had adesire to seize on the Winchester and take her stand with Mr. Masterson.But her ignorance of Winchesters was there to baffle her; moreover Mr.Masterson, as though he read her impulse, interfered.
"Stay where you are!" he commanded. From where she crouched in thebuffalo wallow, Ruth Pemberton heard a whirl of yells, and thegrass-muffled drumming of many hoofs; and the yells and the hoof-beatswere bearing down upon her with the rush of a tempest. There came arattle of rifles, and the chuck! chuck! of bullets into the soft earth.In the midst of the din and the clamour she heard the bold roar of thebuffalo gun. Then she saw Mr. Masterson snatch up the Winchester, andspring clear of the buffalo wallow to the flat, grassy ground in front.Feeling nothing, knowing nothing beyond a resolution to be near him,live or die, she was out of the buffalo wallow as soon as was he, an
d onher knees at his feet. She could seize on no one element as distinct andseparate from a whirling whole, made up of blur and smoke and yell andrifle crash, with feathers dancing and little ponies charging likemeteors! She was sure only of the rock-bound fact to which she clungthat Mr. Masterson never moved from where he stood. She heard thespitting, whip-like crack of the Winchester, so different from themenacing voice of the buffalo gun, as working it with the rapidity of abell-punch he fired it faster than she could count.
The thing was on and by and over in a moment; the charging Cheyenneswent to right and left, unable to ride up against that tide of deathwhich set so fiercely in their faces. Nine Cheyennes made that chargeupon the buffalo wallow; Ruth Pemberton counted but four to flash to therear at the close. The four never paused; their hearts had turned weak,and they kept on along the river's bank, until at a low place they rodein and went squattering across. Five riderless ponies, running wild andlost, gave chase with neighs of protest at being left behind.
Out in front, one of the five Cheyennes who had been shot from hissaddle in the charge raised himself, wounded, on his elbow. Mr.Masterson, who had recovered his Sharp's, sent a bullet into his head.Ruth Pemberton, even through the tingling trance of battle that stillwrapped her close, turned cold.
"What else?" inquired Mr. Masterson. "We don't run any Red-Cross outfitin the Panhandle."
Ruth Pemberton made no reply: her fascinated eyes saw where a trickle ofblood guttered the cheek of Mr. Masterson. She thought no more on deador living Cheyennes, but with a great sob of horror came towards him,eyeing the blood.
"Only a nick," said he. "You can't fight all day without a scratch ortwo."
Count Banti began to stir. He sat up in a foolish way and looked at RuthPemberton. She turned from him, ashamed, and let her gaze rove to wherethe Cheyennes, far beyond the river, were rounding the corner of a hill.There was nothing she could say to Count Banti.
Mr. Masterson loosened and mounted Houston, which seasoned pony hadcomported himself throughout the melee with the steadiness which shouldgo with his name. Presently he rode back to the buffalo wallow, andinstead of four, there were eleven scalps on his bridle rein.
"A man should count his _coups_," he vouchsafed in explanation.
There was no need of defence; Ruth Pemberton, without understanding theargument which convinced her own breast, looked upon those scalps as thefitting finale of the morning's work.
Mr. Masterson caught up the buckboard horse, mate to the one upon whichthe Mexican had fled, and strapped a blanket on its back for the use andbehoof of Count Banti--still speechless, nerves a-tangle. Then Mr.Masterson, taking a spare cinch from his war-bags, to the disgust ofHouston, proceeded with more blankets to construct a pillion upon whichRuth Pemberton might ride behind him. Houston, as he felt the cinchdrawing, pointed his ears resentfully.
"Well?" threatened Mr. Masterson.
Houston relaxed the resentful ears and acquiesced with grace, fearingworse.
Mr. Masterson from the saddle held out his hand; Ruth Pemberton took itand, making a step of the stirrup which he tendered, sprang to thepillion.
"You can hold on by my belt," quoth Mr. Masterson.
And so they came back to the 'Dobe Walls; Ruth Pemberton's arms aboutMr. Masterson, her cheek against his shoulder, while her soul wanderedup and down in a world of strange happinesses, as one might walk amongtrees and flowers, with birds singing overhead.
Four days; and the buckboard bearing Ruth Pemberton, Madam Pemberton andCount Banti drew away for the North. A lieutenant with ten cavalrymen,going from Fort Elliot to Dodge, accompanied them by way of escort.
"And so you hate the East?" Ruth Pemberton had asked Mr. Masterson thatmorning before the start, her eyes dim, and her cheeks much too pale forso innocent a question.
"No, not hate," returned Mr. Masterson, "but my life is in the West."
As the buckboard reached the ridge from which would come the lastglimpse of the Canadian, off to the south and west, outlined against thesky, stood a pony and rider. The rider waved his sombrero in farewell.Ruth Pemberton gazed and still gazed; the hunger of the brown eyes wasas though her love lay starving. The trail sloped sharply downward, andthe picture of the statue horseman on the hill was snatched away. Withthat--her life turned drab and desolate--Ruth Pemberton slipped to thefloor of the buckboard, and buried her face in her mother's kindly lap.
The Sunset Trail Page 2