WHERE THE TRAIL DIVIDES

By WILL LILLIBRIDGE

Author of "BEN BLAIR, " Etc. 

With Frontispiece in ColorsBy The Kinneys

1907

CONTENTS

 I. PRESENTIMENT

 II. FULFILMENT

 III. DISCOVERY

 IV. RECONSTRUCTION

 V. THE LAND OF LICENCE

 VI. THE RED MAN AND THE WHITE

 VII. A GLIMPSE OF THE UNKNOWN

 VIII. THE SKELETON WITHIN THE CLOSET

 IX. THE VOICE OF THE WILD

 X. THE CURSE OF THE CONQUERED

 XI. THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

 XII. WITHIN THE CONQUEROR'S OWN COUNTRY

 XIII. THE MYSTERY OF SOLITUDE

 XIV. FATE, THE SATIRIST

 XV. THE FRUIT OF THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

 XVI. THE RECKONING

 XVII. SACRIFICE

XVIII. REWARD

 XIX. IN SIGHT OF GOD ALONE

CHAPTER I

PRESENTIMENT

The man was short and fat, and greasy above the dark beard line. Inaddition, he was bowlegged as a greyhound, and just now he moved with alimp as though very footsore. His coarse blue flannel shirt, open at thethroat, exposed a broad hairy chest that rose and fell mightily with theeffort he was making. And therein lay the mystery. The sun was hot--withthe heat of a cloudless August sun at one o'clock of the afternoon. Thecountry he was traversing was wild, unbroken--uninhabited apparently ofman or of beast. Far to his left, just visible through the dancing heatrays, indistinct as a mirage, was a curling fringe of green trees. Tohis right, behind him, ahead of him was not a tree nor a shrub nor arock the height of a man's head; only ungrazed, yellowish-greensun-dried prairie grass. The silence was complete. Not even a breath ofwind rustled the grass; yet ever and anon the man paused glanced backthe way he had come, listened, his throat throbbing with the effort ofrepressed breathing, in obvious expectation of a sound he did not hear;then, for the time relieved, forged ahead afresh, one hand gripping thebutt of an old Springfield rifle slung over his shoulder, the other, big, unclean, sunbrowned, swinging like a pendulum at his side. 

Ludicrous, unqualifiedly, the figure would have been in civilisation, humorous as a clown in a circus; but seeing it here, solitary, exotic, no observer would have laughed. Fear, mortal dogging fear, impersonate, supreme, was in every look, every action. Somewhere back of that curvedline where met the earth and sky, lurked death. Nothing else would havebeen adequate to arouse this phlegmatic human as he was now aroused. Thesweat oozed from his thick neck in streams and dripped drop by drop fromthe month-old stubble which covered his chin, but apparently he nevernoticed it. Now and then he attempted to moisten his lips; but histongue was dry as powder, and they closed again, parched as before. 

No road nor trail, nor the semblance of a trail, marked the way he wasgoing; the hazy green fringe far to the east was his only landmark; yetas hour after hour went by and the sun sank lower and lower he neverhalted, never seemed in doubt as to his destination. The country wasgrowing more rolling now, almost hilly, and he approached each risecautiously, vigilantly. Once, almost at his feet a covey of frightenedprairie chickens sprang a-wing, and at the unexpected sound he droppedlike a stone in his tracks, all but concealing himself in the tallgrass; then, reassured, he was up again, plodding doggedly, ceaselesslyon. 

It was after sundown when he paused; and then only from absolutephysical inability to go farther. Outraged nature had at last rebelled, and not even fear could suffice longer to stimulate him. The grass waswet with dew, and prone on his knees he moistened his lips therefrom asdrinks many another of the fauna of the prairie. Then, flat on his back, not sleeping, but very wide awake, very watchful, he lay awaiting thereturn of strength. Upon the fringe of hair beneath the brim of his hatthe sweat slowly dried; then, as the dew gathered thicker and thicker, dampened afresh. Far to the east, where during the day had appeared thefringe of green, the sky lightened, almost brightened; until at last, like a curious face, the full moon, peeping above the horizon, lit upthe surface of prairie. 

At last--and ere this the moon was well in the sky--the man arose, stretched his stiffened muscles profanely--before he had not spoken asyllable--listened a moment almost involuntarily, sent a swift, searching glance all about; then moved ahead, straight south, at the oldrelentless pace. 

 * * * * *

The lone ambassador from the tiny settlement of Sioux Falls vacillatedbetween vexation and solicitude. 

"For the last time I tell you; we're going whether you do or not, " heannounced in ultimatum. 

Samuel Rowland, large, double-chinned, distinctly florid, folded hisarms across his chest with an air of finality. 

"And I repeat, I'm not going. I'm much obliged to you for the warning. I know your intentions are good, but you people are afraid of your ownshadows. I know as well as you do that there are Indians in this part ofthe world, some odd thousands of them between here and the Hills, butthey were here when I came and when you came, and we knew they werehere. You expect to hear from a Dane when you buy tickets to 'Hamlet, 'don't you?"

The other made a motion of annoyance. 

"If you imagine this is a time for juggling similes, " he returnedswiftly, "you're making the mistake of your life. If you were alone, Rowland, I'd leave you here to take your medicine without another word;but I've a wife, too, and I thank the Lord she's down in Sioux Citywhere Mrs. Rowland and the kid should be, and for her sake--"

"I beg your pardon. "

The visitor started swiftly to leave, then as suddenly turned back. 

"Good God, man!" he blazed; "are you plumb daft to stickle for littleniceties now? I tell you I just helped to pick up Judge Amidon and hisson, murdered in their own hayfield not three miles from here, the boyas full of arrows as a cushion of pins. This isn't ancient history, man, but took place this very day. It's Indian massacre, and at our ownthroats. The boys are down below the falls getting ready to go rightnow. By night there won't be another white man or woman withintwenty-five miles of you. It's deliberate suicide to stand herearguing. If you will stay yourself, at least send away Mrs. Rowland andthe girl. I'll take care of them myself and bring them back when thegovernment sends some soldiers here, as it's bound to do soon. Listen toreason, man. Your claim won't run away; and if someone should jump itthere's another just as good alongside. Pack up and come on. "

Of a sudden, rough pioneer as he was, his hat came off and the tone ofvexation left his voice. Another actor, a woman, had appeared upon thescene. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Mrs. Rowland, " he digressed. "Take myadvice and come along. I'll never forgive myself if we leave youbehind. "

"You really think there's danger, Mr. Brown?" she asked unemotionally. 

"Danger!" In pure impotence of language the other stared. "Danger, withHeaven knows how many hostile Sioux on the trail! Is it possible you twodon't realise things as they are?"

"Yes, I think we realise all right, " tolerantly. "I know the Tetons arehostile; they couldn't well be otherwise. Any of us would rebel if wewere hustled away into a corner like naughty little boys, as they are;but actual danger--" The woman threw a comprehensive, almost amusedglance at the big man, her husband. "We've been here almost two yearsnow; long before you and the others came. Half the hunters who pass thisway stop here. It wasn't a month ago that a party of Yanktons left awhole antelope. You ought to see Baby Bess shake hands with some ofthose wrinkled old bucks. Danger! We're safer here than we would be inSioux City. "

"But there's been massacre already, I tell you, " exploded the other. "Idon't merely surmise it. I saw it with my own eyes. "

"There must have been some personal reason then. " Mrs. Rowland glancedat the restless, excited speaker analytically, almost superciliously. "Indians are like white people. They have their loves and hates the sameas all the rest of us. Sam and I ran once before when everyone wasgoing, and when we got back not a thing had been touched; but the weedshad choked our corn and the rabbits eaten up our garden. We've been goodto the Indians, and they appreciate it. "

A moment Brown hesitated impotently; then of a sudden he came forwardswiftly and extended his hand, first to one and then to the other. 

"Good-bye, then, " he halted. "I can't take you by force, and it's puremadness to stay here longer. " Baby Elizabeth, a big-eyed, solemn-facedmite of humanity, had come up now and stood staring the strangersilently from the side of her mother's skirts. "I hope for the best, butbefore God I never expect to see any of you again. "

"Oh, we'll see you in the fall all right--when you return, " commentedRowland easily; but the other made no reply, and without a backwardglance started at a rapid jog trot for the tiny settlement on the rivertwo miles away. 

Behind him, impassive-faced Rowland stood watching the departingfrontiersman steadily, the pouches beneath his eyes accentuated by thetightened lids. 

"I don't believe there's a bit more danger here now than there everwas, " he commented; "but there's certainly an unusual disturbancesomewhere. I don't take any stock in the people down at the settlementleaving--they'd go if they heard a coyote whistle; but Brown tells methere've been three different trappers from Big Stone gone through southin the last week, and when they leave it means something. If you say theword we'll leave everything and go yet. "

"If we do we'll never come back. "

"Not necessarily. "

"Yes. I'm either afraid of these red people or else I'm not. We wentbefore because the others went. If we left now it would be different. We'd be tortured day and night if we really feared--what happens now andthen to some. We came here with our eyes wide open. We can't start againin civilisation. We're too old, and there's the past--"

"You still blame me?"

"No; but we've chosen. Whatever comes, we'll stay. " She turned towardthe rough log shanty unemotionally. 

"Come, let's forget it. Dinner's waiting and baby's hungry. "

A moment Rowland hesitated, then he, too, followed. 

"Yes, let's forget it, " he echoed slowly. 

 * * * * *

"Well, in Heaven's name!" Rowland's great bulk was upon its feet, onehand upon the ever-ready revolver at his hip, the dishes on the roughpine dining table clattering with the suddenness of his withdrawal. "Whoare you, man, and what's the trouble? Speak up--"

The dishevelled intruder within the narrow doorway glanced about theinterior of the single room with bloodshot eyes. 

His great mouth was a bit open and his swollen tongue all but protruded. 

"Water!" The word was scarce above a whisper. 

"But who are you?"

"Water!" fiercely, insistently. 

Of a sudden he spied a wooden pail upon a shelf in the corner, andwithout invitation, almost as a wild beast springs, he made for it, grasped the big tin dipper in both hands; drank measure after measure, the overflow trickling down his bare throat and dripping onto the sandedfloor. 

"God, that's good!" he voiced. "Good, good!"

After that first involuntary movement Rowland did not stir; but at hisside the woman had risen, and behind her, peering around the fortress ofher skirts as when before she had argued with Frontiersman Brown, stoodthe little wide-eyed girl, type of the repressed frontier child. 

Back to them came the stranger, his great jowl working unconsciously. 

"You are Sam Rowland?" he enunciated thickly. 

"Yes. "

"The settlement hasn't broken up then?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Is it possible that you don't know, that they don't know?"Involuntarily he seized his host by the arm. "I've heard of you; youlive two miles out. We've no time to lose. Come, don't stop to saveanything. "

Rowland straightened. The other smelled evilly of perspiration. 

"Come where? Who are you anyway, and what's the matter? Talk so I canunderstand you. "

"You don't know that the Santees are on the 'big trail'? of the massacrealong the Minnesota River?"

"I know nothing. Once more, who are you?"

"Who am I? What does it matter? My name is Hans Mueller. I'm a trapper. "Of a sudden he drew back, inspecting his impassive questionerdoubtfully, almost unbelievingly. "But come. I'll tell you along theway. You mustn't be here an hour longer. I saw their signal smokes thisvery morning. They're murdering everyone--men, women, and children. It'sLittle Crow who started it, and God knows how many settlers they'vekilled. They chased me for hours, but I had a good horse. It only gaveout yesterday; and since then--But come. It's suicide to chatter likethis. " He turned insistently toward the door. "They may be here anyminute. "

Rowland and his wife looked at each other. Neither spoke a word; but atlast the woman shook her head slowly. 

Hans Mueller shifted restlessly. 

"Hurry, I tell you, " he insisted. 

Rowland sat down again deliberately, his heavy double chin folding overhis soft flannel shirt. 

"Where are you going?" he temporised with almost a shade of amusement. 

"Going!" In his unbelief the German's protruding eyes seemed almost toroll from his face. "To the settlement, of course. "

"There is no settlement. "

"What?"

Rowland repeated his statement impassively. 

"They've--gone?" The tongue had grown suddenly thick again. 

"I said so. " The look of pity had altered, become almost of scorn. 

For a half minute there was silence, inactivity, while despite tan anddirt and perspiration the cheeks of Hans Mueller whitened. The sameexpression of terror, hopeless, dominant, all but insane, that had beenwith him alone out on the prairie returned, augmented. Heedless ofappearances, all but unconscious of the presence of spectators, heglanced about the single room like a beaten rabbit with the hounds closeon its trail. No avenue of hiding suggested itself, no possible hope ofprotection. The cold perspiration broke out afresh on his forehead, atthe roots of his hair, and in absent impotency he mopped it away withthe back of a fat, grimy hand. 

In pity motherly Mrs. Rowland returned to her seat, indicated anothervacant beside the board. 

"You'd best sit down and eat a bit, " she invited. "You must be hungry asa coyote. "

"Eat, now?" Swiftly, almost fiercely, the old terror-restless moodreturned. "God Almighty couldn't keep me here longer. " He startedshuffling for the door. "Stay here and be scalped, if you think I lie. We're corpses, all of us, but I'll not be caught like a beaver in atrap. " Again he halted jerkily. "Which way did they go!"

Lower and lower sank Rowland's great chin onto his breast. 

"They separated, " impassively. "Part went south to Sioux City; part westtoward Yankton. " Involuntarily his lips pursed in the inevitablecontempt of a strong man for one hopelessly weak. "You'd better take alunch along. It's something of a journey to either place. "

Swift as the suggestion, Mrs. Rowland, with the spontaneous hospitalityof the frontier, was upon her feet. Into a quaint Indian basket ofcoloured rushes went a roast grouse, barely touched, from the table. Aloaf of bread followed: a bottle of water from the wooden pail in thecorner. "You're welcome, friend, " she proffered. 

Hans Mueller hesitated, accepted. A swift moisture dimmed his eyes. 

"Thanks, lady, " he halted. "You're good people, anyway. I'm sorry--" Helifted his battered hat, shuffled anew toward the doorway. "Good-bye. "

Impassive as before, Rowland returned to his neglected dinner. 

"No wonder the Sioux play us whites for cowards, and think we'll run atsight of them, " he commented. 

Mrs. Rowland, standing motionless in the single exit through whichMueller had gone, did not answer. 

"Better come and finish, Margaret, " suggested her husband. 

Again there was no answer, and Rowland, after eating a few mouthfuls, pushed back his chair. Even then she did not speak, and, rising, the manmade his way across the room to put an arm with rough affection aroundhis wife's waist. 

"Are you, too, scared at last?" he voiced gently. 

The woman turned swiftly and, in action almost unbelievable after herformer unemotional certainty, dropped her head to his shoulder. 

"Yes, I think I am a bit, Sam. For baby's sake I wish we'd gone too; butnow, "--her arms crept around his neck, closed, --"but now--now it's toolate!"

For a long minute, and another, the man did not stir but involuntarilyhis arms had tightened until, had she wished, the woman could not haveturned. He had been looking absently out the door, south over therolling country leading to the deserted settlement. 

In the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, Hans Mueller wasstill in sight, skirting the base of a sharp incline. Through thetrembling heat waves he seemed a mere moving dark spot; like an ant or aspider on its zigzag journey. The grass at the base of the rise was rankand heavy, reaching almost to the waist of the moving figure. Rowlandwatched it all absently, meditatively; as he would have watched themovement of a coyote or a prairie owl, for the simple reason that it wasthe only visible object endowed with life, and instinctively liferesponds to life. The words of his wife just spoken, "It is too late, "with the revelation they bore, were echoing in his brain. For the firsttime, to his mind came a vague unformed suggestion, not of fear, butnear akin, as to this lonely prairie wilderness, and the red man itschild. In a hazy way came the question whether after all it were notfoolhardy to remain here now, to dare that invisible, intangiblesomething before which, almost in panic, the others had fled. To besure, precedent was with him, logic; but--of a sudden--but a minute hadpassed--his arms tightened; involuntarily he held his breath. HansMueller had been moving on and on; another half minute and he would havebeen behind the base of the hill out of sight; when, as from the turfat one's feet there springs a-wing a covey of prairie grouse, from thetall grass about the retreating figure there leaped forth a swarm ofother similar dark figures: a dozen, a score--in front, behind, allabout. Apparently from mother earth herself they had come, autochthonous. Almost unbelieving, the spectator blinked his eyes; then, as came swift understanding, instinctively he shielded the woman in hisarms from the sight, from the knowledge. Not a sound came to his earsfrom over the prairie: not a single call for help. That black swarmsimply arose, there was a brief, sharp struggle, almost fantasticthrough the curling heat waves; then one and all, the original darkfigure, the score of others, disappeared--as suddenly as though theearth from which they came had swallowed them up. Look as he might, thespectator could catch no glimpse of a moving object, except thegreen-brown grass carpet glistening under the afternoon sun. 

Yet a moment longer the man stood so; then, his own face as pale as hadbeen that of coward Hans Mueller, he leaned against the lintel of thedoor. 

"Yes, we're too late now, Margaret, " he echoed. 

CHAPTER II

FULFILMENT

The log cabin of Settler Rowland, as a landmark, stood forth. Barred itwas--the white of barked cotton-wood timber alternating with the brownof earth that filled the spaces between--like the longitudinal stripesof a prairie gopher or on the back of a bob-white. Long wiry sloughgrass, razor-sharp as to blades, pungent under rain, weighted by squaresof tough, native sod, thatched the roof. Sole example of the handiworkof man, it crowned one of the innumerable rises, too low to be dignifiedby the name of hill, that stretched from sky to sky like the miniaturewaves on the surface of a shallow lake. Back of it, stretchingnorthward, a vivid green blot, lay a field of sod corn: the ears alreadyformed, the ground whitened from the lavishly scattered pollen of thefrayed tassels. In the dooryard itself was a dug well with a mound ofweed-covered clay by its side and a bucket hanging from a pulley overits mouth. It was deep, for on this upland water was far beneath thesurface, and midway of its depth, a frontier refrigerator reached by arope ladder, was a narrow chamber in which Margaret Rowland kept hermeats fresh, often for a week at a time. For another purpose as well itwas used: a big basket with a patchwork quilt and a pillow marking thespot where Baby Rowland, with the summer heat all about, slept away thelong, sultry afternoons. 

Otherwise not an excrescence marred the face of nature. The single horseRowland owned, useless now while his crop matured, was breaking sod farto the west on the bank of the Jim River. Not a live thing other thanhuman moved about the place. With them into this land of silence hadcome a mongrel collie. For a solitary month he had stood guard; then onenight, somewhere in the distance, in the east where flowed the BigSioux, had sounded the long-drawn-out cry of a timber wolf, alternatelynearer and more remote, again and again. With the coming of morning thecollie was gone. Whether dead or answering the call of the wild theynever knew, nor ever filled his place. 

Lonely, isolated as the place itself, was Sam Rowland that afternoon oflate August. Silent as a mute was he as to what he had seen; elaboratelycareful likewise to carry out the family programme as usual. 

"Sleepy, kid?" he queried when dinner was over. 

Baby Bess, taciturn, sun-browned autocrat, nodded silent corroboration. 

"Come, then, " and, willing horse, the big man got clumsily to all foursand, prancing ponderously, drew up at her side. 

"Hang tight, " he admonished and, his wife smiling from the doorway asonly a mother can smile, ambled away through the sun and the dust;climbed slowly, the tiny brown arms clasped tightly about his neck, downthe ladder to the retreat, adjusted the pillow and the patchwork quiltwith a deftness born of experience. 

"Go to sleepy, kid, " he directed. 

"Sing me to sleep, daddy, " commanded the autocrat. 

"Sing! I can't sing, kid. "

"Yes, you can. Sing 'Nellie Gray. '"

"Too hot, girlie. My breath's all gone. Go to sleep. "

"Please, papa; pretty please!"

The man succumbed, as he knew from the first he would do, braced himselfin the aperture, and sang the one verse that he knew of the song againand again--his voice rough and unmusical as that of a crow, echoing andre-echoing in the narrow space--bent over at last, touched his beardedlips softly to the winsome, motionless brown face, climbed, anirresistible catch in his breath, silently to the surface, sent oneswift glance sweeping the bare earth around him, and returned to thecabin. 

Very carefully that sultry afternoon he cleaned his old hammer shotgun, and, loading both barrels with buckshot, set it handy beside the door. 

"Antelope, " he explained laconically; but when likewise he overhauledthe revolver hanging at his hip, Margaret was not deceived. This done, notwithstanding the fact that the sun still beat scorchingly hotthereon, he returned to the doorstep, lit his pipe, drew hisweather-stained sombrero low over his face, through half-closed eyesinspected the lower lands all about, impassively silent awaited thecoming of the inevitable. Of a sudden there was a touch on his shoulder, and, involuntarily starting, he looked up, into the face of MargaretRowland. 

The woman sat down beside him, her hand on his knee. 

"Don't keep it from me, " she requested steadily. "You've seensomething. "

In the brier bowl before his face the tobacco glowed more brightly asRowland drew hard. 

"Tell me, please, " repeated Margaret. "Are they here?"

The pipe left the man's mouth. The great bushy head nodded reluctantcorroboration. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"You--saw them?"

Again the man's head spoke an affirmative. "It's perhaps as well, afterall, for you to know. " One hand indicated the foot of the rise beforethem. "They waylaid Mueller there. "

"And you--"

"It was all over in a second. " Puff, puff. "After all he--Margaret!"

"Don't mind me. I was thinking of baby. The hideous suggestion!"

"Margaret!" He held her tight, so tight he could feel the quiver of herbody against his, the involuntary catch of her breath. "Forgive me, Margaret. "

"You're not to blame. Perhaps--Oh, Sam, Sam, our baby!"

Hotter and hotter beat down the sun. Thicker and thicker above thescorching earth vibrated the curling heat waves. The very breath ofprairie seemed dormant, stifled. Not the leaf of a sunflower stirred, ora blade of grass. In the tiny patch of Indian corn each individual plantdrooped, almost like a sensate thing, beneath the rays, each broad leafcontracted, like a roll of parchment, tight upon the parent stalk. Insympathy the colour scheme of the whole lightened from the appearance ofthe paler green under-surface. Though silently, yet as plainly as haddone Hans Mueller when fighting for life, they lifted the single plea:"Water! Water! Give us drink!"

Silent now, the storm over, side by side sat the man and the woman; likechildren awed by the sudden realisation of their helplessness, theirhands clasped in mute sympathy, mute understanding. Usually at this timeof day with nothing to do they slept; but neither thought of sleep now. As passed the slow time and the sun sank lower and lower, came the hourof supper; but likewise hunger passed them by. Something very likefascination held them there on the doorstep, gazing out, out atmotionless impassive nature, at the seemingly innocent earth thatnevertheless concealed so certain a menace, at the patch of sod cornagain in cycle growing darker as the broad leaves unfolded inpreparation for the dew of evening. Out, out they looked, out, out--. 

"Sam!"

"Yes. "

"You saw, too?"

An answering pressure of the hand. 

"The eyes of him, only the eyes--out there at the edge of the corn!"

"It's the third time, Margaret. " Despite the man's effort his breathtightened. "They're all about: a score at least--I don't know how many. The tall grass there to the east is alive--"

"Sam! They're there again--the eyes! Oh, I'm afraid--Sam--baby!"

"Hush! Leave her where she is. Don't seem afraid. It's our only chance. Let them make the first move. " Again the hand pressure so tight that, although she made no sound, the blood left the woman's fingers. "Tell meyou forgive me, Margaret; before anything happens. I'm a criminal tohave stayed here, --I see it now, a criminal!"

"Don't!"

"But I must. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me. "

"I love you, Sam. "

Again in the expanse of grass to the east there was motion; not in asingle spot but in a dozen places. No living being was visible, not asound broke the stillness of evening; simply here and there it stirred, and became motionless, and stirred again. 

"And--Margaret. If worst comes to worst they mustn't take either of usalive. The last one--I can't say it. You understand. "

"Yes, I understand. The last load--But maybe--"

"It's useless to deceive ourselves. They wouldn't come this wayif--Margaret, in God's name--"

"But baby, Sam!" Of a sudden she was struggling fiercely beneath thegrip that kept her back. "I must have her, must see her again; must, must--"

"Margaret!"

"I must, I say!"

"You must not. They'll never find her there. She's safe unless we showthe way. Think--as you love her. "

"But if anything should happen to us--She'll starve!"

"No. There are soldiers at Yankton, and they'll come--now; and Landorknows. "

"Oh, Sam, Sam!"

There was silence. No human being could give answer to that mother wail. 

Again time passed; seconds that seemed minutes, minutes that were a hellof suspense. Below the horizon of prairie the sun sank from sight. Inthe hot air a bank of cumulus clouds glowed red as from a distantconflagration. For and eternity previous it seemed to the silentwatchers there had been no move; now again at last the grass stirred; acorn plant rustled where there was no breeze; out into the small openplat surrounding the house sprang a frightened rabbit, scurried acrossthe clearing, headed for the protecting grass, halted at the edgeirresolute--scurried back again at something it saw. 

"You had best go in, Margaret. " The man's voice was strained, unnatural. "They'll come very soon now. It's almost dark. "

"And you?" Wonder of wonders, it was the woman's natural tone!

"I'll stay here. I can at least show them how a white man dies. "

"Sam Rowland--my husband!"

"Margaret--my wife!" Regardless of watchful savage eyes, regardless ofeverything, the man sprang to his feet. "Oh, how can you forgive me, canGod forgive me!" Tight in his arms he kissed her again and again;passionately, in abandon. "I've always loved you, Margaret; always, always!"

"And I you, man; and I you!"

 * * * * *

It came. As from the darkness above drops the horned owl on the fieldmouse, as meet the tiger and the deer at the water hole, so it came. Upon the silence of night sounded the hoarse call of a catbird where nobird was, and again, and again. In front of the maize patch, always infront, a dark form, a mere shadow in the dusk of evening, stood outclear against the light of sky. To right and left appeared others, asmotionless as boulders, or as giant cacti on the desert. Had SettlerRowland been other than the exotic he was, he would have understood. NoIndian exposes himself save for a purpose; but he did not understand. Erect now, his finger on the trigger of the old smoothbore, he waitedpassive before the darkened doorway of the cabin, looking straightbefore him, God alone knows what thoughts whirling in his brain. Againin front of him sounded and resounded the alien call. The dark figuresagainst the sky took life, moved forward. Simultaneously, on the thatchof the cabin roof, appeared two other figures identical with those infront. Foot by foot, silent as death, they climbed up, reached the ridgepole, crossed to the other side. On, on advanced the figures in front. Down the easy incline of the roof came the two in the rear, reached theedge, paused waiting. Of a sudden, out of the maize patch, out of thegrass, seemingly out of space itself, came a new cry--the trilling callof the prairie owl. It was the signal. Like twin drops of rain from acloudless sky fell the two figures on Rowland's head; ere he could uttera sound, could offer resistance, bore him to earth. From somewhere, everywhere, swarmed others. The very earth seemed to open and give themforth in legion. In the multitude of hands he was as a child. Within thespace of seconds, ere waiting Margaret realised that anything hadhappened, he had disappeared, all had disappeared. In the clearingbefore the door not a human being was visible, not a live thing; only onthe thatched roof, silent as before, patient as fate, awaited two othershadows, darker but by contrast with the weather-coloured grass. 

Minutes passed. Not even the call of the catbird, broke the silence. Within the darkness of the cabin the suspense was a thing of whichinsanity is made. 

"Sam!" called a voice softly. 

No answer. 

"Sam!" repeated more loudly. 

Again no answer of voice or of action. 

In the doorway appeared a woman's figure; breathless, blindly fearful. 

"Sam!" for the third time, tremulous, wailing; and she stepped outside. 

A second, and it was over. A second, and the revel was on. The earth wasnot silent now. There was no warning trill of prairie owl. As droppedthe figures from above there broke forth the Sioux war-cry: long drawnout, demoniac, indescribable. Blood curdling, more savage infinitelythan the cry of any wild beast, the others took it up, augmented it by ascore, a hundred throats. Again the earth vomited the demons forth. Naked, breech-clouted, garbed in fragments of white men's dress, theyswarmed into the clearing, into the cabin, about the two prisoners intheir midst. Passively, patiently waiting for hours, of a sudden theyseemed possessed of a frenzy of haste, of savage abandon, of drunkenexhilaration in the cunning that had won the game without a shot fromthe white man's gun, without the injury of a single warrior. They werein haste, and yet they were not in haste. They looted the cabin likefire and then fought among themselves for the plunder. They applied thetorch to the shanty's roof as though pressed by the Great Spirit; thencapered fiendishly in its illumination, oblivious of time until, tinderdry, it had burned level with the earth. Last of all, purposely reservedas a climax, they gave their attention to the pair of half-naked, boundand gagged figures in their midst. Then it was the scene became an orgyindeed. The havoc preceding had but whetted their appetite for thefinale. Savagery personified, cruelty unqualified, deadly hate, primitive lust--every black passion lurking in the recesses of the humanmind stalked brazenly into the open, stood forth defiant, sinister, unashamed. But let it pass. It was but a repetition of a thousandsimilar scenes enacted on the swiftly narrowing frontier, a fraction ofthe price civilisation ever pays to savagery, inevitable as a nation'sexpansion, as its progression. 

It was eight of the clock when came that final warning whistle ofprairie owl. It was not yet ten when, silent as they had come, unbelievably impassive when but an hour before they had beenirresponsible madmen, temporarily cruelty-surfeited, they resumed theirjourney. Single file, each footstep of those who followed fair in theprint of the leader, a long, long line of ghostly, undulatory shadows, forming the most treacherous deadly serpent that ever inhabited earth, they moved eastward until they reached the bank of the swift littleriver; then turned north, leaving the abandoned, desolated settlement, the ruined cornfields, as tokens of their handiwork, as a message toother predatory bands who might follow, as a challenge to the white manwho they knew would return. As passed the slow hours toward morning theymoved swiftly and more swiftly. The gliding walk became a dog trot, almost a lope; their arms swung back and forth in unison, the pat, patof their moccasined feet was like the steady drip of eaves from a summerrain, the rustle of their passing bodies against the dense vegetation asoft accompaniment. Autochthonous as they had appeared they disappeared. Night and distance swallowed them up. But for a trampled, ruinedgrainfield, the smouldering ruins of what had once been a house, theglaring white of two naked bodies in the starlight against thebackground of dark earth, it was as though they had not come. But forthis, and one other thing--a single sound, repeated again and again, dulled, muffled as though coming from the earth itself. 

"Daddy! Daddy! I want you. " Then repeated with a throb in its depthsthat spoke louder than words. "Daddy, come! I'm afraid!"

CHAPTER III

DISCOVERY

More than a mere name was Fort Yankton. Original in construction, asnecessity ever induces the unusual, it was nevertheless formidable. Tothe north was a typical entrenchment with a ditch, and a parapet eightfeet high. To the east was a double board wall with earth tampedbetween: a solid curb higher than the head of a tall man. Completing thesquare, to the south and west stretched a chain of oak posts set closetogether and pierced, as were the other walls of the stockade, bynumerous portholes. Within the enclosure, ark of refuge for settlersnear and afar, was a large blockhouse wherein congregated, mingled andintermingled, ate, slept, and had their being, as diverse a gathering ofhumans as ever graced a single structure even in this land of myriadtypes. Virtually the entire population of frontier Yankton was there. Likewise the settlers from near-by Bon Homme. An adventurer from thefar-away country of the Wahpetons and a trapper from the hunting groundof the Sissetons drifted in together, together awaited the signal of thepeace pipe ere returning to their own. Likewise from the wild west ofthe great river, from the domain of the Uncpapas, the Blackfeet, theMinneconjous, the Ogallalas, came others; for the alarm of rapine and ofmassacre had spread afar. Very late to arrive, doggedly holding theirown until rumour became reality unmistakable, was the colony from theJim River valley to the east; but even they had finally surrendered, thedogging grip of fear, that makes high and low brothers, at theirthroats, had fled precipitately before the conquering onslaught of theSantees. Last of all, boldest of all, most foolhardy of all, as youplease, came the tiny delegation from the settlement of Sioux Falls. Hungry, thirsty, footsore, all but panic-stricken, for with the actualretreat apprehension had augmented with each slow mile, thanking theProvidence which had permitted them to arrive unmolested, asorry-looking band of refugees, they faced the old smoothbore cannonbefore the big south gate and craved admittance. Out to them wentColonel William Landor, colonel by courtesy, scion of many generationsof Landors, rancher at present, cattle king of the future. Theconversation that followed there with the east reddening in the morningsun was very brief, very swift to the point. 

"Who are you, friends?" The shrewd grey eyes were observing themcollectively, compellingly. 

"My name is McPherson. "

"Mine is Horton. "

"Never mind the names, " shortly. "I can learn them later. "

"We're homesteaders. " Again it was stubby, sandy-whiskered McPherson whotook the lead. 

"From where?"

"Sioux Falls. "

"Any news?"

Curt as the question came the answer, the tale of massacre now a dayold. 

"And the rest of your settlement--where are they?"

McPherson told him. 

"They all went, you say?"

For the first time the Scotchman hesitated. "All except one family, " hequalified. 

"There was but one family there. " Landor was not observing the companycollectively now. "You mean to tell me Sam Rowland did not go?"

"Yes. "

"That you--men here went off and left him and his wife and little girlalone at this time?" The questioner's eyelids were closing ominously. "You come here with that story and ask me to let you inside?"

McPherson was no coward. His short legs spread belligerently, hisshoulders squared. 

"We're here, " he announced laconically. 

"I observe. " Just a shade closer came the tightened eyelids. "Moreover, strange to say, I'm glad to see you. " He leaned forward involuntarily;his breath came quick. "It gives me the opportunity, sir, to tell you toyour face that you're a damned coward. " In spite of an obvious effort atrepression, the great veins of the speaker's throat swelled visibly. "Adamned coward, sir!"

"What! You call me--"

"Men! Gentlemen!"

"Don't worry. " Swift as had come the burst of passion, Landor washimself again; curt, all-seeing, self-sufficient, "There'll be no bloodshed. " Early as it was, a crowd had collected now, and, as he had donewith the newcomers, he addressed them collectively, authoratively. "WhenI fight it will not be with one who abandons a woman and a child at atime like this. .. . God! it makes a man's blood boil. I've known theRowlands for ten years, long before the kid came. " Cold as before he hadbeen flaming, he faced anew the travel-stained group. "Out of my sight, every one of you, and thank your coward stars I'm not in command here. If I were, not a man of you would ever get inside this stockade--not ifthe Santees scalped you before my eyes. "

For a second there was silence, inaction. 

"But Rowland wouldn't come, " protested a voice. "We tried--"

"Not a word. If you were too afraid of your skin to bring them in, thereare others who are not. " Vital, magnetic, born leader of men, he turnedto the waiting spectators. "It may be too late now, --I'm afraid it is;but if Sam Rowland is alive, I'm going to bring him here. Who's with me?Who's willing to make the ride back to Sioux Falls?"

"Who?" It was another rancher, surnamed Crosby, hatchet-faced, slow ofspeech, who spoke, "Ain't that question a bit superfluous, pard? We'reall with you--that is, as many as you want, I reckon. None of us ain'tcats, so we can't croak but once--and that might as well be now as tenyears from now. "

"All right. " Hardened frontiersman, Landor took the grammar and themotive alike for granted. "Get your horses and report here. The firsttwenty to return, go. "

From out the group of newcomers one man emerged. It was McPherson. 

"Who'll lend me a horse?" he queried. 

No man gave answer. Already the group had separated. 

For a moment the Scotchman halted, grim-jawed, his legs an inverted V;then silent as they, equally swiftly, he followed. 

Very soon, almost unbelievably soon, they began to trickle back. Not inignorance of possibilities in store did they come. They had no delusionsconcerning the red brother, these frontiersmen. Nor in the hotadventurous blood of youth did they respond. One and all weremiddle-aged men; many had families. All save Landor were strangers tothe man they went to seek. Yet at a moment's call they responded; asthey took it for granted others would respond were they in need. Hadthey been conscious of the fact, the action was magnificent; but of itthey were not conscious. They but answered an instinct: the eternalbrotherhood of the frontier. Far away in his well-policed, steam-heatedabode urban man listens to the tale of unselfishness, and, supercilious, smiles. We believe what we have ourselves felt, we humans. First of allto come was lean-faced Crosby, one cheek swelled round with a giantquid. Close at his heels followed Trapper Conway: grizzled, parchment-faced veteran, who alone had followed the Missouri to itssource and, stranger to relate, had alone returned with his scalp. Thencame Landor himself, the wiry little mustang he rode all but blanketedunder the big army saddle. Following him, impassive, noncommittal asthough an event of the recent past had not occurred, came McPherson, drew up in place beside the leader. All-seeing, Crosby spatappreciatively, but Landor gave never a glance. Following came not onebut many riders; a half dozen, a score, --enough to make up theallotment, and again. In silence they came, grim-faced, more grimlyaccoutred. All manner of horseflesh was represented: the broncho, themustang, the frontier scrub, the thoroughbred; all manner of apparel, from chaperajos to weather-beaten denim; but, saddled or saddleless, across the neck of every beast stretched the barrel of a long rifle, atthe hip of every rider hung a holster, from every belt peeped the hiltof a great knife. Long ere this word of the unusual had passed about, and now, on the rise of ground at the back of the stockade, a goodlygroup had gathered. Silent as the prairies, as the morning itself, theywatched the scene below, awaited the _dénouement. _ Not without influencewas the taciturn example of the red man in this land from which he wasslowly being crowded. From over the uplands to the east the red face ofthe morning sun was just peeping when Landor separated himself from thewaiting group, led the way to the big gate and paused. "Twenty only, men, " he repeated. "All ready. "

First through the opening went Crosby. 

"One. "

Close as before, at his horse's heels followed Conway. 

"Two. "

From out the motley, looking neither to right nor left, came ScotchmanMcPherson; but though he passed fair before the leader's eyes and not ayard away, no number was spoken; no hint of recognition, of cognisance, crossed the latter's face. Implacable, relentless as time, he awaitedthe next in line, then voiced the one word: "Three. "

On filed the line; close formed as convicts, as convicts silent--haltingat a lifted hand. A moment they paused, one and twenty men who countedbut as a score, started into motion, halted again; as by common consentevery head save one of a sudden going bare. Hitherto silent as they, thewatching group back in the stockade had that instant found voice. Allbut to the ground swept twenty sombreros as out over the prairies, outwhere no human ear could hear, rolled a cheer, and repeated, and again;tribute of Fort Yankton to those who went. At the rear of the column onerider alone did not respond, apparently did not hear. Implacable asLandor himself, he looked straight before him, awaited the silence thatwould bring with it renewed activity. 

And it came. With a single motion as before, every hat returned to itsplace, was drawn low over its owner's eyes. From his position by thegate Landor advanced, took the lead. Behind him, impassive again asfigures in a spectacle, the others fell in line. At first a mere walk, the pace gradually quickened, became a canter, a trot. By this time theconfines of the tiny frontier town were passed. Before them on the onehand, bordering on the river, stretched a range of low hills, dun-brownfrom its coat of sun-dried grass. On the other, greener by contrast, glittering now in the level rays of the early morning sun on myriaddew-drops, and seemingly endless, unrolled the open prairie. Straightinto this Landor led the way, and as he did so the cavalcade for thefirst time broke into a gallop; not the fierce, short-lived pace ofcivilisation, but the long-strided, full-lunged lope of the frontier, which accurately and as tirelessly as a clock measures time, counts offthe passing miles. Hitherto a preliminary, at last the play was on. 

Sixty-odd miles as migrates the sandhill crane, separated thesettlements of Yankton and Sioux Falls. Trackless as a desert was theprairie, minus even the buffalo trails of a quarter century before; yetwith the sun only as guide, they forged ahead, straight as a line drawntaut from point to point. Nothing stopped their advance, nothing madethem turn aside. Seemingly destitute of animal life, the country fairlyteemed at their approach. Grouse, typical of the prairie as theblue-faced anemone, were everywhere; singly, in coveys, in flocks. Troops of antelope, startled in their morning feeding, scurried awayfrom the path of the invaders; curious as children, paused on the safetyof the nearest rise, to watch the horsemen out of sight. Every marshyspot, every prairie pond, had its setting of ducks. The teal, themallard, the widgeon, the shoveller, the canvasback--all mingled in theloud-voiced throng that arose before the leader's approach, then, likesmoke, vanished with almost unbelievable swiftness into the hazydistance. Prairie dog towns, populous as cities of man a minute beforetheir approach, went lifeless, desolate, as they passed through. In theinfrequent draws and creek beds between the low, rolling hills, great-eyed cotton tails scampered to cover or, like the antelope, justout of harm's way, watched the passage of this strange being, man. Wonder of wonders that display of life would have been to anothergeneration; but of it these grim-faced riders were apparentlyunconscious, oblivious. Their eyes were not for things near at hand, butfor the distance, for the possibility that lurked just beyond thatfar-away rise which formed their horizon, when they had reached that forthe next beyond, and the next. 

Hour by hour the morning wore away. Hotter and hotter rose the sun abovethem. Instead of drops of dew, tiny particles of sun-dried grass flewaway from beneath the leaders' feet, mingled with the dust of prairie, became a cloud shutting the leaders from the sight of those in the rear. From being a mere breath, the south wind augmented, became positive, insistent. Hot with the latent heat of many days, it sang in their earsas they went, bit all but scorching, at their unprotected hands andthroats. Under its touch the horses' necks, dark before with sweat, became normal again: between their legs, under the, edges of the greatsaddles where it had churned into foam, dried into white powder, likefrostwork amid the hair. Gradually with the change, their breathingbecame audible, louder and louder, until in unison it mingled with thedull impact of their feet on the heavy sod like the exhaust of manyengines. No horseman who values the life of the beast between his legs, fails to heed that warning. Landor did not, but at the first dawdlingprairie creek that offered water and, with its struggling fringe ofwillows, a suggestion of shade, he gave the word to halt, and for fourmortal, blistering hours while, man and beast alike, the others slept, kept watch over them from the nearest rise. Relentless to others thisman might be, but not even his dearest enemy could accuse him of sparinghimself. 

It was three by the clock when again they took up the trail. It was 3. 45when they swam what is now the Vermilion River, the last water-course ofany size on their way. The dew was again beginning to gather when, wellto the south, they approached the bordering hills that concealed thesite of Sioux Falls settlement. Then for the first time since theybegan that last relay Landor gave an order. 

"It'll be a miracle if we don't find Sioux there in the bottom, men, " heprophesied. "Perhaps there are a whole band, perhaps it'll only bestragglers; but no matter how many or how few there may be, charge them. If they run you know what to do--this is no holiday outing. If theystand, charge them all the harder. " He faced his horse to the north andgave the word to go. "It's our only chance, " he completed. 

What followed belongs to history. Over that last intervening rise theywent like demons. The first to gain the crown, to look down into thevalley beyond, was Landor. As he did so, grim Anglo-Saxon as he was, hiswhole attitude underwent a transformation. Back to the others he turnedhis face, and, plain as on canvas thereon was portrayed war, carnage, and the lust of battle. 

"They're there; a hundred, if a single red!" he shouted. "Come on!" andthe rowels of his great spurs dug deep at his horse's flanks, dug untilthe blood spurted. 

But a few minutes it took to make the run, yet only a fraction of thetime that mounted swarm in the valley held their ground. Outnumberingthose who charged many times, it was not in savage nature to face thatunformed oncoming motley of howling, bloodthirsty maniacs. Slowly atfirst began the retreat; then as, with great swiftness, the othersshortened the distance intervening, it became a contagion, a mania, astampede. Every brave for himself, stumbling, crowding through thedismantled ruins of what had the day before been a settlement, howlinglike their pursuers, seeking but one thing, escape, they headed for thethicket surrounding the river bank; the whistle of bullets in theirears, cutting at the vegetation about them. Into its friendly cover theyplunged, as a fish disappears beneath the surface of a lake, and wereswallowed from sight. That is, all but one. That one, unhorsed byaccident, was left to face that oncoming flood. . . . But why linger. Like the charge itself, his fate is history. These men were but human, and thick about them were the ashes from the roof-trees of theirfriends. 

Summer night, dreamy with caress of softest south wind, musical with thedrone of myriad crickets, with the boom of frogs from the low landadjoining the river, melancholy with the call of the catbird, with theinfrequent note of the whip-poor-will, was upon the land of the Mandanswhen the score and one, their dripping ponies once more dry, took up thelast relay of their journey. Night had caught them there in the desertedsettlement, and Landor had given the word to halt, to wait. Now, far tothe east, apparently from the breast of Mother Earth herself, the faceof the full harvest moon, red as frosted maple leaves through the heatedair, slowly rising, lit up the level country softly as by earlytwilight. Lingeringly, almost reluctantly, Landor got into his saddle. Just to his left, impassive as the night, well to the front of thecompany as he had been that mortal dragging day, sat ScotchmanMcPherson. Not once since that early morning scene at Fort Yankton hadhe spoken a word, not once had he been addressed, had another man shownconsciousness of his presence. A pariah, he had so far kept themcompany; a pariah, he now awaited the end. A moment, fair in his seat, Landor paused; then that which the watchers had expected for hours cameto pass. Deliberately he crossed over, drew rein beside the other man. 

"McPherson, " he said, "this morning I called you coward. That you arenot such you have proven, you are proving now. For this reason I askyour pardon. For this reason as well, I give you warning. What we willfind--where we are going, I do not doubt, now. I do not believe youdoubt. For it I hold you responsible. You had best turn back beforebelief becomes certainty. " Unnaturally precise, cold as Novemberraindrops came the words, the sentences. Deadly in meaning was the pausethat followed. "I repeat, you had best turn back. "

For a long half minute, face to face there in the moonlight, Landorwaited; but no answer came. Just perceptibly he shifted in his place. 

"I may forget, give my promise of the morning the lie. Do youunderstand?"

"Yes, I understand. "

Another half minute, ghastly in its significance, passed; then without aword Landor turned. "You have heard, men, " he said, "and may God be myjudge. "

The full moon was well in the sky, showing clear every detail in thatscene of desolation, when they arrived. Patter, patter, patter soundedtheir hoof-beats in the distance. More and more loud they grew, muffledyet penetrating in the silence of night, always augmenting in volume. Out of the shadows figures came dimly into view, taking form against thebackground of constellations. The straining of leather, the music ofsteel in bit and buckle, the soft swish of the sun-dried grassproclaimed them very near; then across the trampled corn patch, into theopen where had stood the shanty, where now was a thin grey layer ofashes, came the riders, and drew rein; their weary mounts crowding eachother in fear at something they saw. Like a storm cloud they came; likethe roll of thunder following was the oath which sprang to the lips ofevery rider save one. Good men they were, God-fearing men; yet theyswore like pirates, like humans when ordinary speech is not adequate. Inthe pause but one man acted, and none intervened to prevent what he did. Out into the open, away from the others, rode Scotchman McPherson;halted, his hand on the holster at his hip. For a second, and a secondonly, he sat so, the white moonlight drawing clear every line of hisgrizzled face, his stocky figure. Then deliberately his hand lifted, before him there appeared a sudden blaze of fire, upon the silence therebroke a single revolver report, from beneath his lifeless bulk thehorse he rode broke free, gave one bound, by instinct halted, tremblingin every muscle; then over all, the quick and the dead, returnedsilence: silence absolute as that of the grave. 

How long those twenty men sat there, gazing at that mute, motionlessfigure on the ground not one could have told. Death was no stranger tothem. For years it had lurked behind every chance shrub they passed, inthe depths of every ravine, in the darkness of night, from every tangleof rank prairie grass in broad daylight. To it from long familiaritythey had become callous; but death such as this, deliberate, cold-blooded, self-inflicted--it awed them while it fascinated, heldthem silent, passive. 

"In God's name!" Again it was Landor who roused them, Landor with hishand on the holster at his hip, Landor who sat staring as one who doubtshis own sight. "Am I sane, men? Look, there to your right!"

They looked. They rubbed their eyes and looked again. 

"Well, I'll be damned, " voiced Crosby; and no man had ever heard himexpress surprise before. To the north, from the edge of the tallsurrounding grass, moving slowly, yet without a trace of hesitation orof fear, coming straight toward them across the trampled earth, were twotiny human figures, hand in hand. No wonder they who saw stared; nowonder they doubted their eyes. One, the figure to the right, was plumpand uncertain of step and all in white; white which in the moonlightand against the black earth seemed ghostly. The other was slim andcertain of movement and dark--dark as a copper brown Indian boy, nakedas when he came on earth. On they came, the brown figure leading, thewhite following trustfully, until they were quite up to the watchers, halted, still hand in hand. 

"How, " said a voice, a piping childish voice. 

Like rustics at a spectacle the men stared, turned mystified faces eachto each, and stared anew. All save one. Off from his horse sprangLandor, caught the bundle of white in his arms. 

"Baby Rowland! Baby Bess! And you, "--he was staring the other from headto toe, the distance was short, --"who are you?"

"Uncle Billy, " interrupting, ignoring, the tiny bit of femininitynestled close, "Uncle Billy, where's papa and mamma! I want them. "

Closer and closer the big bachelor arms clasped their burden; unashamed, there with the others watching him, he kissed her. 

"Never mind now, Kiddie. Tell me how you came here, and who this is withyou. "

About the great neck crept two arms, clinging tightly. 

"He just came, Uncle Billy. I was calling for papa. Papa put me to sleepand forgot me. The boy heard me and took me out. I was afraid at first, but--but he's a nice boy, only he won't talk and--and--" The narrativehalted, the tousled head buried itself joyously. "Oh, I'm so glad youcame, Uncle Billy!"

In silence Landor's eyes made the circle of interested watching faces, returned to the winsome brown face so near his own. 

"Aren't you hungry, Kid?" he ventured. 

On his shoulder the dark poll shook a negative. 

"No. We had corn to eat. The boy roasted it. He made a big fire. He's anice boy, only--only he won't say anything. "

Again Landor's eyes made the circle, halted at the intrepid brown waifwho, that first word of greeting spoken, had silently stared him back. 

"You're sure you don't know anything more, baby? You didn't hearanything until the boy came?"

"No, Uncle Billy. I was asleep. When I woke up it was dark, and I washungry and--and--" At last it had come: the spattering, turbulent tearstorm. Her small body shook, her arms clasped tighter and tighter. "Oh, Uncle Billy, I want my papa and mamma. I tried to find them, and Icouldn't. Please find them for me, Uncle Billy, Please! Please!"

 * * * * *

It was well past midnight. The big full moon, high now in the sky, casttheir shadows almost about their feet when, their labour complete, theparty took up the homeward trail. But there were twenty no longer. Attheir head as before rode Landor, in his arms not a rifle but a blanket;a blanket from which as they journeyed on came now and anon a soundthat was alien indeed: the sobs of a baby girl who wept as she slept. Back of him, likewise as when they had come, rode hatchet-faced Crosby;but he, too, was not as before. His saddle had been removed and, infront of him, astride the horse's bare back, warmed by the animal heat, was a brown waif of a boy; not asleep or even drowsy, but wide awakeindeed, silently watchful as a prairie owl of every movement about him, every low-spoken word. What whim of satirist chance had put him there, what fate for good or evil, they could only conjecture, could not know, could never know; yet there he was, strangest figure in a land that knewonly the bizarre, with whom the unbelievable was the normal. Slowly now, weary to death with the long, long day, depressed with the inevitablereaction from the excitement of the past hours, they moved away, to thesouth, to the west. In front of them, glittering in the moonlight, seemingly infinite, stretched the waves of the rolling prairie, bare asthe sea in a calm. Behind them, growing lesser and lesser minute byminute, merging into the infinite white, were three black dots like tinyboats on the horizon's edge. On they went, a half mile, a mile, lookedbehind; and, with an awe no familiarity could prevent, faced ahead anew. Back of them now as well as before, uniformly endless, uniformlymagnificent, stretched that giant ocean: silent, serene, as mothernature, as nature's master, God himself. 

CHAPTER IV

RECONSTRUCTION

The day of the Indian terror had passed. No longer did the name ofLittle Crow carry stampede in its wake. The battles of Big Mound, ofWhite Stone Hill, and of the Bad Lands had been fought, had become merehistory; dim already to the newcomer as Lexington or Bull Run. Still inthe memory, to be sure, was the half-invited massacre of Custer at theLittle Big Horn; but the savage genius of Sitting Bull, of Crazy Horse, and of Gall, who had made the last great encounter bloodily unique inthe conflict of the red man and the white, was never to be duplicated. Rightly or wrongly deprived of what they had once called their own, driven back, back on the crest of the ever-increasing wave ofsettlement, facing the alternative of annihilation or of submergence inthat flood, the Sioux had halted like a wild thing at bay, with theirbacks to the last stronghold, the richest plot of earth on the face ofthe globe, the Black Hills country, and as a cornered animal everfights, had battled ferociously for a lost supremacy. But, robbersthemselves, holding the land on the insecure title of might alone, fighting to the end, they had at last succumbed to the inevitable: theall-conquering invasion of the dominant Anglo-Saxon. Here and there aname stood out: "Scarlet Point, " "Strikes-the-Ree, " "Little Crow, ""Sitting Bull, " "Crazy Horse, " "Spotted Tail, " "Red Cloud, " "Gall, ""John Grass, " names that in multiple impressed but by their fantasticsuggestion; but their original pulse-accelerating meaning had long sincepassed. Now and then a prairie mother, driven to desperation, mightincite temporary rectitude in the breast of an incorrigible by aharrowing reference to one or to another; yet to the incoming swarms ofland-hungry settlers they were mere supplanted play actors, fit heroesfor fiction, for romance perhaps; but like the bison to be kept in smallherds safe in the pasture of a reservation, preserved as a relic of aspecies doomed to extinction. 

A thing at which to marvel was the growth of the eastern border ofDakota Territory in this, the time of the great boom. History canscarcely find its parallel. In the space of a decade the census leapedfrom two-score thousand to nearly a half million. New towns sprang uplike fungi in a night. Railroads reached out like the tentacles of anoctopus, where a generation before the buffalo had tramped its tortuoustrail. Prosperous farms came into being in the meadows where theantelope had pastured. Artesian wells, waterworks, electric lights, street railways, colleges, all the adjuncts of a higher civilisation, blossomed forth under the magic wand of Eastern capital. Doomed toreaction, as an advancing pendulum is doomed to retrace its cycle, wasthis premature evolution; but temporarily, as a springtime freshetbears onward the driftwood in its path, it carried its predecessor, theunconventional, fighting, wild-loving adventurer, before. On it went, onand on until at last, fairly blocking its path, was the big, muddy, dawdling Missouri. Then for the first time it halted; halted in a pausethat was to last for a generation. But it had fulfilled its mission. High and dry on the western side of the barrier, imbued as when they hadsettled to the east, with the restless spirit of the frontier, unsubdued, unchanged, it cast its burden. There, as they had donebefore, the newcomers immediately took root, and, after the passage of ayear, were all but unconscious of the migration. Over their heads wasthe same blue prairie sky. Around them, treeless, trackless, was thesame rolling, illimitable prairie land. In but one essential wereconditions changed; yet that one was epoch-making. Heretofore, surrounded by a common, an alien danger, compelled at a second's warningto band together for life itself, all men were brothers. Now, with thepassing of the red peril, with eradication of necessity for any mannerof restraint, an abandon of licence, of recklessness, born of the wildlife, of overflowing animal vitality insufficiently employed, swept theland like a contagion. Unique in the history of man's development wasthis the era of the cowboy, as fantastic now as the era of the redperil, its predecessor; yet vital, bizarre, throbbing, unconsciouslyhuman, as no other period has ever been, as in all probability nonewill ever be again. Generous, spendthrift, murderous when crossed, chivalrous, fearless, profane, yet fundamentally religious, inebriate, wilful and docile by turns, ceaselessly active, eternally discontented, seeking they knew not what, they were their own evil genius; ascertainly as nature surrounded them with Heaven, they supplied their ownHell and, impartial, chose from each to weave the web of their lives. 

Of this period, life of this life, was Colonel William Landor; colonelno longer, plain Bill, from the river to the Hills, husband these tenyears now, but not father, Cattle King of an uncontested range. Of thislife likewise, bred in it, saturated in it, was a dark young woman, hisadopted daughter, two years past her majority, Elizabeth Rowland Landorby name. Of it most vitally of all, born of it, rooted in it throughunknown centuries of ancestral domicile, was a copper-brown young man, destitute as a boy of twelve of a trace of beard, black as a prairiecrow of hair and eyes, deep-lunged like a race-track thoroughbred, wiryas a mustang, garbed as a white man, but bearing the liquid name of aTeton Sioux, "Ma-wa-cha-sa, the lost pappoose, " yet known wherever theSantee Massacre and the tale of his appearance was known, as "How"Landor. Of this period, last of all, was the great B. B. --BuffaloButte--ranch, giant among the giants, whose brand was familiar as hisown name to every cowboy west of the Missouri, whose hospitable ranchhouse, twenty-odd miles from the vest pocket metropolis of CoyoteCentre, which in turn, to quote Landor himself, was "a hundred milesfrom nowhere, " was the Mecca of every traveller whom chance drew intothis wild, of every curious tenderfoot seeking a glimpse of the reverseside of the coin of life, of every desperate "one lunger, " who, withgambler instinct, staked his all on prairie sun and prairie air. 

CHAPTER V

THE LAND OF LICENCE

For twenty-four hours the two cowmen from the distant Clay Creek ranchhad owned Coyote Centre. An hour before sunset on the day previous theyhad suddenly blown in from the north; a great cloud of yellow dust, lifting lazily on the sultry air, a mighty panting of winded bronchos, asingle demoniacal dare-man whoop heralding their coming, a groaning ofstraining leather, a jingle of great spurs, and an otherwise augmentedstillness even in this silent land, marking their arrival. Pete it was, Pete Sweeney, "Long Pete, " who first dismounted. Pete likewise it waswho first entered the grog shop of Red Jenkins. Pete again it was who, ere ten words had passed, drew cold-blooded, point blank at the only manwho saw fit to question the invader's right of absolute ownership. Peteit was once again who, when the smoke had cleared away, assisted inlaying out that same misguided citizen, in decent fellowship, beneaththe cottonwood bar, and thrust an adequate green roll in the stiffeninghand for funeral expenses. 

"It's Bill's own fault, " he commented lucidly the while. "I don't visityou very often; but when I do I've got the dough to make it square, andthis town's my sausage, skin, curl, and all. D'ye understand?" and fromManning, the greybearded storekeeper, to Rank Judge, the one-leggedsaddler, there was no one to say him nay, none to contest his right ofauthority. 

By no means without an officer of the law was Coyote Centre. Underordinary conditions its majesty was ably, even aggressively, upheld byits representative, Marshal Jim Burton. Likewise there was no lack ofpilgrims, who by devious and circuitous routes sought his residence onthis occasion, with tales of distress and petitions for succour; but oneand all departed with their mission unfulfilled. The doughty James wasnot to be found. Urgent business of indefinite duration, at an even moreindefinite destination, had called him hence. No one regretted themischance so much as stalwart Mrs. Burton, who imparted the information, no one deplored the lost opportunity for distinction so much as she; butnevertheless the fact remained. For the time being, Coyote Centre wasthrown upon its own resources, was left to work out its own salvation asbest it might. 

Thus it came about that for a long, long dragging day, and the beginningof a second, the gunpowder had intermittently burned, and that more thanintermittently, all but continuously, the red liquor had flowed; to thealternate aggrandisement of Red Jenkins and his straw-haired Norwegianrival across the street--Gus Ericson. Unsophisticated ones there werewho fancied that ere this it would all end, that Mr. Sweeney's capacityfor absorption had a limit. Four separate gentlemen, with the laudableintention of hastening that much to be desired condition, had sacrificedthemselves for the common weal; but to the eternal disgrace of the town, all of them were now down and out, and in various retired spots, wherethey had been deposited by their sympathising friends, were snoring inpeaceful oblivion. Even Len Barker, game disciple of the great master, had reached his limit and, no longer formidable, had, without form oflaw, been deposited for safekeeping, and with a sigh of relief, in thecorporate Bastile; but Mr. Sweeney himself, Mr. Sweeney of the hawk eyeand the royal tread, despite a lack of sleep and of solid sustenance, was, to all visible indications, as fresh and aggressive as at thebeginning. 

Now for the second time night was coming on. Neither up nor down thesingle business thoroughfare did a street lamp show its face. One andall had succumbed long before to the god of gunpowder. Not a stray dog, and Coyote Centre was plethoric of canines, raised its voice nor showedeven a retreating tail near the area of disturbance. Wisdom and a desirefor deepest obscurity had come to the many, swift and suddenannihilation to the few. Temporarily, yet effectively as though acyclone were imminent, business and social life were paralysed. Theywere a tolerant breed, these citizens of Coyote Centre; repeated similarexperience had not been without its effect; moreover, the object lessonof the day before was still vivid in their minds; but at last patiencewas reaching its limit. In the closed doorway of the town hall a tinygroup of men were gathered, a group who spoke scarcely above a whisper, who kept a sharp lookout all surrounding, who stood ready at the twitchof an eyelash to disperse to the four winds. This was revolt incipient. In the single room of Bob Manning's general store was open revolt andplotting. Manning himself, grizzled, grey of hair, shaggy bearded, hadthe floor. 

"You're a bunch of measly cowards, " he included indiscriminately. "Youcome here with your stories and croak and croak, and still not one ofyou would dare say a word to Pete's face, not one of you but would standand let him twist your nose if he saw fit. " He glowered from one horn ofthe silent, listening semicircle to the other, with all-includingdisdain. "If you don't like it, why don't you put a stop to it? If JimBurton has sneaked, why don't you elect a new marshal? You're damnedcowards, I say. "

In his place on the cover of a barrel of dried apples, Bud Smith, theweazened little land man, shifted as though the seat hurt him. 

"P'raps you're right, dad, " he commented imperturbably, "and agin p'rapsyou're not. It's all well enough to say appoint a new marshal, but asfer's I've been able to discover there's no one hereabouts hankerin' ferthe job. " He spat at a crack in the cottonwood floor meditatively, struck true, and seemed mildly pleased. "Our buryin' patch is growin'comfortably rapidly as it is, without adding any marshals to thecollection. I've known Pete Sweeney fer quite a spell, and my privateadvice is to let him alone. There ain't coffins enough this side theriver to supply the demand, if you was to try to arrest him when he'sfeelin' as he's feelin' now. "

"Who mentioned arresting?" broke in Walt Wagner, the lanky Missourian, who drove the stage. "Pot him, I say. Pot him the first time he isn'tlooking. "

For a long half minute Bud observed the speaker; analytically, meditatively. 

"Evidently you ain't been a close observer, my boy, " he commented atlast, impersonally, "or you wouldn't be talkin' of Pete not lookin'. Iain't no weather prophet, but I'd hint to the feller who tackles thatjob to say his prayers before he starts. He won't have much timeafterwards. " With a swifter movement than he had yet made, the speakerslid from his place to the floor, involuntarily cast a glance into thestreet without. "I ain't perticularly scared, boys, " he explained, "andI ain't lookin' fer trouble neither. Between yourselves and myself, itain't at all healthy to sit here discussin' the matter. Someone's boundto peach on you, and then there's sure to be a call. You better scatterand let it blow over. "

"Scatter nothing, " exploded Wagner, belligerently. "Slide if you wantto, if you've got cold feet. I for one intend staying here as long as Isee fit, Sweeney or no Sweeney. "

"You do, do you?" It was Manning this time who spoke, Manning with hisdeep-set eyes flashing over his high cheek bones. "Well, maybe I've gotsomething to say about that. " He came out from behind the counter, facedthe lanky figure before him, with deliberate contempt. "You're a mightystiff-backed boy in the daytime, you are, Walt Wagner, but in thedark--" He halted and his mouth curled in bitterest sarcasm. "Why, ifyou're so anxious for a scrap, don't you run for marshal? Why don't youtake the job right now and put Pete out of business?" And his mouthcurled again. 

Beneath its coat of tan Wagner's face reddened; then went white. Involuntarily his lip curled back like that of a cornered dog, and untilit showed the lack of a prominent front tooth. 

"Seeing you are so free with your tongue, " he retorted, "I might ask youthe same question. I ain't no property interest here being destroyedlike you have. Why don't you do the trick yourself, dad?"

For a moment there was silence, inaction; then of a sudden the old manstiffened. With an effort almost piteous, he attempted to square hisshoulders; but they remained round as before. 

"Why don't I?" He held up his right hand--minus the index and middlefingers. He held up his left, stiffened and shrivelled with rheumatism. "Why don't I?" He clumped the length of the tiny storeroom and backagain; one crippled leg all but dragging. "Why don't I?" repeated forthe third time. "Do you imagine for the fraction of a second, WaltWagner, that if I was back twenty years and sound like you are, I'd beasking another man why he didn't do the job?" Terrible, almost ghastly, he stood there before them, the picture of bitter rage, of impotent, distorted senility. "Have you got the last spark of manhood left in you, and ask that question of me?"

In the pockets of his trousers Wagner's hands worked nervously. His facewent red again, but he gave no answer. Bud Smith it was, Bud Smith, five-feet-two, with a complexion prairie wind had made like a lobsterdisplay in a cafe window, who had halted at the door, but who now cameback, he it was who spoke. 

"And while you're in the talkin' business, " he suggested slowly, "youmight elab'rate what you meant a bit ago by intimatin' that I had coldfeet. We'll listen to that, too, any time you see fit to explain, pardner. "

"You want to know, do you?" Wagner's countenance had become normalagain, and with an effort at nonchalance he leaned his elbows backagainst the glass showcase, glancing the while down at the small man, almost patronisingly. "Well, then, for your benefit, I was merelyobserving that you filled the bill of what dad here said a bit ago weall were. " He smiled tantalisingly; again showing the vacancy in hisdental arch. "You remember what that was, don't you?"

"P'raps and p'raps not, " still deliberately. "I ain't lookin' fertrouble, mind you, but I just like to have things explicit. To be deadsure, I'd like to have you repeat it. "

Again there was silence. In it Bob Manning returned to his place behindthe counter; his game leg shuffling behind him as he moved. In itlikewise there was an interruption from without; the subdued clatter ofa horse's feet on the packed earth of the street, the straining ofleather, as the man, its rider, alighted, a moment later the click ofthe door latch as the same man, a stranger if they had noticed, enteredand halted abruptly at what he saw. But those within did not notice. Silent as the night without, forgetful for the moment of even PeteSweeney, they were staring at those two actors there before them. 

"I'm listening, " repeated Bud Smith gently. "I ain't lookin' fertrouble, you understand; but as fer as I recollect, no feller of my ownage ever called me coward. If you think so, I'd like to hear you say it. I'm listenin' fer you to say it now, Walt Wagner. "

Again within the room there was silence, and again from without thereapproached an interruption. From up the street, from out the door of RedJenkins's joint it came; the patter, patter of many feet, leading it theheavy clump of mighty cowhide boots on the cottonwood sidewalk, thejingle of spurs on those same boots at every step, the deep breathing ofa cowman intoxicated at last. Down the walk they came, past the darkeneddoorways of the deserted shops; wordless, menacing, nearer and nearer. Within the tiny storeroom no one had spoken, no one had noticed. Thearms of Walt Wagner were not on the showcase now. In the depths of hispockets they were fumbling again, aimlessly, nervously. His face hadgone whiter than before. Once he had opened his lips to speak, revealingthe blackness of the vacant tooth; but he had closed them againsilently. Now at last he cleared his throat, involuntarily he drew in along breath. Whether he was about to speak they who watched never knew. What if he had spoken he would have said they likewise never knew; forat that moment, interrupting, compelling, the door to the street swungopen with a crash, and fair in the aperture, filling it, blocking it, appeared the mighty, muscular figure of a cowman, while upon their ears, like the menacing bellow of an enraged bull, burst a voice--thechallenging, bullying voice of Pete Sweeney, inebriate. 

"What the hell be you fellers doin' here?" And when there was no answerrepeated, "What the hell be you doin', I say?"

For a space that dragged into a half minute there was inaction whileevery man within sound of his voice gazed at the speaker; at firstalmost with fascination, then as the real meaning of the interruptioncame over them, with sensations as divergent as their various individualminds. There was no need to tell them who looked at that towering, intruding figure that tragedy lurked in the air, that death on theslightest provocation, at the twitch of a trigger finger, dwelt inthose big twin Colts lying menacingly across the folded arms. A lunaticescaped was a pleasant companion, a child, to deal with, compared withPete Sweeney at this time. Malevolent, irresponsible, dare god--bullmastery fairly oozed from his presence. Bad every inch of him, hopelessly, irredeemably bad was this mountain of humanity. Bad from thesoles of his misshapen boots to the baggy chaperajos, to the bulgingholsters at his hips, to the gleaming cartridge belt around his waist, to the soft green flannel shirt, to the red silk handkerchief about histhroat, to the dark unshaven face, to the drink-reddened nose, to themere slits of eyes, to the upturned sombrero that crowned the shock ofwiry hair; bad in detail, in ensemble, was this inebriate cowman, bad. 

"Well, why don't you talk?" Himself interrupting the silence he came astep nearer, braced himself with legs far apart. "What've you got to sayfor yourselves? This ain't no Quaker meeting. Speak up. What're you alldoin' here?"

Among the crowd one man alone spoke, and that was lobster-red Bud Smith. 

"Tendin' to our own business, I reckon, Pete, " he explained evenly. 

"You lie!" Narrower and narrower closed the slit-like eyes. "You lie bythe clock. You were planning to fix ME, you nest of skunks. " From man toman he passed the look, halted at last at the figure of the lankyMissourian. "Some feller here figgered to pot me, and I'm lookin' tosee the colour of his hair. Who was it, I'd like to know?"

"Someone's been stuffin' you, Pete. " Even, deliberate as before Smithspoke the lie. "We don't give a whoop what you do. You can own the wholecounty so far as we care. Go back and 'tend to your knittin'. Dad herewants to close up, now. "

"He does, does he? Well, he can in just a minute, just as soon as youname the feller I mention. " Of a sudden his eyes shifted, dropped likeclaws on the figure of the little land man. "You know who it is I'mlookin' for. Tell me his name. "

"You don't know me very well, Pete. "

"I don't, eh? You think I don't know you?" The speaker was inspectingthe other as a house cat inspects the mouse within its paws. "In otherwords, you mean you know, but won't tell me. " Lingeringly, baitingly, almost exultingly, he was dragging the _dénouement_ on and on. "That'swhat you mean to imply, is it?"

"You've guessed it, Pete. " Not a muscle in the small man's bodytwitched; there was not the slightest alteration of the even tone. There, facing death as surely as harvest follows seedtime, knowing as heknew that but one man present could interfere to prevent, that that manwouldn't, he spoke those four words: "You've guessed it, Pete. " And butminutes before Manning had called this man coward!

For a moment likewise Sweeney did not stir. For a second his slow brainfailed to grasp the truth, the deliberate challenge of the refusal;then of a sudden, in a blinding, maddening flood, came comprehension, came action. Swifter than any human being would have thought possible, unbelievably ferocious even in this land of licence, something tookplace, something which the staring onlookers did not realise until itwas done. They only knew that with a mighty backward leap the cowman hadreached the single heavy oak door, had sent it shut with a bang. That atthe same time there was the vicious spit of a great revolver, that theodour of burnt gunpowder was in their nostrils, that lifting slowlytoward the ceiling was a cloud of thin blue smoke; a curtain that onceraised made them shudder, made their blood run cold, for it revealedthere, stretched on the floor, huddled as it had dropped, lifeless, motionless, the figure of the man who had refused, the weazened face ofLand Man Bud Smith! All this they realised in that first second; thensomething that was almost fascination drew away their eyes to the manwho had done this deed, to the man who, his back to the great door, theonly means of egress, was covering them, every soul, with the two greatrevolvers in his hands. For Pete Sweeney was not drunk now. As swiftlyas that horrible thing had been done he had gone sober. Yet no man whosaw him that instant feared him one whit less. Not a man present, believer or scoffer, but breathed a silent prayer. And there was reason. If Pete Sweeney, Long Pete, had possessed a real friend on earth, hepossessed that one no more. Disciples he had, imitators a-plenty; butfriends--there had been but one, and now there was none. In an instantof oblivion, of drunken frenzy, he had murdered that friend; murderedhim without a chance for self-defence, fair in his tracks. Not anotherhad done this thing but he himself, he, Cowman Pete. Small wonder thatthey who watched this man prayed, that surreptitious glances sought foran avenue of escape where there was none, that the face of Walt Wagnerwent whiter and whiter; for as certain as Bud Smith lay dead there uponthe floor, there would be a reckoning, --and what that reckoning would beGod alone could tell!

And Sweeney himself. After that first, all but involuntary movement, hehad not stirred. In his hands the big revolvers did not waver thebreadth of a hair. Out of bloodshot, terrible eyes he was looking atthat mute figure on the floor; looking at it immovably, indescribably, with an impassivity that was horrible. For the moment he seemed to haveforgotten the others' presence, seemed at their mercy; and to the mindof Walt Wagner there came a suggestion. Slowly, surreptitiously one handcame out of his pocket, advanced by the fractions of inches towards hiship; advanced and halted and advanced again, reached almost--almost--. 

"That'll do, you!" It was not a voice that spoke, it was a snarl: thesnarl of an angry animal. "Put that fist back in your breeches or byGod--"

No need to complete that threat. Back went the hand, back as thoughdrawn by a spring, back as though it were a paralysed, useless thing. 

"Now line up. " At last the move had come, the move they had known wasbut a question of time. "Toe the crack, every mother's son of you. Steplively. "

They obeyed. As Wagner's hand had done, they obeyed. Six men of themthere were: surly crippled Manning, with eyes ablaze and jaws set like atrap; lank Wagner with his hands still in his pockets; Rank Judge, stumping on his wooden leg; greasy adipose Buck Walker, who ran the meatmarket; Slim Simpson, from the eating joint opposite, pale as thetucked-in apron around his waist; last of all the stranger, tall, smooth-shaven, alien in knickerbockers and blouse, his lips compressed, at his throat the arteries pounding visibly through his fair skin. Upthey came at the word of command, like children with ill-learned lessonsto recite, like sheep with a collie at their heels. Humorous at anothertime and another place, that compliance would have been; but with thatmute, prostrate figure there before them on the floor, with that othermenacing, dominating figure facing them, it was far from humorous. Itwas ghastly in its confession of impotence, in its mute acquiescence toanother's will. 

The shuffling of feet ceased and silence fell; yet for some reason Petedid not act. Instead he stood waiting; his red-rimmed eyes travellingfrom man to man, the fissure between them deepening, the heavy lidsnarrowing, moment by moment. A long half minute he waited, gloating ontheir misery, prolonging their suspense; then came the interruption. Astep sounded on the walk without, a step that was all but noiseless. Ahand tried the knob of the door, found it bolted, and tapped gently onthe panel. 

Not a soul within the room stirred, not even Long Pete; but thenarrowing lids closed until they were mere slits, and the unshaven jawstightened. 

Again the knock sounded; louder, more insistent. 

This time there was action. One of the revolvers in Pete's hand moved tothe end of the line, halted. "Up with your hands, " snarled a voice. 

Two gnarled, distorted hands, the hands of Bob Manning, lifted in air. 

"Up with you, " and another pair, and another and another followed, untilthere were not two but twelve. 

"Make a move, damn you, "--one of the revolvers had returned to itsholster, the free hand was upon the bolt, --"and I'll drop you, everycursed one of you, in your tracks. I'll drop you if I swing the nextsecond. " With a jerk, the door opened wide, and like a flash the handreturned to the holster. "Come in, you idiot, " he challenged into thedarkness without, "come in and take your medicine with the rest. "

Within the room the six peered at the blackness of the open doorway, peered and held their breath. For an instant they saw nothing; then of asudden, fair in the opening, walking easily, noiselessly on moccasinedfeet, entered a brand new actor, advanced half across the room, whilehis eyes adjusted themselves to the light, halted curiously. Back of himthat instant the door again returned to its case with a crash, the rustybolt grating in its socket; and above the noise, drowning it, soundedthe snarl the others knew so well. 

"It's you, is it, redskin? What the hell are you doin' here?"

Deliberately, soundlessly as he had entered, the newcomer turned. Fromhis height of six feet one, an inch below that of Pete himself, hereturned the other's look fixedly, without answer. He wore a softflannel shirt, and a pair of dark brown corduroy trousers, supported bya belt. Unconsciously, as though he were alone, he hitched the corduroysup over his narrow hips, in the motion of one who has been riding. Thatwas all. 

Closer and closer came the red lids over Pete's veritable disfigurement. Involuntarily his great nostrils opened. 

"Talk up there, Injun, " he repeated slowly; and this time his voice wasalmost gentle. "My name's Sweeney, and I'm speakin' to you. What thedevil are you here for?"

No answer, not a sound; not even the twitching of an eyelid or a muscle. 

Ten seconds passed, fifteen. 

"I'll give you one more chance there, aborigine;" slowly, with aneffort, almost gratingly came the words, like the friction of a rustyspring at the striking of a clock; "and I ain't in the habit of doin'that either, pard. " He halted and his great chest heaved with the effortof a mighty breath, his whole body leaned a bit forward. "Tell me whatyou want here, and tell me quick, or by the eternal I'll fill you sofull of holes your own mother wouldn't recognise you. "

One by one the two repeaters shifted, shifted until they were focussedupon a spot midway between the belt and the rolling collar of theflannel shirt. "I'm listening, How Landor. "

At last the moment had come, the climax, the supreme instant in thecareer of those eight men in that tiny weather-boarded room. No need totell seven of them at least that it was a moment of life or death. Ifsomething, something which seemed inevitable, happened, if one of thosecurling, itching fingers on the triggers tightened, if but once thattook place, their lives were not worth the wording of a curse. If onceagain that black-visaged, passion-mastered human smelt powder, therewould be no end while a target had power to move, while a tiny gleamingcylinder remained in the row within his belt. This they knew; and man byman, as the Creator made them, revealed the knowledge. The jaws of BobManning were quiet now, but the old eyes blazed from beneath theirsockets like the eyes of a grey timber wolf, the centre of a howlingpack. Next to him lank Wagner stood, waiting with closed lips; his lipsas grey as those of the dead man on the floor. Rank Judge had not moved, but the harness on his wooden stump creaked softly as his weight shiftedfrom leg to leg. Fat Buck Walker was perspiring almost grotesquely, likean earthenware pitcher. Great drops hung from his chin, from hisuptilted nose, and his cotton shirt was dark. Slim Simpson, whitebefore, was like a corpse; only his great boyish eyes stared out, as asomnambulist stares, as one hypnotised. Last of all, at the end of theline was the stranger from the East, representative of another world. Piteous, horrible, the others had been; but he--but for his clothes, hismost intimate friend would not have recognised him at that moment. Inhim, blind, racking terror was personified. To have saved his soul hecould not keep still, and his heavy walking shoes grated as theyshuffled on the rough floor. He had bitten his lip and the blood stoodin his mouth and trickled down, down his clean-shaven face. His eyes, like those of Slim Simpson, were abnormally wide, but shiftingconstantly in a hopeless search for a place of concealment, of safety. If aught in his life merited retribution, the man paid the price ahundred times over and over that second. 

Thus man by man they stood waiting; a background no art could reproduce, no stage manager prodigal of expense. If on earth there ever was a hell, that tiny frontier room with the smoke-blackened ceiling and the singlekerosene lamp sputtering on the wall, was the place. Not an impthereof, but Satan himself, stood in the misshapen boots of Cowman Pete;doubly vicious in the aftermath of a debauch, Pete with the lust ofblood in his veins. And against him, scant hope to those who watched, was a man; tall, but not heavy, smooth-cheeked as a boy of fourteen, soft-eyed, soft-handed, without the semblance of a weapon. One brandedunmistakably a sleeper, a dreamer, one apparently helpless as a woman. Yet there that night, within the space of minutes, from the time therefell that last speaking silence, with this man the chief actor, theretook place something, the report of which spread swifter than wildfire, from the river to the Hills, from the north Bad Lands to the sandyPlatte, that will live and be repeated while tales of nerve and of manmastery quicken the pulses of listeners. For after that night CoyoteCentre knew Long Pete Sweeney no more; Dakota knew him no more. Not thathe was murdered in cold blood as he had murdered others: it was notthat. Alone, unmolested, he left, in the starlight of that very night;but he knew, and they who permitted him to go, knew that it had beenbetter--

But we anticipate. 

"I'm listening, How Landor, " he had said. 

But he heard nothing:--yet he saw. He saw a tall, lithe, catlike figurestraighten until it seemed fairly to tower. He saw this same figure lookat him fully, squarely; as though for the first time really conscious ofhis presence. He saw two unflinching black eyes, flanked by high cheekbones, out of a copper-brown face meet his own, meet them and hold them;hold them immovably, hold them so he could not look away. He saw theowner of those eyes move--he did not hear, there was no sound, not evena pat from the moccasined feet, he merely saw--and move toward him. Hesaw that being coming, coming, saw it detour to pass a prostrate body onthe floor; always silent, but always coming, always drawing nearer. Hesaw this thing, he, Pete Sweeney, he, Long Pete, whose name alone wasterror. He knew what it meant, he knew what he should do, what he hadsworn to do; the muzzles of his two revolvers were already focussed, buthe made no move. His fingers lay as before on the triggers. Once inunison they tightened; then loosened again. He did not act, this man. Ashis maker was his judge, he could not. He was wide awake, preternaturally wide awake; he tried to act, tried to send the messagethat would make the muscles tense; but he could not. Those two eyes wereholding him and he could not. All this he knew; and all the while thatother was coming nearer and nearer. He began to have a horror of thatcoming that he could not halt. The great unshaven jaw of him worked;worked spasmodically, involuntarily. His skin, flaming hot before, of asudden felt cool. The sweat spurted, stood damp on the hairy hands. Something he had never felt before, something he had observed in others, others like those six in the background, began to grip him; somethingthat whitened his face, that made him feel of a sudden weak--weak as hehad never felt before. And still those eyes were upon him, still thatdark face came closer and closer. Once more his brain sent the messageto kill, once more he battled against the inevitable; and that messagewas the last. There was no more response than if he were clay, than ifhis muscles were the muscles of another man. In that instant, withoutthe voicing of a word, the deed was done. That instant came the blackchaotic abandon that was terror absolute. In pure physical impotence, his arms dropped dangling at his sides. The other was very near now, sonear they could have touched, and the cowman tried to brace himself, tried to prepare for that which he knew was coming, which he read on thepage of that other face. But he was too late. Watching, almost doubtingtheir own eyes, the six saw the end. They saw a dark hand of a suddenclench, shoot out like a brown light. They heard an impact, and a secondlater the thud of a great body as it met the floor. They saw the latterlift, stumble clumsily to its feet, heard a muffled, choking oath. Thenfor a second time, the last, that clenched fist shot out, struck true. That was all. 

For a minute, a long, dragging minute, there was silence, inaction. Thenfor the first time the victor turned, facing the spectators. Deliberately he turned, slowly, looked at them an instant almostcuriously, --but he did not smile. Twelve arms, that had forgotten tolower, were still in the air--but he did not smile. Instead he soughtout the stranger in knickerbockers and blouse. 

"I came to meet Mr. Craig, Mr. Clayton Craig, and guide him to the B. B. Ranch, " he explained, "It is Mr. Landor's wish. Is this he?"

CHAPTER VI

THE RED MAN AND THE WHITE

Well out upon the prairie, clear of the limits of the tiny town, two menwere headed due west, into the night, apparently into the infinite. There was no moon, but here, with nothing to cast a shadow, it was notdark. The month was late October, and a suggestion of frost was in theair: on the grass blades of the low places, was actually present. As wasall but usual at that day, the direction they were going bore no traceof a road; but the man astride the vicious-looking roan cayuse who ledthe way, the same copper-brown man with the corduroys of Bob Manning'sstore, showed no hesitation. Like a hound, he seemed to discernlandmarks where none were visible to the eye. He rode without saddle orblanket, or spur, or quirt; yet, though he had not spoken a word fromthe moment they had started, the roan with the tiny ears had not brokenits steady, swinging, seemingly interminable lope, had scarcely appearedconscious of his presence. Almost as unit seemed this beast and human. It was as though the man were born in his place, as though, like asailor on a tiny boat, accustomed through a lifetime to a rolling, uncertain equilibrium, the adjustment thereto had become involuntary asa heart beat, instinctive as breathing. A splendid picture he made therein the starlight and the solitude; but of it the man who followed wasoblivious. Of one thing alone he was conscious, and that was that he wasvery tired; weary from the effect of an unusual exercise, doublyexhausted in the reaction from excitement passed. With an effort heurged his own horse alongside the leader, drew rein meaningly. 

"Let's hold up a bit, " he protested. "I've come twenty-five miles to-dayalready, and I'm about beat. " He slapped the breast pocket of his coat abit obviously, and as his companion slowed to a walk, produced asilver-mounted, seal-covered flask and proffered it at arm's length. "The cork unscrews to the left, " he explained suggestively. 

The dark figure of the guide made no motion of acceptance, did not evenglance around. 

"Thanks, but I never drink, " he declined. 

"Not even to be sociable, "--the hand was still extended, --"not when Iask you as--a friend?"

"I am a Sioux, " simply. "I have found that liquor is not good for anIndian. "

For a second the white man hesitated; then with something akin to aflush on his face, he returned the flask to his pocket untasted. 

Again, without turning, the other observed the motion. 

"Pardon me, but I did not mean to prevent you. "

He spoke stiffly, almost diffidently, as on unused to speech withstrangers, unused to speech at all; but without a trace of embarrassmentor of affectation. 

"I do not judge others. I merely know my people--and myself. "

Again the stranger hesitated, and again his face betrayed him. He hadscratched an aborigine, and to his surprise was finding indications of aman. 

"I guess I can get along without it, " shortly. "I--" he caught himselfjust in time from framing a self-extenuation. "I didn't have time--backthere, " he digressed suddenly, "to thank you for what you did. I wish todo so now. " He was looking at the other squarely, as the smart civilianobserves the derelict who has saved his life in a runaway. Already, there under the stars, it was difficult to credit to the full thatfantastic scene of an hour ago; and unconsciously a trace of the realman, of condescension, crept into the tone. "You helped me out of anasty mess, and I appreciate it. "

No answer. No polite lie, no derogation of self or of what had beendone. Just silence, attentive, but yet silence. 

For the third time the white man hesitated, and for the third time hisface shaded red; consciously and against his will. Even the starlightcould not alter the obtrusive fact that he had cut a sorry figure in thelate drama, and his pride was sore. Extenuation, dissimulation even, would have been a distinct solace. Looking at the matter now, theexcitement past, palliation for what he had done was easy, almostlogical. He had not alone conformed. He had but done, withoutconsideration, as the others with him had done. But even if it were notso, back in the land from which he had come, a spade was not always socalled. His colour went normal at the recollection. The habitual, thecondescending pressed anew to the fore. 

He inspected the silent figure at his side ingenuously, almostquizzically; as in his schoolboy days he had inspected his ploddingmaster of physics before propounding a query no mortal could answer. 

"I know I waved the white flag back there as hard as any of them, " heproffered easily. "I'm not trying to clear myself; but between you andme, don't you think that Pete was merely bluffing, there at the end whenyou came?" The speaker shifted sideways on the saddle, until his weightrested on one leg, until he faced the other fair. "The fellow was drunk, irresponsibly drunk, at first, when the little chap stirred him up; butafterwards, when he was sober. .. . On the square, what do you think hewould have done if--if you hadn't happened in?"

For so long that Craig fancied he had not given attention to thequestion, the guide did not respond, did not stir in his seat; thenslowly, deliberately, he turned half about, turned and for the firsttime in the journey met the other's eyes. Even then he did not speak;but so long as he lived, times uncounted in his after life, ClaytonCraig remembered that look; remembered it and was silent, remembered itwith a tingling of hot blood and a mental imprecation--for as indeliblyas a red-hot iron seals a brand on a maverick, that look left itsimpress. No voice could have spoken as that simple action spoke, notongue thrust could have been so pointed. With no intent of discourtesy, no premeditated malice was it given; and therein lay the fine sting, thevenom. It was unconscious as a breath, unconscious as nature's joy inspringtime; yet in the light of after events, it stood out like a signalfire against the blackness of night, as the beginning of an enmity moredeadly than death itself, that lasted into the grave and beyond. Forthat silent, unwavering look set them each, the red man and the white, in their niche; placed them with an assurance that was final. It was aquestioning, analytic look, yet, unconcealed, it bore the tolerance of astrong man for a weak. Had that look been a voice, it would have spokenone word, and that word was "cad. "

For a moment the two men sat so, unconscious of time, unconscious ofplace; then of a sudden, to both alike, the present returned--and againthat return was typical. As deliberately as he had moved previously, theIndian faced back. His left arm, free at his side, hung loose as before. His right, that held the reins, lay motionless on the pony's mane. In nodetail did he alter, nor in a muscle. By his side, the white manstiffened, jerked without provocation at the cruel curb bit, until hishorse halted uncertain; equally without provocation, sent the rowels ofhis long spurs deep into the sensitive flank, with a curse held thefrightened beast down to a walk. That was all, a secondary lapse, aburst of flowing, irresponsible passion like a puff of burninggunpowder, and it was over; yet it was enough. In that second was toldthe tale of a human life. In that and in the surreptitious sidelongglance following, that searched for an expression in the boyishly softface of his companion. But the Indian was looking straight before him, looking as one who has seen nothing, heard nothing; and, silent asbefore the interruption, they journeyed on. 

A half hour slipped by, a period wherein the horses walked and galloped, and walked again, ere the white man forgot, ere the instinct ofcompanionship, the necessity of conversation, urban-fostered, gainedmastery. Then as before, he looked at the other surreptitiously, throughunconsciously narrowed lids. 

"I haven't yet asked your name?" he formalised baldly, curtly. 

The guide showed no surprise, no consciousness of the long silencepreceding. 

"The Sioux call me Ma-wa-cha-sa: the ranchers, How Landor. "

Craig dropped the reins over his saddle and fumbled in his pockets. 

"The Indian word has a meaning, I presume?"

"Translated into English, it would be 'the lost pappoose. '"

The eyebrows of the Easterner lifted; but he made no comment. 

"You have been with my uncle, with Mr. Landor, I mean, long?"

"Since I can remember--almost. "

The search within the checkered blouse ended. The inquisitor produced apipe and lit it. It took three matches. 

"My uncle never wrote me of that. He told me once of adopting a girl. Bess he called her, was it not?"

"Yes. "

Already the pipe had gone dead, and Craig struggled anew in getting italight, with the awkwardness of one unused to smoking out of doors. 

"Do you like this country, this--desert?" he digressed suddenly. 

"It is the only one I know. "

"You mean know well, doubtless?"

"I have never been outside the State. "

Unconsciously the other shrugged, in an action that was habitual. 

"You have something to look forward to then. I read somewhere that itwere better to hold down six feet of earth in an Eastern cemetery thanto own a section of land in the West. I'm beginning to believe it. "

No comment. 

"I suppose you will leave though, some time, " pressed the visitor. "Youcertainly don't intend to vegetate here always?"

"I never expect to leave. I was born here. I shall die here. "

Once more the shoulders of the Easterner lifted in mute thanksgiving offundamental difference. Of a sudden, for some indefinite reason, he feltmore at ease in his companion's presence. For the time being the senseof antagonism became passive. What use, after all, was mere physicalcourage, if one were to bury it in a houseless, treeless waste such asthis? The sense of aloofness, of tranquil superiority, returned. He evenfelt a certain pleasure in questioning the other; as one is interestedin questioning a child. Bob Manning's store and Pete Sweeney weretemporarily in abeyance. 

"Pardon me, if I seem inquisitive, " he prefaced, "but I'll probably behere a month or so, and we'll likely see a good deal of each other. Areyou married?"

"No. "

"You will be, though. " It was the ultimatum of one unaccustomed tocontradiction. "No man could live here alone. He'd go insane. "

"I eat at the ranch house sometimes, but I live alone. "

"You won't do so, though, always. " Again it was the voice of finality. 

The Indian looked straight ahead into the indefinite distance where theearth and sky met. 

"No, I shall not do so always, " he corroborated. 

"I thought so. " It was the tolerant approval of the prophet verified. "I'd be doing the same thing myself if I lived here long. Conformity'sin the air. I felt it the moment I left the railroad and struckthis--wilderness. " Once again the unconscious shoulder shrug. "It's anatavism, this life. I've reverted a generation already. It's only aquestion of time till one would be back among the cave-dwellers. Thething's in the air, I say. "

Again no comment. Again for any indication he gave, the Indian might nothave heard. 

Craig straightened, as one conscious that he was talking over hiscompanion's head. 

"When, if I may ask, is it to be, your marriage, I mean?" he returned. "While I am here?"

For an instant the other's eyes dropped until they were hid beneath thelong lashes, then they returned to the distance as before. 

"It will be soon. Three weeks from to-day. "

"And at the ranch, I presume? My uncle will see to that, of course. "

"Yes, it will be at the ranch. "

"Good! I was wondering if anything would be doing here while I washere. " Craig threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle and adjustedthe knickerbockers comfortably. "By the way, how do you--yourpeople--celebrate an event of this kind? I admit I'm a bit ignorant onthe point. "

"Celebrate? I don't think I understand. " The Easterner glanced at hiscompanion suspiciously but the other man was still looking straightahead into the distance. 

"You have a dance, or a barbecue or--or something of that sort, don'tyou? It's to be an Indian wedding, is it not?"

Pat, pat went the horses' feet on the prairie sod. While one could countten slowly there was no other sound. 

"No, there will be no dance or barbecue or anything out of the ordinary, so far as I know, " said a low voice then. "It will not be an Indianwedding. "

Craig hesitated. An instinct told him he had gone far enough. Lurkingindefinite in the depths of that last low-voiced answer was a warning, achallenge to a trespasser; but something else, a thing which a lifetimeof indulgence had made almost an instinct, prevented his heeding. He wasnot accustomed to being denied, this man; and there was no contestingthe obvious fact that now a confidence was being withheld. The latentantagonism aroused with a bound at the thought. Something more than merecuriosity was at stake, something which he magnified until it obscuredhis horizon, warped hopelessly his vision of right or wrong. He was ofthe conquering Anglo-Saxon race, and this other who refused him was anIndian. Racial supremacy itself hung in the balance: the old, old issueof the white man and the red. Back into the stirrup went the leg thathung over the saddle. Involuntarily as before he stiffened. 

"Why, is it not to be an Indian wedding?" he queried directly. "Youseemed a bit ago rather proud of your pedigree. " A trace of sarcasmcrept into his voice at the thinly veiled allusion. "Have you forsakenentirely the customs of your people?"

Pat, pat again sounded the horses' feet. The high places as well as thelow bore their frost blanket now, and the dead turf cracked softly withevery step. 

"No, I have not forsaken the customs of my people. "

"Why then in this instance?" insistently. "At least be consistent, man. Why in this single particular and no other?"

The hand on the neck of the cayuse tightened, tightened until the tinyears of the wicked little beast went flat to its head; then of a suddenthe grip loosened. 

"Why? The answer is simple. The lady who is to be my wife is not anIndian. "

For an instant Craig was silent, for an instant the full meaning of thatconfession failed in its appeal; then of a sudden it came over him in aflood of comprehension. Very, very far away now, banished into remotestoblivion, was Pete Sweeney. Into the same grave went any remnants ofgratitude to the other man that chanced to remain. Paramount, beckoninghim on, one thought, one memory alone possessed his brain: therecollection of that look the other had given him, that look he couldnever forget nor forgive. "Since you have told me so much, " hechallenged "you will probably have no objection to telling me the lady'sname. Who is it to be?"

Silence fell upon them. Far in the distance, so far that had the whiteman seen he would have thought it a star, a light had come into being. Many a time before the little roan had made this journey. Many a time hehad seen that light emerge from the surface of earth. To him it meantall that was good in life: warmth, food, rest. The tiny head shookimpatiently, shifted sideways with an almost human question to his riderat the slowness of the pace, the delay. 

"That light you see there straight ahead is in the ranch house, "digressed the Indian. "It is four miles away. "

Again it was the warning, not a suggestion, but positive this time; andagain it passed unheeded. 

"You have forgotten to answer my question, " recalled Craig. 

Swift as thought the Indian shifted in his seat, shifted half about;then as suddenly he remembered. 

"No, I have not forgotten, " he refuted. "You tell me you have alreadyheard of Bess Landor. It is she I am to marry. "

At last he had spoken, had given his confidence to this hostile strangerman; not vauntingly or challengingly, but simply as he had spoken hisname. Against his will he had done this thing, despite a reticence noone who did not understand Indian nature could appreciate. Then atleast it would not have taken a wise man to hold aloof. Then at leastcommon courtesy would have called a halt. But Clayton Craig was neitherwise nor courteous this night. He was a great, weary, passionate child, whose pride had been stung, who but awaited an opportunity to retaliate. And that opportunity had been vouchsafed. Moreover, irony of fate, itcame sugar coated. Until this night he had been unconscious as a babe ofracial prejudice. Now of a sudden, it seemed a burning issue, and he itschosen champion. His blood tingled at the thought; tingled to the tipsof his well-manicured fingers. His clean-shaven chin lifted in air untilhis lashes all but met. 

"Do you mean to tell me, "--his voice was a bit higher than normal andunnaturally tense, --"do you mean to tell me that you, an Indian, are tomarry a white girl--and she my cousin by adoption? Is this what youmean?"

Seconds passed. 

"I have spoken, " said a low voice. "I do not care to discuss the matterfurther. "

"But I do care to discuss it, " peremptorily. "As one of the family it ismy right, and I demand an answer. "

Again the tiny roan was shaking an impatient head. It would not be longuntil they were home now. 

"Yes, " answered the Indian. 

"And that my uncle will permit it, gives his consent?" Again thesilence and again the low-voiced "Yes. "

Over Craig's face, to his eyebrows and beyond, there swept a red flood, that vanished and left him pale as the starlight about him. 

"Well, he may; but by God I won't!" he blazed. "As sure as I live, andif she's as plain as a hag, so long as her skin is white, you'll notmarry her. If it's the last act of my life, I'll prevent you!"

The voice of the white man was still, but his heart was not. Beat, beat, beat it went until he could scarcely breathe, until the hot blood fairlyroared in his arteries, in his ears. Not until the challenge was spokendid he realise to the full what he had done, that inevitable as timethere would be a reckoning. Now in a perfect inundation, the knowledgecame over him, and unconsciously he braced himself, awaited the move. Yet for long, eternally long it seemed to him, there was none. The swiftreaction of a passionate nature was on, and as in Bob Manning's store, the suspense of those dragging seconds was torture. Adding thereto, recollection of that former scene, temporarily banished, returned nowirresistibly, cumulatively. Struggle as he might against the feeling, aterror of this motionless human at his side grew upon him; a blind, unreasoning, primitive terror. But one impulse possessed him: to beaway, to escape the outburst he instinctively knew was but delayed. Inan abandon he leaned far forward over his saddle, the rowel of his spurdug viciously into his horse's flank. There was a deep-chested groanfrom the surprised beast, a forward leap--then a sudden jarring halt. As by magic, the reins left his hand, were transferred to another hand. 

"Don't, " said a voice. "It will not help matters any to do that. It willonly make them worse. " The two horses, obeying the same hand, stoppedthere on the prairie. The riders were face to face. "I have tried toprevent this, for the sake of the future, I have tried; but you havemade an understanding between us inevitable, and therefore it may aswell be now. " The voice halted and the speaker looked at his companionfixedly, minutely, almost unbelievingly. "I know I am not as you whitemen, " went on the voice. "I have been raised with you, lived my life sofar with you; yet I am different. No Indian would have done as you havedone. I cannot understand it. Not three hours ago I saved your life. Itwas a mere chance, but nevertheless I did it; and yet already you haveforgotten, have done--what you have done. " So far he had spoken slowly, haltingly; with the effort of one to whom words were difficult. Now theeffort passed. "I say I cannot understand it, " he repeated swiftly. "Mr. Landor has been very good to me. For his sake I would like to forgivewhat you have done, what you promise to do. I have tried to forgive it;but I cannot. I am an Indian; but I am also a man. As a race your peoplehave conquered my people, have penned them up in reservations to die;but that is neither your doing nor mine. We are here as man to man. Asman to man you have offered me insult--and without reason. " For thefirst time a trace of passion came into the voice, into the soft brownface. "I ask you to take back what you have just said. I do not warnyou. If you do so, there is no quarrel between us. I merely ask you totake it back. "

He halted expectant; but there was no answer, Craig's lips weretwitching uncontrollably, but he did not speak. 

Just perceptibly the Indian shifted forward in his seat, justperceptibly the long brown fingers tightened on his pony's mane. 

"Will you not take it back?" he asked. 

Once more the white man's lip twitched. "No, " he said. 

"No?"

"No. "

That was all--and it was not all. For an instant after the Easterner hadspoken the stars looked down on the two men as they were, face to face;then smiling, satiric they gazed down upon a very different scene: oneas old and as new as the history of man. Just what happened in thatmoment that intervened neither the white man nor the red could havetold. It was a lapse, an oblivion; a period of primitive physicaldominance, of primitive human hate. When they awoke--when the red manawoke--they were flat on earth, the dust of the prairie in theirnostrils, the short catch of their breath in each other's ears, out one, the dark-skinned, was above. One, again the dark-skinned, had hisfingers locked tight on the other's throat. This they knew when theyawoke. 

A second thereafter they lay so, flaming eyes staring into theirdoubles; then suddenly the uppermost man broke free, arose. In his earswas the diminishing patter of their horses' hoofs. They were alone thereon the prairie, under the smiling satiric stars. One more moment hestood so; he did not turn; he did not assist the other to rise; then hespoke. 

"I do not ask your pardon for this, " he said. "You have brought it uponyourself. Neither do I ask a promise. Do as you please. Try what youhave suggested if you wish. I am not afraid. Follow me, " and, long-strided, impassive as though nothing had happened, he moved aheadinto the distance where in the window of the Buffalo Butte ranch houseglowed a light. 

CHAPTER VII

A GLIMPSE OF THE UNKNOWN

It was very late, so late that the sun entering at the south windows ofthe room shone glaringly upon the white counterpane of his bed whenCraig awoke the next morning. Breakfast had long been over, butthroughout the unplastered ranch house the suggestion of coffee and thetang of bacon still lingered. At home those odours would have arousedslight sensations of pleasure in the man, even at this time of day; butnow and here they were distinctly welcome, distinctly inviting. With theaid of a tin pail of water and a cracked queensware bowl, he made ahasty toilet, soliloquised an opinion of a dressing-room without amirror, and descended the creaking stairs to the level below. 

The main floor of the ranch house contained but three rooms. Of these, it was the living-room which he entered. No one was about. The pipewhich he had smoked with his uncle before retiring the night beforeremained exactly as he had put it down. His cap and gloves were stillbeside it. Obviously there was no possibility of breakfast here, and hemoved toward the adjoining room. On his way he passed a hook where uponarrival he had hung his riding blouse. Telltale with its litter of dustand grass stems, it hung there now; and unconsciously he scowled at therecollection it suggested. 

Opening the door, he was face to face with a little fast-ticking cheaplyornate clock. Its hands indicated eleven, and the man grimacedtolerantly. As in the living-room, no human was present, but here theindications for material sustenance were more hopeful. It was thedining-room, and, although in the main the table had been cleared, atone end a clean plate, flanked by a bone-handled knife and fork and anold-fashioned castor, still remained. Moreover, from the third room, thekitchen, he could now hear sounds of life. The fire in a cook-stove wascrackling cheerily. Above it, distinct through the thin partition, camethe sound of a girlish voice singing. There was no apparent effort attime or at tune; it was uncultivated as the grass land all about; yet inits freshness and unconsciousness it was withal distinctly pleasing. Itwas a happy voice, a contented voice. Instinctively it bore a suggestionof home and of quiet and of peace; like a kitten with drowsy eyespurring to itself in the sunshine. A moment the visitor stood silent, listening; then, his heavy shoes clumping on the uncarpeted floor, hemoved toward it. Instantly the song ceased, but he kept on, pushed openthe door gently, stepped inside. 

"Good-morning!" he began, and then halted in an uncertainty he seldomfelt among women folk. He had met no one but his uncle the previousnight. Inevitably the preceding incident with his guide had produced amental picture. It was with the expectation of having this conceptionpersonified that he had entered, to it he had spoken; then had come therevelation, the halt. 

"Good-morning!" answered a voice, one neither abnormally high norrepressedly low, the kind of voice the man seldom heard in the societyto which he was accustomed--one natural, unaffected, frankly interested. The owner thereof came forward, held out her hand. Two friendly browneyes smiled up at him from the level of his shoulder. "I know withoutyour introducing yourself that you're Mr. Craig, " she welcomed. "UncleLandor told me before he left what to expect. He and Aunt Mary had to goto town this morning. Meanwhile I'm the cook, and at your service, " andshe smiled again. 

For far longer than civility actually required, to the extreme limit ofcourtesy and a shade beyond, in, fact, until it unmistakably sought tobe free, Clayton Craig retained that proffered hand. Against all thecanons of good breeding he stared. Answering, a trace of colour, appearing at the brown throat, mounted higher and higher, reached thesoft oval cheeks, journeyed on. 

"I beg your pardon, " apologised the man. He met the accusing eyesfairly, with a return of his old confidence. "You had the advantage ofme, you know. I was not forewarned what to expect. "

It was the breaking of the ice, and they laughed together. The girl hadbeen working with arms bare to the elbow, and as now of a sudden sherolled the sleeves down Craig laughed again; and in unconscious echo asecond later she joined. Almost before they knew it, there alone in thelittle whitewashed kitchen with the crackling cook-stove and thesunshine streaming in through the tiny-paned windows, they were friends. All the while the girl went about the task of preparing a belatedbreakfast they laughed and chatted--and drew nearer and nearer. Againwhile Craig ate and at his command the girl sat opposite to entertainhim, they laughed and chatted. Still later, the slowly eaten mealfinished, while Elizabeth Landor washed the dishes and put everythingtidy and Craig from his seat on the bottom of an inverted basketreversed the position of entertainer, they laughed and chatted. Andthrough it all, openly when possible, surreptitiously when it were wise, the man gave his companion inspection. And therein he at first butfollowed an instinct. Very, very human was Clayton Craig of Boston, Suffolk County, Massachusetts, and very, very good to look upon wasbrown-eyed, brown-skinned, brown-haired Elizabeth Landor. Neither hadthought of evil, had other thought than the innocent pleasure of themoment that first morning while the tiny clock on the wall measured offthe swift-moving minutes. Good it is to be alive in sun-blessed SouthDakota on a frosty warm October day, doubly good when one is young; andthese two, the man and the girl, were both young. Months it takes, yearssometimes, in civilisation, with barriers of out on the prairie, alone, with the pulse of nature throbbing, throbbing, insistently all about, the process is very swift, so swift that an hour can suffice. No, notthat first hour wherein unconsciously they became friends, did the angelwith the big book record evil opposite the name of Clayton Craig; notuntil later, not until he had had time to think, not until--. 

But again we anticipate. 

"I'm so glad you've come, " the girl had ejaculated, "now when you have. "At last the work was over, and in unconscious comradery they sat side byside on the broad south doorstep; the sun shining down full upon theiruncovered heads--smiling an unconscious blessing more potent thanformula of clergy. She was looking out as she spoke, out over the levelearth dazzling with its dancing heat waves, mysterious in its suggestionof unfathomable silence, of limitless distance. "It's such a little timenow before I am going away, and Uncle Landor has talked of you so much, particularly of late. " A pause, a hesitating pause. "I suppose you'lllaugh at me, but I hope you'll stay here, for a time, anyway, after I'mgone. "

Clayton Craig, the listener, was not gazing out over the prairie. Theobject at which he was looking was very near; so near that he had leaneda trifle back the better to see, to watch. He shifted now until hisweight rested on his elbow, his face on his hand. 

"You are going away, you say?" he echoed. 

"Yes. I supposed you knew--that Uncle had told you. " Despite an effort, the tiny ears were reddening. She was very human also, was ElizabethLandor. "I am to be married soon. "

"Married?" A long pause. "And to whom, please?" The voice was very low. 

Redder than before burned the tiny ears. No more than she could keepfrom breathing could she prevent telling her secret, her happiness, thisprairie girl; no more than she could prevent that accompanying telltalescarlet flood. 

"You didn't know it, but you've met him already, " she confided. "You methim last night. " To her at this time there was no need of antecedent. There was but one to whom the pronoun might refer. "It was he who showedyou here--How Landor. "

For a long time--for he was thinking now, was Clayton Craig, and did notanswer--there was silence. Likewise the girl, her confession voiced, said no more; but her colour came and went expectantly, tantalisingly, and the eyes that still looked into the distance were unconscious ofwhat they saw. From his place the man watched the transparent pantomime, read its meaning, stored the picture in his memory; but he did notspeak. A minute had already passed; but still he did not speak. He wasthinking of the night before, was the man, of that first look he hadreceived--and of what had followed. His eyes were upon the girl, but itwas of this he was thinking. Another minute passed. A big shaggy-hairedcollie, guardian of the dooryard, paused in his aimless wandering aboutthe place to thrust a friendly muzzle into the stranger's hand; but eventhen he did not respond. For almost the first time in his irresolutelife a definite purpose was taking form in the mind of Clayton Craig, and little things passed him by. A third minute passed. The colour hadceased playing on the face he watched now. The silence had performed itsmission. It was the moment for which he was waiting, and he wasprepared. Then it was the angel of the great book opened the volume andmade an entry; for then it was the watcher spoke. 

"I met him last, night, you say?" It was the hesitating voice of onewhose memory is treacherous, "I have been trying to recall--Certainlyyou must be mistaken. I saw no one last night except Uncle Landor and anIndian cow-puncher with a comic opera name. " He met the brown eyes thatwere of a sudden turned upon him, frankly, innocently. "You must bemistaken, " he repeated. 

Searchingly, at first suspiciously, then hesitatingly, with a return ofthe colour that came as easily as a prairie wind stirs the down of amilk-weed plant, Elizabeth Landor returned his look. It was an instinctthat at last caused her eyes to drop. 

"No, I was not mistaken, " she voiced. "How Landor is an Indian. It is heI meant. "

For a carefully timed pause, the space in which one recovers fromhearing the unbelievable, Craig was silent; then swiftly, contritely heroused. "I beg a thousand pardons, " he apologised. "I meant nodisrespect. I never dreamed--Forgive me. " He had drawn very near. "Iwouldn't hurt you for the world. I--Please forgive me. " He was silent. 

"There's nothing to forgive. " The girl's colour was normal again and shemet his eyes frankly, gravely. 

"But there is, " protested the man humbly. "Because he happened to beminus a collar and had a red skin--I was an ass; an egregious, blundering ass. "

"Don't talk that way, " hurriedly. "You merely did not know him, was all. If you had been acquainted all your life as I have--" Against her willshe was lapsing into a defence, and she halted abruptly. "You were notat fault. "

Again for a carefully timed pause the man was silent. Then abruptly, obviously, he changed the subject. 

"You said you were going away, " he recalled. "Is it to be a weddingjourney?"

"Yes, " tensely. 

"Tell me of it, please; I wish to hear. "

"You would not be interested. "

"Elizabeth--" syllabalised, reproachfully. "Am I not your cousin?"

No answer. 

"Haven't you forgiven me yet?" The voice was very low. Its owner wasagain very near. 

"You'd laugh at me if I told you, " repressedly. "You wouldn'tunderstand. "

Slowly, meaningly, Clayton Craig drew away--resumed the former position;the place from which, unobserved, he could himself watch. 

"We're going away out there, " complied the girl suddenly, reluctantly. Her hand indicated the trackless waste to the right. "Just the two of usare going: How and I. We'll take a pack horse and a tent and How's campkit and stay out there alone until winter comes. " Against her will shewas warming to the subject, was unconsciously painting a picture toplease the solitary listener. "We'll have our ponies and ammunition andplenty to read. The cowboys laugh at How because ordinarily he nevercarries a gun; but he's a wonderful shot. We'll have game whenever wewant it. We'll camp when we please and move on when we please. " Againunconsciously she glanced at the listener to see the effect of her art. "We'll be together, How and I, and free--free as sunshine. There'll benothing but winter, and that's a long way off, to bring us back. It'swhat I've always wanted to do, from the time I can remember. How goesaway every year, and he's promised this once to take me along. "Suddenly, almost challengingly, she turned, facing the man hercompanion. "Won't it be fine?" she queried abruptly. 

"Yes, " answered a voice politely, a voice with a shade of listlessnessin its depths, "fine indeed. And if you want anything at any time youcan go to the nearest ranch house. One always does forget something youknow. "

"That's just what we can't do, " refuted the girl swiftly. "That's thebest of it all. The Buffalo Butte is the last ranch that way, to thewest, until you get to the Hills. We probably won't see another humanbeing while we're gone. We'll be as much alone as though we were theonly two people in the world. "

Craig hesitated; then he shrugged self-tolerantly. 

"I'm hopelessly civilised myself, " he commented smilingly. "I wasthinking that some morning I might want toast and eggs for breakfast. And my clean laundry might not be delivered promptly if I were changingmy residence so frequently. " He lifted from his elbow. "Pardon me again, though, " he added contritely. "I always do see the prosaic side ofthings. " The smile vanished, and for the first time he looked away, absently, dreamily. As he looked his face altered, softened almostunbelievably. "It would be wonderful, " he voiced slowly, tensely, "to bealone, absolutely alone, out there with the single person one cared formost, the single person who always had the same likes and dislikes, thesame hopes and ambitions. I had never thought of such a thing before; itwould be wonderful, wonderful!"

No answer; but the warm colour had returned to the girl's face and hereyes were bright. 

"I think I envy you a little, your happiness, " said Craig. Warmer andwarmer tinged the brown cheeks, but still the girl was silent. 

"Yes, I'm sure I envy you, " reiterated the man. "We always envy otherpeople the things we haven't ourselves; and I--" He checked himselfabruptly. 

"Don't talk so, " pleaded the girl. "It hurts me. "

"But it's true. "

Just a child of nature was Elizabeth Landor; passionate, sympathetic, unsophisticated product of this sun-kissed land. Just this she was; andanother, this man with her, her cousin by courtesy, was sad. Inevitablyshe responded, as a flower responds to the light, as a parent birdresponds to the call of a fledgling in distress. 

"Maybe it's true now--you think it is, " she halted; "but there'll be atime--"

"No, I think not. I'm as the Lord made me. " Craig laughed shortly, unmusically. "It's merely my lot. "

The girl hesitated, uncertain, at a loss for words. Distinctly for heras though the brightness of the day had faded under a real shadow, italtered now under the cloud of another's unhappiness. But one suggestionpresented itself; and innocently, instinctively as a mother comforts herchild, she drew nearer to the other in mute human sympathy. 

The man did not move. Apparently he had not noticed. 

"The time was, " he went on monotonously, "when I thought differently, when I fancied that some time, somewhere, I would meet a girl Iunderstood, who could understand me. But I never do. No matter how wellI become acquainted with women, we never vitally touch, never becomenecessary to each other. It seems somehow that I'm the only one of mykind, that I must go through life so--alone. "

Nearer and nearer crept the girl; not as maid to man, but as one childpresses closer to another in the darkness. One of her companion's handslay listless on his knee, and instinctively, compellingly, she placedher own upon it, pressed it softly. 

"I am so selfish, " she voiced contritely, "to tell you of my own love, my own happiness. I didn't mean to hurt you. I simply couldn't help it, it's such a big thing in my own life. I'm so sorry. "

Just perceptibly Craig stirred; but still he did not look at her. Whenhe spoke again there was the throb of repression in his voice; but thatwas all. 

"I'm lonely at times, " he went on dully, evasively, "you don't know howlonely. Now and then someone, as you unconsciously did a bit ago, showsme the other side of life, the happy side; and I wish I were dead. " Amist came into his eyes, a real mist. "The future looks so blank, sohopeless that it becomes a nightmare to me. Anything else would bepreferable, anything. It's so to-day, now. " He halted and of a suddenturned away so that his face was concealed. "God forgive me, but I wishit were over with, that I were dead!"

"No, no! You mustn't say that! You mustn't!" Forgetful entirely, thegirl arose, stood facing him. Tears that she could not prevent were inthe brown eyes and her lip twitched. "It's so good to be alive. Youcan't mean it. You can't. "

"But I do. It's true. " Craig did not stir, did not glance up. "What'sthe use of living, of doing anything, when no one else cares, ever willcare. What's the use--"

"But somebody does care, " interrupted the girl swiftly, "all of us herecare. Don't say that again, please don't. I can't bear to hear you. " Shehalted, swallowed hard at a lump which rose hinderingly in her throat. "I feel somehow as though I was to blame, as though if you should meanwhat you said, should--should--" Again she halted; the soft brown eyesglistening, the dainty oval chin trembling uncontrollably, her fingerslocked tight. A moment she stood so, uncertain, helpless; then of asudden the full horror of the possibility the other had suggested cameover her, swept away the last barrier of reserve. Not the faintestsuspicion of the man's sincerity, of his honesty, occurred to her, notthe remotest doubt. In all her life no one had ever lied to her; she hadnever consciously lied to another. The world of subterfuge was an unreadbook. This man had intimated he would do this terrible thing. He meantit. He would do it, unless--unless--

"Don't, " she pleaded in abandon. "Don't!" The hand was still lying idleon the man's knee, and reaching down she lifted it, held it prisonerbetween her own. It was not a suggestion she was combating now. It was acertainty. "Promise me you won't do this thing. " She shook the handinsistently; at first gently, then, as there was no response, almostroughly. "Tell me you won't do it. Promise me; please, please!"

"But I can't promise, " said the man dully. "I'm useless absolutely; Inever realised before how useless. You didn't intend to do it, butyou've made me see it all to-day. I don't blame you, but I can'tpromise. I can't. "

Silence fell upon them; silence complete as upon the top of a mountain, as in the depths of a mine, the absolute silence of the prairie. Forseconds it remained with them, for long-drawn-out, distorted seconds;then, interrupting, something happened. There was not a cloud in thesky, nor the vestige of a cloud. The sun still shone bright as before;yet distinctly, undeniably, the man felt a great wet spattering dropfall from above upon his hand--and a moment later another. He glancedup, hesitated; sprang to his feet, his big body towering above that ofthe little woman already standing. 

"Elizabeth!" he said tensely. "Cousin Bess! I can't believe it. " He tookher by the shoulders compellingly, held her at arm's length; and theangel who watched halted with pen in air, indecisive. "We've known eachother such a ludicrously short time--but a few hours. Can it be possiblethat you really meant that, that at least to someone it does reallymatter?" It was his turn to question, to wait breathlessly when noanswer came. "Would you really care, you, if I were dead? Tell me, Bess, tell me, as though you were saying a prayer. " One hand still retainedits grip on her shoulder, but its mate loosened, instinctively soughtthat averted, trembling chin, as hundreds of men, his ancestors, haddone to similar chins in their day, lifted it until their eyes met. Hadhe been facing his Maker that moment and the confession his last, Clayton Craig could not have told whether it were passion or art, thataction. "Tell me, Bess girl, is it mere pity, or do you really care?"

Face to face they stood there, eye to eye as two strangers, meeting bychance in darkness and storm, read each the other's mind in the glitterof a lightning flash. It was all so swift, so fantastic, so unexpectedthat for a moment the girl did not realise, did not understand. For aninstant she stood so, perfectly still, her great eyes opening wider andwider, opening wonderingly, dazedly, as though the other had done whatshe feared--and of a sudden returned again to life; then in mocking, ironic reaction came tardy comprehension, and with the strength of acaptured wild thing she drew back, broke free. A second longer she stoodthere, not her chin alone, but her whole body trembling; then without aword she turned, mounted the single step, fumbled at the knob of thedoor. "Bess, " said the man softly, "Cousin Bess!" But she did notglance back nor speak, and, listening, his ear to the panel, Craig heardher slowly climb the creaking stairs to her own room and the door closebehind her. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE SKELETON WITHIN THE CLOSET

Comparatively few men of cheerful outlook and social inclination attainthe age of five and fifty without contracting superfluous avoirdupoisand distinctive mannerism. That Colonel William Landor was no exceptionto the first rule was proven by the wheezing effort with which he madehis descent from the two-seated canvas-covered surrey in front of BobManning's store, and, with a deftness born of experience, converted thefree ends of the lines into hitch straps. That the second premise heldtrue was demonstrated ten seconds later in the unconscious grunt ofsoliloquy with which he greeted the sight of a wisp of black rag tackedabove the knob of the door before him. 

"Mourning, eh, " he commented to his listening ego. "Looks like a stripof old Bob's prayer-meeting trousers. " He tried the entrance, found itlocked, and in lieu of entering tested the badge of sorrow between thumband finger. "Pant stuff, sure enough, " he corroborated. "It can't be Bobhimself, or they'd have needed these garments to lay him out in. Nowwhat in thunder, I wonder--"

He glanced across the street at Slim Simpson's eating house. Like thegeneral store, the door was closed, and just above the catch, flappinglanguidly in a rising prairie breeze, was the mate to the black ragdangling at his back. The spectator's shaggy eyebrows tightened ingenuine surprise, and with near-sighted effort he inspected the frontsof the short row of other buildings along the street. 

"Civilisation's struck Coyote Centre good and proper, at last, evidently, " he commented. "They'll be having a bevel plate hearse withcarved wood tassels and a coon driver next!" He halted, indecisive, andfor the first time became conscious that not a human being was in sight. In the street before him a pair of half-grown cockerels with ludicrouslylong legs and abbreviated tails were scratching a precarious living fromamid the litter. On the sunny expanse of sidewalk before Buck Walker'smeat market a long-eared mongrel lay stretched out luxuriously in thephysical contentment of the subservient unmolested; but from one end ofthe single street to the other not a human being was in sight; save thepresent spectator, not a single disturber of the all-pervading quiet. Landor had seen the spot where the town now stood when it was virginprairie, had watched every building it boasted rise from the earth, hadhitherto observed it through the gamut of its every mood from nocturnalrecklessness to profoundest daybreak remorse; but as it was now with thesun nearing the meridian, deserted, dead--. 

"Well, I'm beat!" he exploded as emphatically as though another werelistening. "There must have been a general cleanup this time. I fearthat the report of my respected nephew--" He checked himself suddenly, abit guiltily. Even though no one was listening, he was loath to voice aninevitable conclusion. Decision, however, had triumphed over surprise atlast, and, leaving the main street, he headed toward what the proudcitizens denominated the residence quarter--a handful of unpaintedweather-stained one-story boxes, destitute of tree or of shrubsurrounding as factory tenements. The sun was positively hot now, and ashe went he unbuttoned his vest and sighed in unconscious satisfaction atthe relief. At the second domicile, a residence as nearly like the firstas a duplicate pea from the same pod, he turned in at the lane leadingto the house unhesitatingly, and without form of knocking opened thedoor and stepped inside. 

The room he entered was bare, depressingly so; bare as to its uncarpetedcottonwood floor, bare in its hard-finished, smoke-tinted walls. In it, to the casual observer, there were visible but four objects: anold-fashioned walnut desk that had once borne a top, but which did so nolonger; two cane-bottomed chairs with rickety arms; and, seated in onethereof, a man. The latter looked up as the visitor entered, revealingan unshaven chin and a pair of restless black eyes over the left ofwhich the lid drooped appreciably. He was smoking a long black stogie, and scattered upon his vest and in a semicircle surrounding his chairwas a sprinkling of white ash from vanished predecessors. Though helooked up when the other entered, and Landor returned the scrutiny, there was no salutation, not even when, without form of invitation, therancher dropped into the vacant seat opposite and tossed his broad felthat familiarly amid the litter of the desk. A moment they sat so, whilewith an effort the newcomer recovered his breath. 

"I thought I'd find you here, Chantry, " he initiated eventually. "I'venoticed that the last place to look for a doctor is in the proximity ofa funeral. " He fumbled in his pocket and produced a stogie, mate to thatin the other's mouth. "This particular ceremony, by the way, I gatherfrom the appearance of the metropolis, must have been of more thanordinary interest. " And lighting a match he puffed until his face wasconcealed. 

"Rather, " laconically. 

"Never mind the details, " Landor prevented hurriedly. The haze hadcleared somewhat, and he observed his taciturn companion appreciatively. "I left Mary up with Jim Burton's wife, and I think she can be trustedto attend to such little matters. "

Chantry smoked on without comment, but his restless black eyes wereobserving the other shrewdly. Not without result had the two men knowneach other these five years. 

"It's a great convenience, this having women in the family, " commentedLandor impersonally. "It's better than a daily paper, any time. " Againthe deliberate, appreciate look. "You haven't decided yet to prove thefact for yourself, have you?"

Still Chantry smoked in silence, waiting. The confidence that hadbrought the other to him was very near now, almost apparent. Only toowell he knew the signs--the good-natured satire that ill concealed atolerance broad as the earth, the flow of trivialities that cleared theway later of non-essentials. In silence he waited; and, as he had knownthe moment that big figure appeared in the doorway, it came. 

Deliberately Landor removed the stogie from his lips, as deliberatelyflicked off the loose ash onto the floor at his side, inspected theburning tuck critically. 

"Supposing, " he introduced baldly, "a fellow--an old fellow likemyself, " he corrected precisely, "was to be going about his business asan old fellow should, in a two-seated surrey with canvas curtains suchas you've seen me drive sometimes. " The speaker paused a second to clearhis throat. "Supposing this old fellow was just riding through thecountry easy, taking his time and with nothing particular on his mind, and all of a sudden he should feel as though someone had sneaked up andstuck him from behind with a long, sharp knife. Supposing this shouldhappen, and, although it was the middle of the day, everything should goblack as night and he should wake up, he couldn't tell how much later, and find himself all heaped up in the bottom of the rig and the teamstock still out in the middle of the prairie. " Deliberately as it hadleft, the cigar returned to the speaker's lips, was puffed hard untilit glowed furiously; and was again critically examined. "Supposing sucha fat old fellow as myself should tell you this. As a doc and aspecialist, would you think there was something worth while the matterwith him?"

Still Chantry did not speak, but the burned-out stump in his fingerssought a remote corner of the room, consorted with a goodly collectionof its mates, and the drooping eyelid tightened. 

"Supposing, " continued Landor, "the thing should happen the second time, and the old fellow, who wasn't good at walking, should be spilled outand have to foot it home three miles. What would you think then?"

One of Chantry's hands, itself not over clean, dusted the ash off hisvest absently. 

"When was it, this last time?" he questioned. 

"Yesterday, " impassively. "I'd started for here to meet my nephew whenthe thing struck me; and when I managed to get home I sent How overinstead. " He halted reminiscently. "I wrote the boy to come a couple ofweeks ago--that's when it caught me first. "

"Your nephew, Craig, knows about it, does he?"

Landor puffed anew with a shade of embarrassment. 

"No. I thought there was no call to tell the folks at the ranch. Mary'dhave a cat-fit if she knew. I told them I got out to shoot at a coyote, and the bronchos ran away. " He glanced at the other explanatorily, deprecatingly. "Clayton is my sister's son and the only real relative Ihave, you know. I just asked him to come on general principles. "

Chantry made no comment. Opening a drawer of the desk, he fumbled amid alitter of articles useful and useless, and, extracting a batteredstethoscope, shifted his chair forward until it was close to the otherand stuck the tiny tubes to his ears. Still without comment he openedthe rancher's shirt, applied the instrument, listened, shifted it, listened, shifted and listened the third time--slid his chair back tothe former position. 

"What else do you know?" he asked. 

Landor buttoned up the gap in his shirt methodically. 

"Nothing, except that the thing is in the family. My father went thatway when he was younger than I am, and his father the same. " The stogiehad gone dead in his fingers, and he lit a fresh one steadily. "I'vebeen expecting it to catch up with me for years. "

"Your father died of it, you say?"

"Yes; on Thanksgiving Day. " The big rancher shifted position, and insympathy the rickety chair groaned dismally. "Dinner was waiting, Iremember, a regular old-fashioned New England dinner with a stuffedsucking pig and a big turkey with his drumsticks in the air. Mother andFrances--that's my sister--were waiting, and they sent me running tocall father. He was a lawyer, and a great hand to shut himself up andwork. I was starved hungry, and I remember I hot-footed it properupstairs to his den and threw open the door. " Puff! puff! went the bigstogie. "An Irish plasterer with seven kids ate that turkey, Irecollect, " he completed, "and I've never kept Thanksgiving from thatday to this. "

"And your grandfather?" unemotionally. 

"Just the same. He was a preacher, and the choir was singing the openinganthem at the time. "

The doctor threw one thin leg over the other and stared impassively outthe single window. It faced the main street of the town. 

"The doings are over for this time, I fancy, " he digressed evenly. "Isee a row of bronchos tied down in front of Red's place. "

Landor did not look around. 

"Mary and Mrs. Burton will count them, never fear, " he recalled in mocksarcasm. "What I want to know is your opinion. "

"In my opinion there's nothing to be done, " said Chantry. 

Landor shifted again, and again the chair groaned in mortal agony. 

"I know that. What I mean is how long is it liable to be before--" hehalted and jerked his thumb over his shoulder--"before Bob and the restwill be doing that to me?"

Chantry's gaze left the window, met the shrewd grey eyes beneath theother's drooping lids. 

"It may be a day and it may be ten years, " he said. 

Unconsciously Landor settled deeper into his seat. His jaws closedtight on the stump of the stogie. Unwaveringly he returned the other'sgaze. 

"You have a more definite idea than that, though, " he pressed. "Tell me, and let's have it over with. "

For five seconds Chantry did not speak; but the restless black eyesbored the other through and through, at first impersonally, as, scalpelin hand, he would have studied a patient before the first incision in amajor operation; then, as against the other's will, a great drop ofsweat gathered on the broad forehead, personally, intimately. 

"Yes, my opinion is more definite than that, " he corroborated evenly. Hedid not suggest that he was sorry to say what he was about to say, didnot qualify in advance by intimating that his prognosis might be wrong. "I think the next attack will be the last. Moreover, I believe it willcome soon, very soon. " Impassively as he had spoken, he produced a bookof rice paper from his pocket and a rubber pouch of tobacco. The longfingers were skilful, and a cigarette came into being as under amachine. Without another word he lit a match and waited until the flamewas well up on the wood. Of a sudden a great cloud of kindly smokeseparated him from the other. 

With an effort the big rancher lifted in his seat, passed his sleeveacross his forehead clumsily. 

"Thank you, Chantry. " He cleared his throat raspingly. "As I said, Iexpected this; that's why I came to see you to-day. " For the second timehis cigar was dead, but he did not light it again. There was no need ofsubterfuge now. "I want you to do me a favour. " He looked at the othersteadily through the diminishing haze. "Will you promise me?"

"No, " said Chantry. 

Landor stared as one who could not believe his ears. 

"No!" he interrogated. 

"I said so. "

A trace of colour appeared in the rancher's mottled cheeks as, with aneffort, he got to his feet. 

"I beg your pardon then for disturbing you, " he said coldly. "I waslabouring under the delusion that you were a friend. "

The brief career of the cigarette was ended. Chantry's long fingers hadlocked over his knee. He did not move. 

"Sit down, please, " he said. "It is precisely because I am your friendthat I will not promise. "

Landor halted, a question in every line of his face. 

"I think I fail to understand, " he groped. "I suppose I'm dense. "

"No, you're merely transparent. You were going to ask the one thing Ican't promise you. "

Landor stared, in mystified uncertainty. 

"Please sit down. You were going to ask me to take charge of youraffairs if anything was to happen. Is it not so?"

"Yes. But how in the world--" "Don't ask it then, please, " swiftly. Heignored the other's suggestion. "Get someone else, someone you've knownfor a long time. "

"I've known you for a long time--five years. "

"Or leave everything in your wife's hands. " Again Chantry scouted theobvious. "If there should be need she could get a lawyer from thecity--"

"Lawyer nothing!" refuted Landor. "That's just what I wish to avoid. Mary or the girl, either one, have about as much idea of taking care ofthemselves as they have of speaking Chinese. They'd be on the countyinside a year, with no one interested to look out for them. "

"But How--"

"He's as bad. He can ride a broncho, or stalk a sandhill crane wherethere isn't cover to hide your hat, or manage cattle, or stretch out inthe sun and: dream; but business--He wouldn't know a bank cheque if hesaw one; and, what's worse, he doesn't want to know. "

"Craig, then, your nephew--" It was not natural for Chantry to beperfunctory, and he halted. 

For a moment the big rancher was silent. In his lap his fingers metunconsciously, tip to tip, in the instinctive habit of age. 

"I anticipated that, " he said wearily. "I realise it's the obvious thingto do. I never adopted How as I did the girl--I was willing to, but hedidn't see the use--and so Craig's the only man kin I have. " The lifeand magnetism, usually so noticeable in Landor's great figure, hadvanished. It was merely an old man facing the end who settled listlesslyinto his seat. "I had big hopes of the boy. I hadn't seen him since hewas a youngster, and Frances, while she lived, was always bragging abouthis doings. That's why I sent for him. " Pat, pat went the big fingers inhis lap against each other. "I've always felt that if worst came toworst the women folks would have someone practical to rely on; butsomehow, when I saw him last night, from what he said and what he didn'tsay, from the way he acted and the way he explained--what happened herelast evening--" The speaker caught himself. A trace of the oldshrewdness crept into the grey eyes as he inspected his companionsteadily. "I know How pretty well, and when someone intimates to me thathe is a grand-stand player, or goes out of his way to pick a quarrel, ormeddles with someone else's affairs--" Again the big man caught himself. The scrutiny became almost a petition. "I cut you off short about whatwent on here yesterday, " he digressed. "I didn't want to hear. I guess Iwas afraid to hear. It's been foolish, I know, but I've depended a gooddeal upon the boy, and I'm afraid he's going to be a--disappointment. "

With the old machine-like precision Chantry rolled another cigarette, lit it, sent a great cloud of smoke tumbling up toward the ceiling. Thatwas all. 

"You see for yourself how it is, " said the rancher. "I wouldn't ask youagain if there was anyone else I could go to; but there isn't. Maybe I'monly borrowing trouble, maybe there won't be anything for you or anyoneto do; but it would be a big load off my mind to know that if anythingshould happen. --" He halted abruptly. It was not easy for this man todiscuss his trouble, even to a friend. "It isn't such a big thing I'masking, " he hurried. "I'm sure if positions were reversed and you wereto request me--"

"I know you would. I realise I seem ungrateful. I--" Of a sudden, interrupting, Chantry arose precipitately: a thin, ungainly figure inshiny, thread-bare broadcloth, exotic to the point of caricature. Unconsciously he started pacing back and forth across the room, restlessly, almost fiercely. Never in the years he had previously knownthe man had Landor seen him so, seen him other than the impassive, almost forbidding practitioner of a minute ago. For the time being hisown trouble was forgotten in surprise, and he stared at thetransformation almost unbelievingly. Back and forth, back and forth wentthe thin, ungainly shape, the ill-laid floor creaking as he moved, paused at last before the single dust-stained window, stood like asilhouette looking out over the desolate town. Watching, Landor shifteduncomfortably in his seat. Once he cleared his throat as if to speak. Aninstinct told him he should say something; but he was in the darkabsolutely, and words would not come. Reaching over to the desk he tookup his broad felt hat and sat twirling it in his fingers, waiting. 

As suddenly as he had arisen Chantry returned, resumed his seat. Hisface had grown noticeably pale, and his left eyelid drooped even morethan normally. 

"I feel I owe you an apology, " he said swiftly. "In a way we've beenfriends, and as you say, it's not a big thing you ask of me; butnevertheless I can't grant it. Please don't ask me. "

The hat in Landor's hands became still, significantly still. 

"I admit I don't understand, " he accepted, "but of course if you feelthat way, I shall not ask you again. " Unconsciously a trace of theformer stiffness returned to his manner as he arose heavily. "I thinkI'd better be going. " His mouth twitched in an effort at pleasantry. "Mary'll be dying to give me the details. "

Chantry did not smile, did not again ask the other to resume his seat. Instead, he himself arose, stood facing his guest squarely. 

"I feel that I owe you an explanation as well, " he said repressedly. "Would you like to hear?"

"Yes--if you don't mind. If you'd prefer not to, however--"

"No, I'd rather you--understood than to go that way. " The doctor clearedhis throat in the manner of one who smokes overmuch. "We all have ourskeleton hid away somewhere, I suppose. At least I have mine, and itkeeps bobbing out at times like this when I most wish--" He caughthimself, met his companion's questioning look fairly. "Haven't youwondered why I ever came here; why, having come, I remain?" he queriedsuddenly. "You know that I barely make enough to live, that sometimes Idon't have a case a week. Did it never occur to you that there wassomething peculiar about it all?"

"Peculiar?" The hat in the rancher's hand started revolving again. Hehad, indeed, thought of it before, thought of it tolerantly, with avague sense of commiseration--an attitude very similar to that withwhich the uninitiated observe a player at golf; but that there might beanother, a sinister meaning--. 

"If it hasn't occurred to you before, doesn't it seem peculiar, now thatyou consider it?" The question came swiftly, tensely, with asignificance there was no misunderstanding. "Tell me, please. "

"Yes, perhaps; but--"

"But you do see, though, " relentlessly. "You can't help but see. " Thespeaker started anew the restless, aimless pace. "The country is full ofus; all new countries are. " He was still speaking hurriedly, tensely, aswe tell of a murder or a ghastly tragedy; something which in duty wemust confide, but which we hasten to have over. "It's easier to get herethan to Mexico or to Canada, and until the country is settled, untilpeople begin to suspect--" He halted suddenly opposite the other, hisface deathly pale, deathly tortured. "In God's name, don't youunderstand now?" he questioned passionately. "Must I tell you in so manywords why I refused, why I don't dare do anything else but refuse?"

"No, you don't need to tell me. " Absently, unconsciously, the rancherproduced a red bandana handkerchief and wiped his face; then thrust itback into his pocket. "I think I understand at last. " His eyes haddropped and he did not raise them again to his companion. "I'm sorry, very sorry, that I asked you; sorry most of all that--" He halteddiffidently, his great hands hanging loose at his side, his broadshoulders drooping wearily. He was not glib of speech, at best, and thissecond blow was hard to bear. A full half minute he stood so, hesitant, searching for words; then heavily, clumsily, he turned, started for thedoor. "I really must be going, " he concluded. 

Chantry did not ask him to stay, made no motion to prevent his going. Tense, motionless, he stood where he had last paused, waited in silenceuntil the visitor's hand was upon the knob. 

"Good-bye Landor, " he said then simply. 

Not the words themselves, but something in the tone caused the rancherto halt, to look back. 

"Good-day, you mean, rather, " he corrected. 

"No, good-bye. You will not see me again. "

"You don't mean--"

"No. I'm too much of a coward for that, or I should have done so longago. I merely mean I'll move on to-morrow. "

Face to face the two men stood staring at each other. Seconds driftedby. It was the doctor who spoke at last. 

"God knows that if I could, I'd change with you even now, Landor, " hesaid repressedly. "I'd change with you gladly. " A moment he stood so, tense as a wire drawn to the point of breaking, ghastly tense; then of asudden he went lax. Instinctively his fingers sought his pockets, andthere where he stood he started swiftly to roll a cigarette. 

"Go, please, " he requested. "Good-bye. "

CHAPTER IX

THE VOICE OF THE WILD

Eight miles out on the prairie, out of sight of the Buffalo Butte ranchhouse--save for a scattering herd of grazing cattle in the distance, anda hobbled mouse-coloured broncho feeding near at hand, out of sight ofevery living thing--a man lay stretched full length upon the ground. Itwas the time of day that Landor had tried the door of Bob Manning'sstore, and the broad brim of the man's hat was pulled far forward tokeep the glitter from his eyes. Under his head was a rolled-up blanket;an Indian blanket that even so showed against the brown earth in a blotof glaring colour. His hands were deep in his pockets; his moccasinedfeet were crossed. At first sight, an observer would have thought himasleep; but he was not asleep. The black eyes that looked forthmotionless from beneath the hat brim, that apparently never for aninstant left that scattering blot where, distorted, fantastic fromdistance and through the curling heat waves the herd grazed, were verywide awake indeed. They were not even drowsy or off guard. They weremerely passive, absolutely passive. The whole body was passive, motionless, relaxed in every muscle and every nerve; and therein lay themarvel--to all save the thousandth human in this restless age, theimpossibility. To be awake and still motionless, to do absolutelynothing, not even sleep--seemingly the simplest feat in life, it is oneof the most difficult. A wild thing can do it, all wild things when needis sufficient; but man, modern man--Here and there one retains thefaculty, as here and there one worships another God than wealth; buthere and there only. Yet it was such an one that lay alone out there onthe Dakota prairie that October day; one who, as Craig had said, hintedunfortunately of comic opera, but who never, even in remotestconception, fancied that comic opera existed, a dreamer and yet, notwithstanding, a doer, an Indian, and still not an Indian;Ma-wa-cha-sa by name. 

With the approach of midday a light wind had arisen, and now, wanderingnorthward, it tugged at the pony's long, shaggy mane and tail, set eachindividual hair of the little beast vibrating in unjustified ferocity;and, drifting aimlessly on, stirred the brittle grass stalks at theman's feet with the muffled crackling of a far-distant prairie fire. Theherd, a great machine cutting clean every foot of the sun-cured grass inits path, moved on and on, reached a low spot in the gently rollingcountry, and passed slowly from view; then, still moving forward, tookshape on the summit of the next rise, more distinct than before. 

Time passed as the man lay there, time that to another would have beeninterminable, that to him was apparently unnoted. Gradually, as the fullheat of the day approached, the breeze became stronger, set the heatwaves dancing to swifter measure, sang audibly in the listener's earsits siren song of prairie and of peace. The broncho, its appetitetemporarily satisfied, lay down fair in its tracks, groaned lazily inthe action, and shut its eyes. It was the rest time of the wild, and thesame instinct appealed to the leader of the distant herd. Down it wentwhere it stood as the pony had done, disappeared absolutely from view. Amoment later another followed, and another, and another. It was almostuncanny, there in the fantastic glimmer, that disappearance. In thespace of minutes, look where one would, the horizon was blank. Where theherd had been there was nothing, not even a blot. It was as the desert, and the vanished herd a mirage. It was like the far northland tight inthe grip of winter, like the ocean at night. It was the Dakota frontierat midday. 

Again time passed and, motionless as at first, wide eyed, the man laylooking out. The pony was sound asleep now. Its nostrils widened andnarrowed rhythmically and it snored at intervals. Save for this and thesoft crackle of the grass and the aeolian song of the wind the earth wasstill; still as death; so still that, indescribably soft as it wasimmeasurably distant, the man detected of a sudden against it a newsound. But he did not stir. The black eyes looked out motionless as atfirst. He merely waited a minute, two--and it came again; a bit louderthis time, more distinct, unmistakable. 

This time the listener moved. Deftly, swiftly, he unrolled the gaudyblanket, spread it thin upon the ground, covered it completely with hisbody. In lieu of a pillow his arms crossed under his head, and, leaningback, the hat brim still shading his eyes, he lay gazing up into thesky, motionless as a prairie boulder. 

Again the sound was repeated; not a single note, but a medley, a chorus. It was still faint, still immeasurable as to distance; but nearer thanbefore and approaching closer second by second. Not from the earth didit come, but from the air. Not by any stretch of the imagination was itan earthly sound, but aërial. It was an alien note and still it was notalien. There upon the silent earth with its sunshine and its illimitabledistances, it seemed very much a part of the whole. Its keynote was thekeynote of the time and place, its message was their message, the thrillit bore to the listener the thrill of the whole. It was not a musicalcall, that steadily approaching sound. No human being has ever been ableto locate it in pitch or metre; yet to such as the listening man uponthe ground, to those who have heard it year by year, it is neverthelessthe sweetest, most insistent of music. Beside it there is no other notewhich will compare, none other which even approaches its appeal. It isthe spirit of the wild, of magnificent distances, of freedomimpersonate. It is to-day, it was then; for the sound that the man hearddrawing nearer and nearer that October afternoon was the swelling, diminishing note of the migrant on its way south, of the grey Canadahonker en route from the Arctic circle to the Gulf of Mexico. 

"Honk! honk!" Sonorous, elusive, came the sound. It was within a halfmile now, and there was no mistaking the destination, the intent of itsmakers. "Honk! honk! honk! honk!" from many throats, in many keys, louder and louder, confused as children's voices at play; then in turndiminishing, retreating. Very mystifying to one who did not understandwould have been that augmenting, lessening sound; but to that waitinghuman boulder it was no mystery. As plainly as though he could see, heknew every movement of that approaching triangle. As certainly as thebroncho near by and the herd in the distance had responded to thesunshine and the time of day, he knew they were responding. To all wildthings it was the rest hour, and to those a half mile high in the air asinevitably as to the beast on earth instinct had said "halt. " They werestill going southward, still drawing nearer and nearer; but it would notbe for long. Already they were circling, descending, searching here andthere for a place to alight, to rest. Suspicious even here, they weretaking their time; but distinct now amid the confusion was the sound oftheir great wings against the denser air, and the "Honk! honk! honk!"was a continuous chatter. 

Circle after circle made the flock. Once their noise all but ceased, andthe listener fancied for an instant they were down, but in a moment itwas resumed louder than before, and he knew they were still a-wing. "Honk! honk! honk! honk! honk! honk!" They were very near indeed, sonear that the sleeping pony was aroused at the clamour and, lifting itshead, looked about curiously. 

"Honk! honk! honk! Flap! flap! Swish!" Between the sun and the watcherthere fell a moving shadow and another--then a multitude. The clamourwas all-surrounding, the flap of great wings a continuous beating, thewhistle of air like that in a room with a myriad buzzing electric fans. Temporarily the prairie breeze was lost; swallowed up in the greatermovement. Surprised, for the moment frightened, the broncho sprang tohis feet--paused irresolute. For an instant the sky was hid. Overhead, to right, to left, all-obscuring, was nothing but a blot of great greybodies, of wide wings lighter on the under surface, of long, curiousnecks, of dangling feet; then, swiftly as it had come it passed; the sunshone anew; the cloud and the shadow thereof, going straight in the faceof the wind, wandered on. "Honk! honk! honk! honk! honk! honk!" theyrepeated; but it was the voice of departure. The thing was done. Thereon the level earth, fair in view, they had passed overhead within twentyfeet of their arch-enemy, man; and had not known. Now less than aquarter of a mile away they were circling for the last time. One biggander was already down and stretching his long neck from side to side. Another, with a great flapping of wings, was beside him; and another, and another. The prairie wind carried along the sound of their chatter;but it was subdued now, entirely different from the clamour of a bitago. Against the blue of the sky where they had been a blot only, thecurling, dancing heat waves arose. One and all had answered the siestacall. 

Up to this time the man who watched had not stirred. As they had goneover, the wide-open eyes had stared up at them; but not in the twitchingof a muscle had the long body betrayed him. Not even now that it wasover did he move. Instead, low at first, then louder, a whistle sounded. The pony, wide awake now, was grazing contentedly; but he paused. Thewhistle sounded for the third time, and reluctantly he drew near, haltedobediently. Then at last there was action. With one motion the Indianwas on his feet. Swiftly as it was spread the blanket was rolled andreplaced in the waterproof pouch with the remnants of the lunch and abook of odds and ends which he carried always with him. The whole wasstrapped to the pony's bare back. As swiftly the hobble was removed and, not a minute from the time the last bird was down, the man and thebeast, the latter only visible from the direction in which they weregoing, were moving on a zigzag, circuitous trail toward the resting yetever-watchful flock before them. 

On they went, the pony first, the crouching man beside, his body evenwith the pony's front legs, his eyes peering through the wind-tossedmane. First to the right, then to the left they tacked, halting atintervals, as a pony wandering aimlessly will halt now and then to feed;but never losing the general direction, always bit by bit drawing nearerand nearer. A half hour passed by and in it they covered fortyrods--half the distance. Thirty minutes more elapsed and they hadcrossed an equal portion of the remaining space. Then it was they haltedand a peculiar thing happened. 

The wind had gradually risen during the day, and now, the middle of theafternoon, was blowing steadily. Light objects unattached move easilyacross the level prairie at this time of year, and here and there underits touch one after another of a particular kind were already in motion. Fluffy, unsubstantial objects they were, as large as a bushel measureand rudely circular. Looking out over the level earth often a half dozenat a time were visible, rolling and halting and rolling again on anendless journey from nowhere to nowhere. They were the well-named tumbleweeds of the prairie; as distinctive as the resting flock of lateautumn, of approaching winter. One of these it was now that cametumbling in lazily from the south and, barely missing the indifferentbirds themselves, dawdled languidly on toward the pony beyond. On itcame, would have passed to the right; but, under an impulse he in no wayunderstood, the broncho moved to intercept it. Fair in its path, thelittle beast would still have shifted to give it right of way, for theweed is very prickly; but again the authority he did not question heldhim in his place, and the three, the man, the horse, and the plant, cametogether. Then it was the _finale_ began, the real test, the matching ofhuman cunning and animal watchfulness. 

Left alone there upon the prairie, the indifferent broncho resumed itsfeeding. Away from it, foot by foot, so slowly that a careful observercould barely have seen it stir, moved the great weed. No animal on theface of earth save man himself would have been suspicious of thatnatural blind; even he would have overlooked it had he not by chancenoted that while every other of its kind was moving with the wind, itslowly but surely was advancing against it. The scene where the dramawas taking place was level as a floor, the grazed grass that covered itscarcely higher than a man's hand; yet from in front not an inch of theIndian's long body was visible, not a sound marked its advance. Incomparison with its movement time passed swiftly; a third half hourwhile it was advancing ten rods. Already the short autumn afternoon wasdrawing to a close. The sun was no longer uncomfortably hot. The heatwaves had ceased dancing. In sympathy the prairie breeze, torn of thesun, was becoming appreciably milder. As certainly as it had come, thebrief rest period was drawing to a close. 

But the long figure that gave the blind motion showed no haste. Inch byinch it advanced, never still, yet never hurrying. The greatunsuspicious birds were very near now, so near that a white hunterwould have lost his equanimity in anticipation. Through the meshwork ofthe blind the stalker counted them. Twenty-seven there were together, and near to him another, a sentinel. He was within half the distance ofa city block of the latter, so close that he could see the beady, watchful eyes, the pencillings of the plumage, the billowing of feathersas the long neck shifted from side to side. Verily it was a moment tomake a sportsman's blood leap--to make him forget; but not even then didthe Indian show a sign of excitement, not for a minute did the lithebody cease in its soundless serpentine motion. It was splendid, thatpatient, stealthy approach, splendid in its mastery of the still hunt;but beyond this it was more, it was fearful. Had an observer been whereno observer was, it would inevitably have carried with it anothersuggestion--the possibilities of such a man were a real object, onevital to his life, and not a mere pastime, at stake. What would thispatient, tireless, splendid animal do then? What if another man, hisenemy, were the object, the quarry?

The rest time at last was over. Insidiously into the air had crept asuggestion of coolness, of approaching night. In the background the ponyceased feeding, stood patiently awaiting the return of its rider. Far inthe distance, the herd, a darker blot against the brown earth, were oncemore upon their feet. The flock, that heretofore like a group ofbarnyard fowls in the dust and the sun had remained indolently restingand preening their plumage, grew alert. One after the other they beganwandering here and there aimlessly, restlessly. The subdued chatterbecame positive. Two great ganders meeting face to face hissed achallenge. Here and these a big bird spread its great wings tentatively, and folded them again with distinct reluctance. The cycle was all butcomplete. The instinct that in the beginning had bid them south, thathad for this brief time sent them to earth, was calling again. Insympathy the restless head of the sentinel went still. Another minute, another second even, perhaps, and they would be gone. Through the filmyscreen the stalker saw it all, read the meaning. He had ere this drawnunbelievably near. Barely the width of a narrow street separated himfrom the main flock--less than the breadth of a goodly sized room themotionless sentinel. It was the moment for action. 

And action followed. Like a mighty spring the slim muscular bodycontracted in its length. Toes and fingers dug into the earth like asprinter awaiting the starting pistol. He drew a long breath. Then of asudden, straight over the now useless blind, unexpected, startling as athunderclap out of a cloudless sky, directly toward the nearest birdbounded a tall brown figure, silent as a phantom. For a second theentire flock stared in dumb paralytic surprise; then following therecame a note of terror from eight and twenty throats that rose as onevoice, that over the now silent prairie could have been heard formiles. It was the signal for action, for escape, and, terror-mad, theybroke into motion. But a flock of great Canada geese cannot, like quail, spring directly a-wing. They must first gather momentum. This theyattempted to gain--in its accomplishment all but one succeeded. Thatone, the leader, the sentinel, was too near. Almost before that firstnote of terror had left his throat the man was upon him. Ere he couldrise two relentless hands had fastened upon his beating wings and heldhim prisoner. Hissing, struggling, he put up the best fight he could;but it was useless. "Honk! honk! honk! honk! honk! honk!" shrilled theflock now safe in the air. "Honk! honk! honk!" as with wings and feetthey climbed into the sky. "Honk! honk! honk!" softer and softer. "Honk!honk! honk!" for the last time, faint as an echo; and they were gone. Behind them the human and the wild thing his prisoner stood staring ateach other alone. 

For a long, long time neither moved. Its first desperate effort toescape past, the bird ceased to struggle, stood passive in its place;passive as the man himself had remained there on the ground a few hoursbefore. Its long neck swayed here and there continuously, restlessly, and its throat was a-throb; but no muscle of the body stirred. It hadmade its fight--and lost. For the time being resistance was fatuous, andit accepted the inevitable. Silent as its captor, it awaited the move ofthe conqueror. It would resist again when the move came, resist to thelast ounce of its strength; but until then in instinctive wisdom itwould husband its energy. 

Yet that move was very slow in coming. It was the time of day whenordinarily the herder collected his drove and returned toward the homecorral; still he showed no intention of haste. The broncho was shakinghis head at intervals restlessly; too well trained to leave, yetimpatient as a hungry child for the return--and was ignored. For thetime being the man seemed to have forgotten all external considerations. Not savagely nor cruelly, but with a sort of fascination he stood gazingat this wild thing in his power. For a long, long time he did nothingmore, merely looked at it; looked admiringly, intimately. No trace ofblood hunger was in his face, no lust to kill; but pureappreciation--and something more; something that made the two almostkin. And they were much alike; almost startlingly alike. Each wasgraceful in every movement, in every line. Each was of its kind physicalperfection. Each unmistakably bore a message of the wild; of solitude, of magnificent distances. Each was a part of its setting; as much so asthe all-surrounding silence. Last of all, each stood for one qualitydominant, one desire overtowering all others; and that was freedom, unqualified, absolute. 

Long as it was they stood there so, the bird was true to its instinct ofpassive inaction. It was the human that made the first move. Gently, slowly, one hand freed itself, stroked the silky soft plumage; strokedit intimately, almost lovingly--as an animal mother caresses its young. The man did not speak, made no sound, merely repeated the motion againand again. Under the touch the restless head became still, the watchfulblack eyes more watchful. That was all. Slowly as it had moved before, the man's hand shifted anew, passed down, down, the glossy throat to thebreast--paused over the heart of the wild thing. There it remained, andfor the first time a definite expression came into the mask-like face; alook of pity, of genuine contrition. A moment the hand lay there; then, childish as it may seem, absurd, if you please, the man spoke aloud. 

"You're afraid of me, deathly afraid, aren't you, birdie?" he queriedsoftly. "You think because I'm bigger than you and a cannibal, I'm goingto kill you. " Kneeling, he looked fair into the black eyes--deep, mysterious as the wild itself. "You think this, and still you don'tgrovel, don't make a sound. You're brave, birdie, braver than most men. "He paused, and one by one his hands loosened their grip. "I'm proud ofyou; so proud that I'm going to say good-bye. " He straightened to hisfull height. Unconsciously his arms folded across his chest. "Go, birdie; you're free. "

A moment longer there was inaction. Unbelieving, still a captive, thegreat bird stood there motionless as before; then of a sudden itunderstood; it was free. By some chance, some Providence, this greatanimal, its captor, had lost the mastery, and it was free. Simultaneously with the knowledge the pent-up energy of the last minuteswent active, fairly explosive. With a mighty rush it was away; feet andwings beating the earth, the air. Swifter and swifter it went, gainingmomentum with each second. It barely touched the frost-brown prairie; itcleared it entirely, it rose, rose, with mighty sweeps of mighty wings. Oh, it was free! free! free! "Honk! honk!" Free! free! "Honk! honk!honk!"

Like a statue, silent again as death, the man watched as the dark spoton the horizon grew dimmer and dimmer until it faded at last into theall-surrounding brown. 

CHAPTER X

THE CURSE OF THE CONQUERED

It was late, very late on the prairie, when How Landor returned thatevening. The herd safely corralled for the night, he rode slowly towardthe ranch house, and, without leaving the pony's back, opened and closedthe gate of the barb wire fence surrounding the yard and approached thehouse. There was a bright light in the living-room, and, still withoutdismounting, he paused before the uncurtained window and looked in. Mrs. Landor, looking even more faded and helpless than usual, sat holding herhands at one side of the sheet-iron heater, and opposite her, his feeton the top rim of the stove, sat Craig. The man was smoking a cigarette, and even through the tiny-paned glass the air of the room looked blue. Obviously the visitor and his aunt were not finding conversation easy, and the former appeared distinctly bored. Neither Landor himself nor thegirl was anywhere visible, and, after a moment, the spectator moved onaround the corner. The dining-room as he passed was dark, likewise thekitchen, and the rider made the complete circuit of the house, pausingat last under a certain window on the second floor facing the south. Itwas the girl's room, and, although the shade was drawn, a dim light wasburning behind. For perhaps a minute the man on the barebacked bronchohesitated, looking up; then rolling his wide-brimmed hat into a cylinderhe moved very close to the weather-boarded wall. The building was low, and, by stretching a bit, the tip of the roll in his hand reached thesecond story. He tapped twice on the bottom of the pane. 

No answer, but of a sudden the room went dark. 

Tap! tap! repeated the hat brim gently. 

Still no answer. 

Again the man hesitated, and, the night air being a bit frosty, the ponystamped impatiently. 

"Bess, " said a low voice, "it is I, How. Won't you tell me good-night?"

This time there was response. The curtain lifted and the sash wasopened; a face appeared, very white against the black background. 

"Good-night, How, " said a voice obediently. 

The man settled back in his seat and the sombrero was unrolled. 

"Nothing wrong, is there, Bess?" he hesitated. "You're not sick?"

"No, there's nothing wrong, " monotonously. "I'm a bit tired, is all. "

For a long minute the man said nothing, merely sat there, his black headbare in the starlight, looking up at her. Repressed human that he was, there seemed to him nothing now to say, nothing adequate. Meanwhile thepony was growing more and more impatient. A tiny hoof beat at thehalf-frozen ground rhythmically. 

"All right, then, Bess, " he said at last. "You mustn't sit there in thewindow. It's getting chilly. Good-night. "

The girl drew back until her face was in shadow. 

"Good-night, " she echoed for the second time, and the shade closed asbefore. 

For five minutes longer the Indian sat as he was, bare of head, motionless; but the light did not return, nor did he hear a sound, andat last he rode slowly out the gate and toward his own quarters. 

The place where he lived was exactly a half mile from the Buffalo Butteranch house, and due north. Originally a one-room shack, grudginglybuilt according to government requirements to prove up on a homestead, it had recently been enlarged by the addition of a second larger room, and as a whole the place further improved by the building of a sod andweather-board barn. The reason for this was obvious, to one acquaintedwith the tenant's habits particularly so. Just how long the Indian hadremained separate, just why he had first made the change, Landor himselfcould hardly have told. Suffice it to say it had been for years, and inall that time, even in the coldest weather, the voluntary exile hadnever lived under a roof. Primitive or evolved as it might be, as youthand as man, the Indian was a tent-dweller. Just now the little house wasbeing fitted up for occupancy, How himself doing it at odd moments ofthe day and at evenings; but as yet he still lived, as always, undereight by ten feet of canvas near at hand. 

A lighted tent stands out very distinctly by contrast against a darkhorizon, and almost before he had left the ranch house yard the man onthe impatient, mouse-coloured broncho knew that he had company; yet, characteristic in his every action, he did not hurry. Methodically heput up the pony in the new barn, fed and bedded him for the night. Fromthe adjoining stall, out of the darkness, there came a nasal puppyishwhine and the protest of a straining chain. Had it been daylight, anobserver would have seen a woolly grey ball with a pointed nose and apair of sharp eyes tugging at the end of that tether; but as it was, twogleaming eyes, very close together, were all that were visible. It wasto the owner of these eyes that the man gave the scraps from his lunchremaining in the saddlebag. For it, as for the pony, he made a bed;then--though the little beast was only a grey prairie wolf, it was ababy and lonely--he knelt down and for a moment laid his own faceagainst the other's softly shaggy face. 

When, a bit later, he arose and went toward the light there was a moistspot on his cheek where a rough little tongue had inscribed itsaffection. 

On the tent wall was a shadow such as that made by a big man with hisback to the light, and as the newcomer opened the flap and steppedinside the maker of the shadow roused himself in the manner of onewhose thoughts had been far away. 

"You're late to-night, " he commented. 

"Yes. "

Characteristic of the two men, no explanation was offered or expected, and the subject dropped. 

There was a small soft-coal stove in one corner, and in silence theIndian threw in fresh fuel. The lantern hanging opposite was burninglow, and, turning it higher, he shifted the tin reflector so that thelight would play on the scene of operations. Leaving the tent for amoment, he returned with a young grouse, and, dressing it skilfully, putit in a skillet to fry. From the chest where he had been sitting heproduced a couple of cold boiled potatoes and sliced them into theopposite side of the same pan. He did not hurry, he rather seemed to bedawdling; yet almost before the observer awoke to the fact that supperwas under preparation a tiny folding table with a turkey red cloth wasset, the odour of coffee--cheap coffee, yet surprisingly fragrant--wasin the air, and the bird and potatoes were temptingly brown. It wasalmost uncanny the way this man accomplished things. Landor himselfnever ceased to marvel. How always seemed unconscious of what he wasdoing, seemed always thinking of something else; yet he never wasted amotion, and when the necessity arose the thing required was done. It wasso in small things. It was identical in large. 

Up to this time, since that first perfunctory greeting not a word hadbeen spoken. Now, the meal complete, its maker halted hospitably. 

"Better join me, " he invited simply. "You must have had an early supper. I noticed the kitchen was dark at the house. "

"Yes. I'm not hungry, though. " The big man sank lower into his seatwearily. "I'm not feeling very well to-night. "

In silence the younger man sat down to eat alone. He did not press hisinvitation, he did not express sympathy at the other's admission. Eitherwould have been superfluous. Instead he ate with the hearty appetite ofa healthy human, and thereafter, swiftly and methodically as he hadprepared the meal, cleared the table and put all in order. Then at last, the fire replenished and a couple of long-haired buffalo robes thrownwithin the radius of its heat, he stretched full length thereon in theperfect contentment of one whose labor for the day is done, and awaitedthe something he knew had brought the other to him at this unusual hour. "There's a pipe and tobacco in the drawer of the little table at yourright, " he assisted. 

Landor roused with a trace of surprise. 

"I didn't know you ever smoked, " he commented. 

"I don't, " simply. Again there was no suggestion of the superfluous, theobvious explanation. 

Nervously, almost jerkily, Landor filled the brier bowl and pressed thebrown flakes tight with his little finger. The match he lit crackledexplosively, and he started at the unexpected sound as one whose nerveswere on edge. The pipe aglow, he still sat for a moment puffing hard. 

"How, " he initiated then abruptly, "I wish you would do me a favour. Will you promise me?"

The younger man did not hesitate, did not question. "If in my power, yes, sir, " he said. 

That was all, yet better than a complete chapter it told the relation ofthe two men; the unquestioning confidence of the younger, the trace ofalmost patriarchal respect that never left his manner when, addressingthe elder. "If in my power, yes, sir. "

"It isn't much I'm going to ask, " continued Landor hurriedly. "It'ssimply that you and Bess be married at once instead of waiting until theday set. " Puff, puff went the pipe as though the speaker were uncertainwhether or no to say more. "I have a particular reason for wishing it, "he completed inadequately. 

For a moment the Indian hesitated; but even then no question was voiced;there was no probing of the confidence the other preferred not to give. 

"I will speak to Bess to-morrow if you wish, " he said. 

Landor lit another match absently and held it to the already glowingbowl; then threw it away, unconscious of what he had done. 

"Another thing, " he introduced hurriedly. "I'm pretty strong now, butnevertheless I'm getting to be an old man, and so to-day while I was intown I had Bob Manning witness my will. I know it's all form, but I feelbetter to have things settled. " With forced matter of factness heknocked the burned contents of the pipe into the grate and filled thebowl afresh. "Mary isn't used to having any responsibility, so I leftpractically everything to Bess. I know that if anything should happen tome you'd take care of her mother. "

No answer, though Landor waited expectantly. 

"I don't need to ask your promise to be good to Bess. " Very differentfrom his usual peremptory self was the big rancher to-night, veryobvious, pathetically so, his effort to appear natural. "I know you'llmake her happy, my boy. "

Even yet there was no response, and the visitor shifted uncomfortably. As well as he knew his own name he knew that his secret was secret nolonger. Yet with the instinct of the wild thing that hides itself to diealone he avoided direct mention of the fact, direct wording of theinevitable. But something in the attitude of the motionless figurebefore him prevented further dissimulation. Some influence urged him tohasten the _dénouement_ which he knew was but postponed. With an efforthe straightened in his seat and for the first time met the other's blackeyes steadily. 

"I did right, don't you think, How?" he questioned directly. 

"Right, perhaps; I don't know. " A pause. "What I do know is that I'msorry you did as you did. "

"Sorry, How?"

"Yes, sir. Very sorry. "

"And why?"

No answer. 

The light from the tin reflector had been playing full upon the Indian'sface, and now, rising, he shifted it until the corner by the stove wasin shadow. 

"I will tell you why. " He returned to his place and stretched himself asbefore, his hands locked beneath his head. "You are a rich man, Mr. Landor, and Bess is human. She doesn't know what money is yet, but youwill compel her to learn. From what I have read and the little I haveseen, I think she would be happier if she never knew. "

For the third time Landor filled the pipe bowl and lit it with afragment of coal from the grate. 

"I don't see why, How, " he refuted. 

"You do, though, sir. "

"No. Tell me. "

There was a long pause, so long that Landor fancied the other would notanswer; then of a sudden he found the intense black eyes fixed upon himunshiftingly. 

"The reason is because not only Bess but others are human. As we are nowI can make her happy, very happy. I know it because--I love her. " Hepaused, and into the tent there came the long-drawn-out wail of the babyprisoner. Silence returned. "As surely as that little wolf is lonely, Bess will know the trouble money brings if you do as you intend. Notmyself, but other men will teach her. "

Landor was not smoking now. The pipe had gone dead in his fingers. 

"Once more I ask why, How?"

The other's eyes did not shift, nor a muscle of his body. 

"Because she is white and they are white, and I--am an Indian. "

At last it had come: the thing Landor had tried to avoid, had hithertosucceeded in avoiding. Yet face to face the big man could ignore it nolonger. It was true, as true as human nature; and he knew it was true. Other men, brothers of his own race, would do this thing--as they woulddo anything for money; and he, Landor, he who had raised her from achild, who had adopted her as his own daughter, he it was who would makeit possible!

Involuntarily the big man got to his feet. He did not attempt to moveabout, he did not speak. There, standing, he fought himself inch byinch; battled against the knowledge of the inevitable that had beendogging him day by day, hour by hour. A long time he stood so, his greathands locked, his face toward the blank tent wall opposite; then at lasthe turned. 

"I realise what you mean, How, " he said swiftly, "and understand the wayyou feel. God knows I wish it were different, wish I did not believewhat you say true; but things are as the are. What we have to do now isthe best thing possible under the circumstances. " He sat down in thechair again heavily, his hands still locked in his lap. "If wrong hasbeen done I am to blame, I myself, in raising you and Bess together. Imight have known that it was inevitable, you two here alone to care foreach other; but I was poor then, and I never thought that Bess--"

"Mr. Landor--"

The big man halted. For the first time he realised the admission of whathe had been saying, the inevitable implication--and he was silent. Forseconds likewise the Indian was still; but in them he was looking at theother steadily, in a way he had never looked at him before, with anintensity that was haunting. 

"So you, too, feel that way, " he said at last slowly. There was no angerin the voice, nor menace; merely wonder, and, yes, pathos--terrible, gripping pathos. "I knew that everyone else felt so--everyone exceptBess herself; but you--you--I did not know that before, Mr. Landor. "

Mute as before the big man sat motionless, listening. From the bottom ofhis soul he wished to say something in refutation, in self-defence; buthe could not. There was nothing to say. 

"No, I never even dreamed of such a thing, " went on the repressed voice, "not even when at first you were slow to give your consent to ourmarriage. I fancied it was merely because you thought me impractical, because I cared nothing for a life that was different, was not my own. Nor again, even a bit ago when you asked me to promise--what I didpromise--I did not suspicion such a thing. I thought it a compliment, the sincerest compliment I had ever received in my life: the fact thatyou should trust me so, with all that was dear to you in the world. "Just perceptibly he halted, but his eyes did not leave the white man'sface. "But I see it all now. I was blind before, but I see at last. Youare like the rest, like everyone with a white skin. The fact that we'velived together for half a generation makes no difference. You're square, square to the end. You even like me in a way. You've given your word andwon't go back on it; but nevertheless you're sorry. Even while you urgeus to marry, to have the thing over, to have a responsibility off yourmind, you feel you are sacrificing Bess to an inferior. " He halted for asecond, and even at this time Landor was conscious that it wasinfinitely the longest speech he had ever heard the man make. "I don'tblame you, Mr. Landor; you can't help it; it's the instinct of yourrace; but nevertheless, nevertheless--"

The voice halted abruptly, repressedly. The intense black eyes were of asudden looking directly past the other, straight up at the roof of thetent. No power on earth could have made him complete that sentence, madehim admit the deadly hurt it suggested. From the unusual confidence of abit ago he merely lapsed into the normal, his own repressed, impassiveself. Yet as plainly as though he had spoken Landor recognised thedifference, realised as well that while outwardly there would be nochange, from this moment on so long as they both lived the confidence ofthe Indian would be as dead to him as though he had ceased to exist. Hehad seen it happen before. He knew the signs. With the knowledge for thefirst time in the years they two had lived together he realised how muchafter all he had grown to depend upon this laconic human, how much hehad lost. It was the last drop in his cup of bitterness, the crushingstraw. His great ungainly body dropped forward until his face was hid inhis hands. On the walls of the tent a distorted, exaggerated shadowmarked the movement of his shoulders as they rose and fell with hisdeep, irregular breathing. Again silence fell upon them, silence that byword of mouth was to remain unbroken. In it from the stable theresounded again the wail of the lonely baby, and a moment later, muffled, echo-like from the distance, the answering call of one of its own kindfree upon the infinite prairie; but apparently neither man noticed, neither man cared--and the silence returned. Long minutes passed. Thefire in the stove burned lower and lower. Into the tent crept asuggestion of the coolness without. Then at last Landor roused. Withouta word he put on his hat and buttoned his coat. His fingers wereunnaturally clumsy and he found the task difficult. Just for a momenthe had a wild idea of asking the other's forgiveness, of attempting anexplanation where none was possible; but he realised it would but makematters worse, and desisted. The Indian, too, had arisen, andrepressedly courteous, stood ready to open the flap of the tent for theother to pass. For a moment, the last moment they were ever to see eachother alive, they stood so, each waiting for the other to speak, eachknowing that the other would not speak; then heavily, shufflingly, Landor took a step forward. 

The tent curtain opened before him, was held back while he passed; thenclosed again, shutting him out. 

For five long dragging minutes after he was gone the other man remainedas he stood, motionless as a bronze statue, as an inanimate thing. Thekerosene lamp was burning low now and sputtered dismally; but he did notnotice, did not hear. For the third time, tremulous against thebackground of night and of silence, came the wail of the lonely littlecaptive. It was a kindred sound, an appealing sound, and at last thefigure responded. Hatless as he was he left the tent, returned a minutelater with something tagging at his heels: a woolly, grey, bright-eyedsomething, happy as a puppy at release and companionship. Methodicallythe man banked the coal fire and put out the lantern. He did not make abed, did not undress. Instead, weary as Landor himself, he dropped amidthe buffalo robes, lay still. "Sniff, sniff, " sounded a pointed, inquiring nose in the darkness, "sniff, sniff, sniff. " There was noresponse, and becoming bolder, its owner crept close to the face of thesilent being on the ground, squirmed a moment contentedly--and likewisebecame still. 

CHAPTER XI

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

The darkness that precedes morning had the prairie country in its gripwhen Howard, the gaunt foreman of the B. B. Ranch, drew rein before thesilent tent, and with the butt end of his quirt tapped on the heavycanvas. 

"Wake up, " he called laconically. "You're wanted at the ranch house. "

Echo-like, startling in its suddenness, an inverted V opened in thewhite wall and in it, fully dressed, vigilant, appeared the figure ofits owner. 

"What is it?" asked a voice insistently. 

The Texan stared in unconcealed surprise. 

"In Heaven's name, man, don't you ever sleep?" he drawled. "The boss isdead, " he added baldly at second thought. 

The black V closed again, and distinct in outline against the whitebackground appeared the silhouette of the listener. His arms were foldedacross his chest in a way that was characteristic, and his moccasinedfeet were set close together. He spoke no word of surprise, asked noquestion; merely stood there in the silence and the semi-darknesswaiting. 

The foreman was by no means a responsive soul, yet, watching, thereinstinctively crept over him a feeling akin to awe of this other silenthuman. There was the mystery of death itself in that motionless, listening shadow. 

"It was just before I came over to tell you that Mrs. Landor raised thehouse, " he explained. "She woke up in the night and found the bossso--and cold already. " Unconsciously his voice had lowered. "Shescreamed like a mad woman, and ran down-stairs in her nightdress, chattering so we could hardly understand her. " He slapped at his baggychaperajos with his quirt absently. "That's all I know, except there'sno particular use to hurry. It's all over now, and he never knew whattook him. "

Silently as before the aperture in the tent opened and closed and thelistener disappeared; to reappear a moment later with a curled-up woollybundle in his arms. Without a word of explanation he strode toward thebarn, leaving Howard staring after him uncertainly. Listening, thelatter heard a suppressed little puppyish protest, as though its makerwere very sleepy, a moment later the soft, recognising whinny of abroncho, and then, startlingly sudden as the figure had first emergedfrom the tent, it appeared again, mounted, by his side. 

For half the distance to the ranch house not a word was said; then of asudden Howard drew his horse to a walk meaningly. 

"I suppose it's none of my business, " he commented without preface, "butunless I'm badly mistaken there'll be hell to pay around the BuffaloButte now. "

Again, as at the tent door, his companion made no answer; merely waitedfor the something he knew was on the other's mind. The east wasbeginning to lighten now, and against the reddening sky his dark faceappeared almost pale. 

Howard shifted in his saddle seat and inspected the ground at his rightas intently as though there might be jewels scattered about. 

"The boss's relative--Craig, " he added, "has taken possession there ascompletely as if he'd owned the place a lifetime instead of been avisitor two days. " The long moustaches that gave the man's face anunmeritedly ferocious expression lifted characteristically. "I like you, How, or I wouldn't stick my bill into your affairs. That boy is going tomake you trouble, take my word for it. "

Even then there was no response; but the overseer did not seem surprisedor offended. Instead, the load he had to impart off his mind, his mannerindicated distinct relief. But one thing more was necessary to hismaterial comfort--and that solace was at hand. Taking a great bite ofplug tobacco, a chew that swelled one of his thin cheeks like a wen, helapsed into his normal attitude of disinterested reverie. 

The ranch house was lighted from top to bottom, abnormally brilliant, and as the Indian entered the odour of kerosene was strong in hisnostrils. In the kitchen as he passed through were the other twoherders. They sat side by side in uncomfortable inaction, their bigsombreros in their hands; and with the suppression of those unused todeath nodded him silent recognition. The dining-room was empty, likewisethe living-room; but as he mounted the stairs, he could hear the muffledcatch of a woman's sobs, and above them, intermittent, authoritative, the voice of a man speaking. His moccasined feet gave no warning, andeven after he had entered the room where the dead man lay none of thethree who were already present knew that he was there. 

Just within the doorway he paused and looked about him. In one corner ofthe room, well away from the bed, sat Mary Landor. She did not look upas he entered, apparently did not see him, did not see anything. Thefirst wild passion of grief past, she had lapsed into a sort of passivelethargy. Her fingers kept picking at the edge of the loose dressingsack she had put on, and now and then her thin lips trembled; but thatwas all. 

Only a glance the newcomer gave her, then his eyes shifted to the bed;shifted and halted and, unconsciously as he had done when Howard firstbroke the news, his feet came close together and his arms folded acrosshis chest in characteristic, all-observing attention. Not a musclemoved, he scarcely seemed to breathe. He merely watched. 

And this was what he saw: The shape of a dead man lying as at firstbeneath the covers; only now the sheet had been raised until the facewas hid. Beside it, stretched out in abandon as she had thrown herselfdown, her head all but buried from view, was the girl Bess. She wassobbing as though her heart would break: sobbing as though unconsciousof another human being in the world. Above her, leaning over her, wasthe form of a man: Craig. His uncle had brought his belongings from thetiny town the day before, and even at this time his linen and cravatwere immaculate. He was looking down at the little woman before him, looking and hesitating as one choosing between good and evil. 

"Bess, " he was saying, "you must not. You'll make yourself sick. Besides, it's nearly morning and people will be coming. Don't do so;please!"

No answer, no indication that he had been heard; only the muffled, racking, piteous sobs. 

"Bess, " insistently, "Bess! Listen to me. I can't have you do so. UncleLandor wouldn't like it, I know he wouldn't. He'd be sorry if he knew. Be brave, girlie. You're not alone yet. "

Still no response of word or of action. Still the dainty, curvedshoulders trembled and were quiet and trembled again. 

The man's hand dropped to the coverlet beside him. His face went veryclose. 

"Cousin Bess, " he repeated for the last time tensely, "I can't let youcry so. I won't. I care for you too much, little girl; infinitely toomuch. It hurts me to have you feel so terribly, hurts me more than Ican tell. " Just for a moment he hesitated, and like an inexperiencedgambler his face went tense and white. "You must listen to me, Elizabeth, Uncle has gone, but there are others who will take care ofyou. I myself will take care of you, girlie. Listen, Bess, for there'ssomething I must tell you, something you make me tell you now. " Swiftly, unhesitatingly, he leaned still nearer; with one motion his arm passedabout her and he clasped her close, so close she could not struggle, could not prevent. "I love you, little girl. Though I've only known youtwo days, I love you. That is what you compel me to tell you. This iswhy it hurts me to have you cry so. I love you, Bess; I love you!"

This is what, there in that tiny unplastered bed-room next the roof, came to pass that October morning. Just so the four living actorsremained for a second while the first light of day sifted in through thetiny-paned windows; the elderly woman unconscious of the drama enactingbefore her eyes, unconscious of anything, her thin fingers still pickingat the edge of her sack; the motionless watcher rigid as a casting inbronze: the passionate gambling stranger man holding the girl to himtightly, so tightly she could not but remain so, passive; then came theclimax. Of a sudden the image that had been lifeless resolved itselfinto a man. Muscles played here and there visibly beneath theclose-fitting flannel shirt he wore. Swiftly, yet still without a sound, one moccasined foot moved forward, and its mate--and again the first. Unexpected as death itself would have been at that instant, Craig felttwo mighty irresistible hands close on his shoulders; close with a gripthat all but paralysed. Irresistibly again he felt himself turned about, put upon his feet; realised of a sudden, too suddenly and unexpectedlyeven to admit of a cry, that the girl was free, that, not a footdistant, he was staring into the face of the one being on earth fromwhom he had most to fear. All this in seconds; then, mercifullyintervening, a Providence itself, the tense wet face of the girl camebetween. The first sound that had been spoken came to his ears. 

"How! In God's name don't! He didn't mean any harm; I know he didn't. Forgive him, How; please, please, " and repeated: "Forgive him--for mysake. "

 * * * * *

The lamps had long been out, but the odour of low-test kerosene stillhung about the closed living-room where the same four people sat incouncil. No effort had as yet been made to put the place to rights, andin consequence it was stuffy and disordered and proportionatelydepressing. The mound of cigarette stumps which Craig had builded thenight before lay unsightly and evil of odour on the table. The faded ragcarpet was littered with the tobacco he had scattered. His gaudy ridingblouse and cap reposed on a lounge in one corner. His ulster and hat, which he had unpacked the last thing before retiring, lay across achair. Look where one might about the place, there were evidences ofhis presence, of his dominant inhabitance. Already after two days'residence, as Howard had said, he had taken complete possession. Whosoever may have possessed the voice of authority in the past, concerning the future there was to be no doubt. That voice was speakingnow. 

"To be sure I shall take him East, " it said. "His father is buried inBoston, and his grandfather, and his grandfather's father. " The voicehalted, lowered. "Besides, my mother and his other sister, who diedyears and years ago, are both there. " Obviously, too obviously, heturned away until his face was hid. Into the voice there crept a throbthat was almost convincing. "They'd all want him with them, I'm sure, even though he wouldn't have cared; and I think he would. He mentionedit the first night I came, but of course I didn't realise--then--" Thevoice was silent. 

As hours before in the room above, Mary Landor showed no emotion, didnot speak. Not even yet had her sorrow-numbed brain awakened, had shegrasped the full meaning of the thing which had happened to her. Later, indefinitely later, the knowledge would come, and with it the hour ofreckoning; but for the present she was a mere puppet in the play. Craig, the dominant, had told her to dress, and she had dressed. He hadsummoned her to the council, and she had obeyed. But it was not to hernow that he had spoken, nor to the other man who, silent as he hadentered, stood erect, his arms folded, listening. To yet another he hadspoken. She it was, Elizabeth, who answered. 

"But to take him clear back there, away from everyone who cares for himor ever has cared for him. " The soft lower lip was becoming unmanageableand the girl halted, winking hard. "It seems cruel. "

"Not if he would have wished it, Bess. "

"But if he hadn't wished it--"

"I repeat I think he would. " Craig shifted until his back was toward theother man. "I think that his mentioning the possibility at all, thefirst night I came, proves that he wished it. "

"Perhaps. .. . I don't know. " . .. A long pause; then of a sudden the girlarose and walked to the window. But subterfuge was from her a thingapart, and she merely leaned her face against the casement. "I can'tbear to think of it, " she trembled. 

Craig moved half way toward her; then remembered, and halted. 

"Yes, let's decide, and not talk about it, " he returned swiftly. "Youagree with me after all, don't you, Bess?"

The girl did not look up. 

"Don't ask me. You and How and Aunt Mary decide. " With an effort sheresumed her former place; but even yet she did not glance at him. "Wherever you take him I shall go along, is all. "

Swiftly, exuberantly swiftly, Craig took her up. 

"Yes, I think he would have liked that. I . .. You agree with me too, don't you, Aunt Mary?"

The older woman started at sound of her name, looked up vacantly. "What?" she queried absently. 

Craig repeated the question perfunctorily. 

"Yes, he was always good to me, very good to me, " she returnedmonotonously. 

In sympathy, the girl's brown eyes moistened anew; but Craig turned awayalmost impatiently. "Let's consider it settled then, " he said. 

For the first time the girl glanced up; but it was not at Craig that shelooked. It was at that other figure in the background, the figure thatnot once through it all had stirred or made a sound. "What shall we do, How? what ought we to do?" she asked. 

For ten seconds there was silence; but not even then did Craig recognisethe other's presence by so much as a glance. Only the look of exultationleft his face, and over his blue eyes the lids tightened perceptibly. 

"Don't consider what I think, Bess, " said a low voice at last. "Do whatyou feel is right. "

It was the white man who had decided, but it was another who brought thedecision to pass. How Landor, the Indian, it was who, alone in thedreary chamber beneath the roof, laid the dead man out decently, and forfive dragging minutes thereafter, before the others had come, stood likea statue gazing down at the kindly, heavy face, with a look on his ownthat no living human had ever seen or would ever see. How Landor, theIndian, it was who, again alone in the surrey, with the closely drawncanvas curtains, drove all that day and half the night to the nearestundertaker at the railroad terminus beyond the river, seventy-five milesaway. How Landor, the Indian, again it was who, with a change of horses, but barely a pause to eat, started straight back on the return trail, and ere it was again light was within the limits of Coyote Centre, knocking at the door of Mattie Burton, the one woman friend of MaryLandor he knew. How Landor it was once more who, before twenty-fourhours from the time he had left, had passed, with the unwilling visitorby his side, re-entered the Buffalo Butte ranch yard. Last of all, HowLandor, the Indian, it was who faced the old surrey once more to theeast, and with still another team before him and a cold lunch in hispocket, sat waiting within the hour to take the departing ones away. 

Through it all he scarcely spoke a word, not one that was superfluous. What he was thinking of no one but he himself knew. That he had expectedwhat had taken place in his absence, his bringing Mrs. Burton proved. Atlast realisation had come, and Mary Landor was paying the price of thebrief lethargic respite; paying it with usury, paying it with thehelpless abandon of the dependent. The dreary weather-coloured ranchhouse was not a pleasant place to be in that day. Craig left itthankfully, with a shrug of the shoulders beneath the box-fittingtopcoat, as the door closed behind him. The other passenger, the one whoshould have left also and did not, the girl Elizabeth--. 

How Landor it was again who, when minutes of waiting had passed, minuteswherein Craig consumed cigarettes successively, tied the team anddisappeared within doors. What he said none save the girl herself knew;but when he returned he was not alone, and though the eyes of hiscompanion were red, there was in her manner no longer a trace ofhesitation. 

The two passengers comfortably muffled in the robes of the rear seat, the driver buttoned the curtains tight about them methodically. The daywas very still, not a sound came to them from over the prairie, and of asudden, startlingly clear, from the house itself there came aninterruption: the piteous, hopeless wail of a woman in a paroxysm ofgrief, and a moment later the voice of another woman in unemotional, comforting monotone. 

"How, " said a choking, answering voice, "I can't go after all, I can't!"

Within the carriage, safe from observation, her companion took her handauthoritatively, pressed it within his own. 

"Yes, you can, Bess, " he said low. "Aunt Mary will have to fight it outfor herself. You couldn't help her any by staying. "

But already the Indian was gone. Within the house as before, evenkeen-eared Mattie Burton failed to catch what he said. Had she done so, she would have been no wiser, for apparently that moment a miracle tookplace. Of a sudden, the hysterical voice was silent. The man spoke againand--the watcher stared in pure unbelief--her own hand in hercompanion's hand, Mary Landor followed him obediently out to the surrey. 

"We haven't any time to lose, " he said evenly, as he drew back the flapof the curtain. "You'd better say good-bye now. "

"Mother!"

"Bessie, girl. Bessie!"

Again within the ranch house, Mary Landor sank into a seat with theutter weariness of a somnambulist awakened. Fully a half minute theIndian stood looking down at her. For one of the few times in his lifehis manner indicated indecision. His long arms hung loose from hisshoulders. His wide-brimmed hat hid his eyes. The watcher thought helooked very, very weary. Then of a sudden he roused. Bending over--didhe foresee what was to come, that moment?--he did something he had neverdone before. 

"Good-bye, mother, " he said, and kissed her on the lips. 

The door closed behind him noiselessly, and a half minute later theloose-wheeled old surrey went rumbling past the door. Mrs. Burton wasfeminine and curious, and she went to the window to watch it from sight. The Indian, alone on the front seat, sat looking straight ahead. Thebronchos, fresh from the stall, and but a few weeks before wild on theprairie, tugged at the bit wickedly, tried to bolt; but the driver didnot stir in his place. The left hand, that held the reins, rose and fellwith their motion, as an angler takes up slack in his line; that wasall. The woman had lived long on the frontier. She was appreciative andpressed her face against the pane the better to see. They were throughthe gate now, well out on the prairie. The clatter of the waggon hadceased, the figure of the driver was concealed by the curtains; but thebronchos were still tugging at the bit, still--. 

"Mary! In heaven's name!" The sound of a falling body had caught her earand she had turned. "Mary Landor!" The dishes in the cupboard againstthe wall shook as something heavy met the floor. "Mary!" A pause and atongue-tied examination. "My God! The woman is dead!"

 * * * * *

It was ten minutes before starting time. The old-fashioned engine, contemptuously relegated to the frontier before going to the junk heap, was puffing at the side of the low sanded station platform. The roughcottonwood box was already in the baggage car. How himself had assistedin putting it there, had previously settled for its transportation. Likewise he had bought the girl's ticket, and checked her scantybaggage. The usual crowd of loafers was about the place, and his everyaction was observed with the deepest interest. Wherever he moved thespectators followed. Urchins near at hand fought horrible mimic duelsfor his benefit; duels which invariably ended in the scalping of thevanquished--and with expressions of demoniacal exultation playing uponthe face of the conqueror. From far in the rear a war whoop sounded; andwhen the effort was to all evidence ignored, was repeated intrepidlynear at hand. They put themselves elaborately in his way, to move at hisapproach with grunts of guttural protestation. Already, even here on thefrontier, the Sioux and his kind were becoming a novelty. Verily theywere rare sportsmen, those mimicking loafers; and for Indians it wasever the open season. All about sounded the popping of their artillery;to be, when exhausted, as often reloaded and fired again. 

But through it all, apparently unseeing, unconscious, the man had goneabout his business. Now as he left the ticket window and approached thesingle coach, it was nearly starting time. The girl had already enteredand sat motionless in her seat watching him through the dusty windowglass. Craig, his feet wide apart, stood on the platform smoking a lastcigarette. He shrugged in silence as the other passed him and mountedthe steps. 

Save for the girl, the coach was empty; but, destitute of courtesy, thespectators without stared with redoubled interest. Without a word theman handed over the ticket and checks. Still in silence he slipped aroll of bills into her passive hand. Until that moment the girl had notthought of money; but even now as she accepted it, there never occurredthe wonder from whence it had come. Had she known how those few dollarshad been stored up, bit by bit, month by month--But she did not know. Unbelievably unsophisticated, unbelievably innocent and helpless, wasElizabeth Landor at this time. Sitting there that morning on thethreshold, she had no more comprehension of the world she was entering, she had entered, than of eternity itself. She was merely passive, trusting, waiting to be led. Like a bit of down from the prairiemilkweed plant, she was to be the sport of every breath of wind thatblew. And already that wind was blowing. She had watched the scene onthe platform, had understood the intent of the mimicry, had seen thewinks and nudges, had heard the mocking war whoop. All this she hadseen, all this had been stored away in her consciousness to recur againand again in the future. Even now her cheeks had burned at theknowledge, and at last she had watched the man's coming with a feelingof repression she had never known before, whose significance she did nottry to analyse, did not in the least understand. She did not thank himfor the money. To do so never occurred to her. It was the moment forparting, but she did not throw her arms about his neck in abandon, asshe would have done a week before. Something, she knew not what, prevented. She merely sat there, repressed, passive, waiting. A moment, by her side, the Indian paused. He did not speak, he did not move. Hemerely looked at her; and in his dark eyes there was mirrored areflection of the look there had been in the eyes of the wild thing hehad stalked and captured that day alone on the prairie. But the girl wasnot looking at him, did not see. A moment he stood so, unconsciously asso many, many times before, in pose; then deliberately, gently, ignoringthe row of curious observant eyes, he took her hand and raised it to hislips. 

"Good-bye, Bess, " he said low. "Come back as soon as you can; and don'tworry. Everything will come right. " Gently as he had lifted the hand, hereleased it. A smile--who but he could have smiled at thatmoment?--played for an instant over his face. Then, almost before thegirl realised the fact, before the repressive something that held her inits grip gave release, he was gone. 

As he left the coach, Craig, who was waiting, started without a word ora hint of recognition to enter. His foot was already on the step, whenhe felt a hand upon his arm; a hand with a grip whose meaning there wasno misinterpreting. Against his will he drew back. Against his will hemet the other, face to face, eye to eye. For what seemed to him minutes, but which in reality was only a second, they stood so. Not a word wasspoken, of warning or of commonplace. There was no polite farce for thebenefit of the spectators. The Indian merely looked at him; but as oncebefore, alone under the stars, that look was to remain burned on thewhite man's memory until he went to his grave. 

"A'board, " bawled the conductor, and as though worked by the same wire, the engineer's waiting head disappeared within the cab window. 

Side by side, Clayton Craig and Elizabeth Landor sat watching theweather-stained station and the curious assembled group, as apparentlythey slowly receded. The last thing they saw was the alien figure of anIndian in rancher's garb, gazing motionless after them; and by his side, in baiting pantomime, one gawky urchin engaged in the labour of scalpinga mate. The last sound that reached their ears was the ironic note of awar whoop repeated again and again. 

CHAPTER XII

WITHIN THE CONQUEROR'S OWN COUNTRY

It was the day set for the wedding, the eighteenth since the girl hadleft, the sixteenth since a new mound had arisen on the bare lotadjoining that beneath which rested Landman Bud Smith, the twelfth sinceHow Landor had arrived to haunt the tiny railway terminus. The one trainfrom the East was due at 8:10 of the morning. It was now eight o'clock. Within the shambling, ill-kept hotel, with its weather-stained exteriorand its wind-twisted sign, the best room, paid for in advance andfreshly dusted for the occasion, awaited an occupant. In a stall of thesingle livery, a pair of half-wild bronchos, fed and harnessed accordingto directions, were passively waiting. An old surrey, recently oiled andtightened in all its senile joints, was drawn up conveniently to thedoor. In a tiny room, designated the study, of the Methodist parsonage, on the straggling outskirts of the town, the only minister thesettlement boasted sat staring at the unpapered wall opposite. He was amild-featured young man of the name of Mitchell, recently graduated froma school of theology, and for that reason selected as a sacrifice to thefrontier. In front of him on the desk lay a duly prepared marriagelicence, and upon it a bright gold half eagle. From time to time heglanced thereat peculiarly, and in sympathy from it to the tinyfast-ticking clock at its side. He did so now, and frownedunconsciously. 

At the station the crowd of loafers that always preceded the arrival ordeparture of a train were congregated. In some way suggestions of theunusual had passed about, and this day their number was greatlyaugmented. Just what they anticipated they did not know; they did notcare. Restless, athirst for excitement, they had dumbly responded to theinfluence in the air and come. In the foreground, where a solitaryIndian stood motionless, waiting, there was being repeated the samepuerile pantomime and horse-play of a former occasion. At intervals, from the rear, sounded the war whoop travesty. It was all the same asthat afternoon eighteen days before, when the girl had left, similareven to the cloud of black smoke in the distance lifting lazily into thesky; only now the trail, instead of growing thinner and lighter, becamedenser and blacker minute by minute. In sympathy, the humorists on theplatform redoubled their efforts. The instinct of anticipation, ofAnglo-Saxon love of excitement that had brought them there, urged themon. Not one throat but many underwent simultaneous pantomimic bisection. A half dozen voices caught up the war whoop, passed it on from throat tothroat. Almost before they realised what they were doing, the thingbecame a contagion, an orgy. Many who had not taken part before, who hadcome from mere curiosity, took part now. The crowd pressed closer andcloser about the alien, the centre of attraction. When he moved fartheralong the platform to avoid them, they followed. Heretofore passive, theinnate racial hostility became active. One youth with a dare-devil airjostled him--and disappeared precipitately. There was no response, noretaliation, and another followed his example. The confusion redoubled, drowned the roar of the approaching train. Spectators in the rear beganmounting trucks and empty barrels the better to see. Within the stationitself the shirt-sleeved agent surreptitiously locked the door to theticket-room and sprung the combination of the safe. Beginningharmlessly, the incident was taking on a sinister aspect, and he hadlived too long in this semi-lawless land to take any chances. Re-turningto his place of observation at the window, he was just in time to see adecayed turnip come hurtling over the heads of the crowd and, withenviable accuracy, catch the Indian behind the ear. Simultaneously, witha roar and a puff of displaced air, the light train drew into thestation, on time. 

Through it all the Indian had not spoken a word. Save to move twicefarther away along the platform, he had not stirred. Unbelievable as itmay seem, even when the missile had struck him, though it had left agreat red welt, he gave no sign of feeling. For a space following thearrival of the train there was a lull, and in it, as though nothing hadhappened, he approached the single coach and stood waiting. 

It was the last of the week and travel was very light. 

A dapper commercial salesman with an imitation alligator grip descendedfirst, looked about him apprehensively, and disappeared with speed. Abig rancher with great curling moustaches and a vest open save at thebottom button followed. He likewise took stock of the surroundings, anddiscreetly withdrew. Following him there was a pause; then of a suddenonto the platform, fair into view of the crowd, appeared one for whomapparently they had been looking, one who on the instant caused theconfusion, temporarily stilled, to break forth anew: the figure of adainty brown girl with sensitive eyes and a soft oval chin, of ElizabethLandor returned alone!

"Ah, there she is, " shouted a voice, an united voice, the refound voiceof the expectant crowd. 

"Yes, there she is, " repeated the intrepid youth who had introduced thejostle. "Go to, redskin. Kiss her again. Kiss her; we don't mind. "

A great shout followed this sally, a shout that was heard far up thesingle street, and that brought curious faces to a half score of doors. 

"No, we don't mind, redskin, " they guffawed. "Go to! Go to!"

Hesitant, hopelessly confused, the girl halted as she had appeared. Hergreat eyes opened wider than before, her face shaded paler momentarily, the soft oval chin trembled. Another minute, another second even. 

"Come Bess, " said a low voice. "Come on; don't mind them. I'll takecare of you. "

It was the first speech the man had made, and from pure curiosity thecrowd went silent, listening--silent until he was silent; then with thelack of originality ever manifest in a mob, they caught up his wordsthemselves. 

"Yes, Bess, " they baited, "he'll take care of you. Come, don't keep himwaiting. "

But the girl did not stir. Had empires depended upon it that moment, shecould not have complied. Could she have cried, as the chin had at firstpresaged, she might perhaps have done so; but she was beyond the reachof tears now. The complete meaning of the scene had come to her at last, the realisation of personal menace; and a fear such as she had neverbefore known, gripped her relentlessly. She could hear, hear every word;but her muscles refused to act. She merely stood there, the oldtelescope satchel she carried gripped tight in her hand, her great eyes, wide and soft as those of a wild thing, staring out into the now rapidlyaccumulating rabble; merely stared and waited. 

"Bess, " repeated the persuading voice, "come, please. Don't stand there, come. "

At last the girl seemed to hear, to understand. Hesitatingly, withtrembling steps, she came a pace forward, and another; then of a suddenshe gave a little cry and her free hand lifted defensively. But she wasnot quick enough, had seen too late; and that instant came the_dénouement. _ A second turnip, decayed like its predecessor, aimedlikewise unerringly, caught her fair in the mouth, spattered, and brokeinto fragments that fell to the car steps. Following, swift as rainafter a thunderclap, a spurt of blood came to her lips and trickled downher face. 

Simultaneously the crowd went silent; silent as the still prairie aboutthem, awed irresistibly by the thing they had themselves wittingly orunwittingly done. Save one, not a human being stirred. That one, no needto tell whom, transformed visibly; transformed as they had never seen ahuman being alter before. With not a step, but a bound, he was himselfon the platform of the coach; the girl, protected behind him, hid fromsight. She was sobbing now; sobbing tumultuously, hysterically. In thestillness every listening ear on the platform could hear distinctly. Foran instant after he had reached her the Indian stood so, his left armabout her, his back toward them. He did not say a word, he did not move. For the first time in his life he dared not. He did not see red thatmoment, this man; he saw black--black as prairie loam. Every savageinstinct in his brain was clamouring for freedom, clamouring until hisfree hand was clenched tight to keep it from the bulging holster behindhis right hip. Before this instant, when they were baiting him alone, itwas nothing, he could forgive; but now--now--He stared away from them, stared up into the smiling, sarcastic prairie sky; but, listening, they, who almost with fascination watched, could hear beneath the catch of thegirl's sobs the sound of his breathing. 

Ever at climaxes time seems suspended. Whether it was a second or aminute he stood there so, they who watched could never tell. What theydid know was that at last he turned, stood facing them. All their livesthey had seen passion, seen it in every phase, seen it until it wascommonplace. It was in the very air of the frontier, to be expected, life of the life; but as this man shifted they saw a kind of which theyhad never dreamed. For How Landor was master of himself again, master, as well--they knew it, every man and youth who saw, --of them. Foranother indefinitely long deathly silent space he merely looked at them;looked eye to eye, individual by individual, into every face within thesurrounding semi-circle. Once before another man, a drunken cowman, hadseen that identical look. Now not one but a score saw it, felt aterrible ice-cold menace creep from his brain into their brains. Evenyet he did not speak, did not make a sound; nor did they. Explain it asyou will, he did this thing. Another thing he did as well; and that wasthe end. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped to the platform and held outhis hand. Obediently the girl followed. She was not crying now. Her eyeswere red and a drop of blood came now and then to her lips; but she hadgrown wonderfully quiet all at once, wonderfully calm--almost as much soas the man. Deliberately as he had stepped down into the spectators'midst, the Indian took the old telescope from the girl's hand and, shefollowing by his side, moved a step forward. He did not touch her againnor did she him. They merely moved ahead toward the sidewalk that led upthe single street; moved deliberately, leisurely, as though they werealone. Not around the crowd, but straight through it they passed;through a lane that opened as by magic as they went, and as by magicclosed behind them, until they were within a solid human square. But ofall the assembled spectators that day, an aggregation irresponsible, unchivalrous as no other rabble on earth--a mob of the frontier, --notone spoke to challenge their action, not one attempted to bar their way. The complete length of the platform they went so, turned the corner bythe station--and, simultaneously, the crowd disappeared from view, hidby the building itself. Then in sudden reaction, the girl weakened. Irresistibly she caught at the man's arm, held it fast. 

"Oh, How! How!" she trembled, "is it to be always like this with you andme? Is it to be always, everywhere, so?"

But the man said never a word. 

 * * * * *

Two hours had passed. The girl had breakfasted. A wood fire crackledcheerfully in the sheet iron heater of the tiny room where the same twopeople sat alone. Already the world had taken on a different aspect. Notthat Elizabeth Landor had forgotten that recent incident at the depot. She would never forget it. It had merely passed into temporaryabeyance, taken its proper place in the eternal scheme of things. Another consideration, paramount, all-compelling, had inevitably crowdedit from the stage. It was this consideration that had held her silentfar longer than was normal. It was its overshadowing influence that atlast prompted speech. 

"How did you know I was coming to-day?" she queried suddenly. 

"How did _you_ know I would be at the train to meet you?" echoed avoice. 

The girl did not answer, did not pursue the subject. 

"Tell me of Aunt Mary, please, " she digressed. "I felt somehow when youwrote as if I--I--" A swiftly gathered shower called a halt. Tear drops, ever so near, stood in her eyes. "Please tell me, " she completed. 

The man told her. It did not take long. As of her prosaic life, so therewas little to record of the death of Mary Landor. "It was best that youwere away, " he ended. "It was best for her that she went when she did. "

"You think so, How, honestly?" No affectation in that anxious query. "You think I didn't do wrong in leaving as I did?"

"No, you did no wrong, Bess. " A pause. "You could not. "

A moment the girl sat looking at him; in wonder and something more. 

"I believe you knew all the time Aunt Mary would--go while I wasaway, " she said suddenly, tensely. "I believe you helped me away onpurpose. "

No answer. 

"Tell me, How. I want to know. "

"I thought so, Bess, " simply. 

For a long time the girl sat so; silent, marvelling. A new understandingof this solitary human stole over her, an appreciation that drowned thesadness of a moment ago. "How you must care for me, " she voiced almostunconsciously. "How you must care for me!"

She did not expect an answer. She was not disappointed. Again a silencefell; a silence of which she was unconscious, for she was thinking. Minutes passed. In the barn the bronchos were passively waiting. At theparsonage the young minister still sat scowling in his study. No timehad been set for the visit he expected. There was no apparent reason whyhe should not have gone about his work; but for some reason he couldnot. Angry with himself, he thrust the new half eagle into his pocketand, placing the offending licence beneath a pile of papers, he walkedover to the window and stood staring out into the sunshine. 

Within the tiny room at the hotel the gaze of the girl shifted, droppedto her feet. Despite an effort her face tinged slowly red. 

"Did you think, " she queried abruptly, "when you expected me to-day thatI would come alone?"

The Indian showed no surprise. 

"Yes, Bess, " he answered. "I knew you would be alone. "

"Why, How?" The question was just audible. 

"Because I trusted you, Bess. "

Silence again. Surreptitiously, swiftly, the girl's brown eyes glancedup; but he was not looking at her, and again her glance fell. A longerpause followed, a pause wherein the girl could not have spoken if shewould. A great preventing lump was in her throat, an obstacle thatprecluded speech. Many things had happened in the short time since shehad last been with this man, some things of which she was not proud; andbeside such a trust as this Bess Landor was speechless. Without volitionupon her part, the cup of life had been placed to her lips and, likewisewithout knowledge of what it contained, she had tasted. The memory ofthat draught was with her now. Under its influence she spoke. 

"You are better than I am, How, " she said. 

If the man understood he gave no evidence of the knowledge. He did noteven look at her. Time was passing, time which should have found themupon their way, but he showed no impatience. It was his day, his moment, his by right; but no one looking at him would have doubted that hehimself would never first suggest the fact. Conditions had changed veryrapidly in the recent past, altered until, from his view-point, it wasimpossible for him to make the move toward the old relation, to evenintimate its desirability. With the patience of his race he waited. Inthe fulness of time he was rewarded. 

"How, " of a sudden initiated a voice, withal an embarrassed voice, "willyou do me a favour?"

"What is it, Bess?"

The girl coloured. Instinctively the man knew that at last the recallhad come, and for the first time he was looking at her steadily. 

"Promise me, please, " temporised the girl. 

"I promise. "

Even yet Elizabeth Landor found it difficult to say what she wished tosay. 

"You won't be--offended or angry, How?"

"No, Bess. You could hurt me, but you couldn't make me angry. "

"Thank you, How. It's a little thing, but I'd like to have you humourme. " She met his look directly. "It's when we are married to-day you'llbe dressed--well, not the way you usually dress. " Her colour came andwent, her throat was a-throb. "Dressed like--You understand, How. "

Of a sudden the Indian was upon his feet; then as suddenly he checkedhimself. Characteristically, he now ignored the immaterial, went, asever, straight to fundamentals without preface or delay. Scarce onehuman in a generation would have held aloof at that moment. It was his, his by every right; but even yet he would not take it, not until--. 

"Bess, " he said slowly. "I want to ask you a question and I want you toanswer me--as you would answer your mother were she alive. " Once again, unconsciously, he fell into pose, his arms across his breast, his greatshoulders squared. "I have seen Mr. Landor's will. He has left younearly everything. You are rich, Bess; I won't tell you how rich becauseyou wouldn't understand. You are young and can live any life you wish. You know what marrying me means. I am as I am and cannot change. Youknow what others, people of your own race, think when you are with me. They have shown you to-day. Answer me, Bess, have you thought of allthis? Was it duty that brought you back, or did you really wish to come?Don't take me into consideration at all when you answer. Don't do it, orwe shall both live to regret. Tell me, Bess, as you know I love you, whether you have thought of all this and still wish to marry me. Tellme. " He was silent. Once again it was a climax, and once again cameoblivion of passing time. For minutes passed, minutes wherein, with wideopen eyes, the girl made her choice. Not in hot blood was the decisionmade, not as before in ignorance of what that decision meant. Deliberately, with the puerile confidence we humans feel in our insightof future, she chose; as she believed, honestly. 

"Yes, How, " she said slowly. "I have thought of it all and I wish tomarry you. I've no place else in the world to go. There's no one in theworld that I trust as I trust you. I wish to marry you to-day, How. "

Then, indeed, it was the man's moment. Then, and not until then, heaccepted his reward. 

"Bess!" She was in his arms. "Bess!" He tasted Paradise. "Bess!" Thatwas all. 

 * * * * *

For the second time that day the air of the tiny town tingled withportent of the unusual. For the second time a crowd was gathered; onlynow it was not at the station, but at a place of far more sinisterimport, within and in front of the "Lost Hope" saloon. Again inpersonnel it was different, notably different from that of the firstoccasion. The same irresponsibles were there, as ever they are presentat times of storm; but added to the aggregation now, outnumbering them, were others ordinarily responsible, men typical in every way of the timeand place. A second difference of even greater portent was the motif ofgathering. For it was not a mere rumour, an idle curiosity, that hadbrought them together now. On the contrary they had at last, thesedominant Anglo-Saxons, begun to take themselves seriously. Rumour, inevitable in a place where days were as much alike as the one-storybuildings on the main street, had begun when How Landor had commenced tohaunt the station at the time of the incoming train. The incident of themorning had familiarised the rumour into gossip. Hard upon this hadfollowed a report from the hotel landlord, and gossip had becomecertainty. Then it was that horse-play had ceased, and, save at thepoint of congregation, a silence, unwonted and sinister, had taken itsplace. So marked was the change that when at last the Indian and thegirl left the hotel together on their way to the parsonage the streetthrough which they passed was as still as though it were the street of aprairie dog town. So quiet it was that the girl was deceived; but theears of the Indian were keener, and faint as an echo beneath it, as yetwell in the distance, he detected the warning of an alien note. Not ason that other day out on the prairie when he caught the first trumpetcall of the Canada goose, did he recognise the sound from previousfamiliarity. Never in his life had he heard its like; yet now aninstinct told him its meaning, told him as well its menace. Not once didhe look back, not one word of prophecy did he speak to the girl at hisside; yet as surely as a grey timber wolf realises what is to come whenhe catches the first faint bay of the hounds on his trail, How Landorrealised that at last for him the hour of destiny had struck, that assurely as the wild thing must battle for life he must do likewise--andthat soon, very, very soon. 

Up the street they went: a small dark girl garbed as no woman was evergarbed in a fashion-plate, a tall copper-brown man all but humorouslygrotesque in a ready-made suit of clothes that were far from a fit andthe first starched shirt and collar he had ever worn. Laughableunqualifiedly, this red man tricked out in the individuality-destroyingdress of the white brother would have been to an observer who had notthe key to the situation; but to one who knew the motive of thealteration it was far as the ends of the earth from humorous. On theywent, silent now, each in widely separated anticipation; and after them, at first silent likewise, then as it advanced growing noisier andnoisier, followed the crowd which had congregated at the Lost Hopesaloon. As on the day of the little landman's funeral when CaptainWilliam Landor had passed up the street of Cayote Centre, ahead wherethe Indian and the girl advanced not the figure of a human being was insight, unless one were suspicious and looked closely, not a face; but tothe Indian eyes were everywhere. Every house they passed--for they werein the residence section now--had its pair or multiple pairs peering outthrough the slats of a blind, or, as in a theatre preceding aperformance, at the side of a drawn curtain. Like wildfire the news hadspread; like turtles timid women folk had drawn close within theirshells; yet everywhere curiosity they could not repress prompted them totake a last look before the storm. Once, and once only, the pedestrianswere interrupted. Then a house dog came bounding across the lawn topause at a safe distance and growl a menace; and again the all-notingIndian had observed the cause of the unwonted bravery, had heard the lowvoice from the kitchen that had urged the beast on. 

Thus nearer and nearer that sunny fall morning the storm approached. Long before this, unobservant though she was, had the girl not beenliving in the future instead of the present, she would have recognisedits coming. For the pursuers were gaining rapidly now. They had crossedonto the same street, the principal residence thoroughfare, and werecoming as a crowd ever moves: swiftly, those in the rear exertingthemselves to get to the fore, and so again. Far from silent by thistime, the man ahead, the man who never deigned a backward glance, couldhear their voices in a perpetual rumble; could distinguish at intervals, interrupting it, above it, a voice commanding, inflaming. Withoutseeing, he knew that at last his persecutors had found a commander, adirecting spirit--and as well as he knew his own name he knew who thatleader was. Unsophisticated absolutely in the ways of the world was thisman; but in the reading of his fellows he was a master. 

Apparently oblivious when a part of this same crowd had congregated atthe train, he had nevertheless observed them individual by individual;and in his own consciousness had known that the moment, his moment, hadnot come: for a leader, the leader, was not there. Again when the trainhad pulled in he had watched--and still the leader did not appear. Buthe was not deceived. As he had trusted in the girl's coming he hadtrusted in another's following surreptitiously; and as now he heard thatone voice sounding above the other voices he knew he had been right. Forthe man at the head of that pursuing mob which gained on them sorapidly block by block, the man whose influence in those brief hours theIndian and the girl had been alone in the tiny room at the hotel hadvitalised the lukewarm racial hostility into a thing of menace, was thesame man whose life he had once saved, the same man about whose throatere the identical night had passed his fingers had closed: Clayton Craigby name, one time of Boston, Mass. , but now, by his uncle's will, masterof the Buffalo Butte ranch house!

Meanwhile in the study of the parsonage Clifford Mitchell was againlooking out the single window. Time and time again he had tried towork--and as often failed. At last he had conformed to the inevitableand was merely waiting. The house was on the outskirts of the town andthe window faced the open prairie; bare and rolling as far as the eyecould reach. He was city bred, this mild-faced servant of God, and asyet the prairie country was a thing at which to marvel. He was lookingout upon it now, absently, thoughtfully, wondering at its immensity andits silence--when of a sudden he became conscious that it was no longersilent. Instead to his ears, growing louder moment by moment, penetrating the illy constructed walls, came an indistinct roar; rising, lowering, yet ever constant: a sound unlike any other on earth, distinctive as the silence preceding had been typical--the clamour ofangry, menacing human voices _en masse. _ Once, not long before, in acity street the listener had heard that identical sound; andrecognition was instantaneous. Swift as memory he recalled the strikethat had been its cause, the horde of sympathisers who had of a suddenappeared as from the very earth, the white face and desperate figure ofthe solitary "scab" fighting a moment, and a moment only, for life, intheir midst. Swift as memory came that picture; and swift upon itsheels, blotting it out, the present returned. Clifford Mitchell had notbeen among this people long; yet already he had caught the spirit of theplace, and as he listened he knew full well what a similar gatheringamong them would mean. He was not a brave man, this blue-eyed pastor;not a drop of fighting blood was in his veins; and as moment aftermoment passed and the sound grew nearer and nearer, the first realterror of his life came creeping over him. Not in his mind was there adoubt as to the destination of that oncoming multitude. Premonition hadbeen too electric in the air that day for him to question its meaning. They were coming to him, to him, Clifford Mitchell, these irresponsiblemenacing humans. It might be another for whom they had gathered; but heas well would share in their displeasure, in their punishment: for hewas a party to the thing of which they disapproved. All the day, fromthe time the Indian had called and almost simultaneously, vague rumoursof trouble had come floating in the visitor's wake; he had been inanticipation; and now the thing anticipated had become a certainty. Answering he felt the cold perspiration come pouring out on hisforehead; and absently, he wiped it away with the palm of his hand. Following came a purely physical weakness; and stumbling across the roomhe took the seat beside the desk. Unconsciously nervous, restless, hisfingers fumbled with the pile of papers before him until they came to acertain one he had buried. Almost as though impelled against his will todo so he spread this one flat before him and sat staring at it, dumblywaiting. 

Nearer and nearer came the roar as he sat there, irresistible, cumulatively menacing as a force of nature; and instinctively, by italone, the listener marked the approach of its makers. He could hearthem down the street at the other end of the block before the residenceof Banker Briggs. He knew this to a certainty because part of those whocame were on the sidewalk, and that was the only piece of cement intown. Again, by the same token, he knew when they passed the only otherhouse in the block besides his own. There was a gap in the boardwalkthere, and when the leaders reached it the patter of their footstepswent suddenly muffled on the bare earth. It was his turn next, his in amoment; yes, the feet were already on the confines of his own yard, theroar of their owners' voices was all about. He could even distinguishwhat they were saying now, could catch names, his own name. 

Of a sudden, expected and yet unexpected, a dark shadow passed beforehis window, and another; then a swarm. Simultaneously faces, not a fewbut as many as could crowd into the space, appeared outside the panes, staring curiously in. Involuntarily he arose to draw the shade; and atthat moment, interrupting, startlingly loud, there came a knock at hisfront door. 

Clifford Mitchell paused on his way to the window, stood irresolute;and, seemingly impossible as it was, the number of curious facesmultiplied. 

The knock was repeated; not fearfully or frantically, but deliberatelyand with an insistence there was no misunderstanding. 

This time the minister responded. He did not pause to blot out the facesof the curious. The licence he had been absently holding was still inhis hand; but he did not delay to put it down. There was somethingcompelling in that knock; something that demanded instant obedience, andhe obeyed. The living-room through which he passed on his way had twowindows and, identical with that of his study, each was black withhumanity; but he did not even glance at them. His legs trembledinvoluntarily and his throat was dry as though he had been speaking forhours; yet, nevertheless, he obeyed. With a hand that shook perceptiblyhe turned the button of the spring lock, and, opening the door onto thestreet, looked out. 

While Clifford Mitchell lived, while lived every man of the uncountedthrong gathered there beneath the noon-time sun that October day, theyremembered that moment, the moments that followed. As real life is everstranger than fiction, so off the stage occur incidents more stirringthan at the play. Standing there in the narrow doorway, white-faced, hesitant, awaiting a command, the minister himself exemplified the factbeyond question; yet of his own grotesque part he was oblivious. He hadthought for but one thing that moment, had room in his consciousness forbut one impression; and that was for the drama ready there before him. And small wonder, for, looking out, this was what he saw:

An uneven straggling village street, mottled with patches of dead grassand weeds. Along it, here and there, like kernels of seed scattered onfallow ground, a sprinkling of one-story houses. This the background. Inthe midst of it all, covering his lawn, overflowing into the yards ofhis neighbours, dense, crowding the better to see, all-surrounding, wasa solid zone of motley humanity. Old men with weather-beaten faces anduntrimmed beards were there, young men with the marks that dissipationand passion indelibly stamp, awkward, gawky youths unconsciously apingtheir elders, smooth-faced youngsters in outgrown garments; all ages andconditions of the human frontier male were there--but in that zone not asingle woman. Ranchers there were in corduroys and denims, cowboys inbuckskin and flannel, gamblers in the glaring colours distinctive oftheir kind, business men with closely cropped moustaches, idlers inanything and everything; but amid them all not a friendly face. This thesurrounding zone, the mongrel pack that had brought the quarry to bay. 

In the centre of the half circle they formed, within a couple of pacesof the now open doorway, were three people. Two of them, a rather smallbrown girl and a tall wiry Indian in a new suit of ready-made clothesand a derby hat of the model of the year before, were nearest; so nearthat the door, which swung outward, all but touched them. The other, awell-built, smooth-faced Easterner with a white skin and delicate hands, was opposite. His dress was the dress of a man of fashion, his cravatand patent leather buttoned shoes were of the latest style; but hislinen was soiled now, and a two-days' growth of beard covered his chin. Moreover, his eyes were bloodshot and, despite an effort to prevent, ashe stood there now he wavered a bit to right and left. One look told hisstory. He had been drinking, drinking for days; and, worst of all, hehad been drinking this day, drinking in anticipation of this verymoment, swallowing courage against the necessity of the now. All thisthe stage and its setting, upon which the white-faced minister raisedthe curtain. Simultaneously, as ever an audience grows silent when thereal play begins, it grew silent now. The hinges of the little-usedfront door were rusty and had squeaked startlingly. Otherwise not asound marked the opening of the drama. 

A moment following the silence was intense, a thing one could feel; thenof a sudden it was broken--not by words, but by action. One step thewhite-skinned man took forward; a step toward the girl. A second step headvanced, and halted; for, preventing, the hand of the other man wasupon his own. 

"Stand back, please, " said an even voice. "It's not time forcongratulations yet. Stand back, please. "

Answering there was a sound; but not articulate. It was a curse, achallenge, a menace all in one; and with a hysterical terrified littlecry the girl shrank back into the doorway itself. But none other, noteven the minister, stirred. 

"Mr. Craig, " the words were low, almost intimately low, but in thestillness they seemed fairly loud. "I ask you once more to stand back. Idon't warn you, I merely request--but I shall not ask it again. " Of asudden the speaker's hand left the other's arm, dropped by his own side. "Stand back, please. "

Face to face the two men stood there; the one face working, passionate, menacing; the other emotionless as the blue sky overhead. A moment theyremained so while the breathless onlookers expected anything, while fromthe doorstep the minister's white lips moved in a voiceless prayer; thenslowly, lingeringly, the man who had advanced drew back. A step he tooksilently, another, and his breathing became audible, still another, andwas himself amid the spectators. Then for the first time he found voice. 

"You spoke your own sentence then, redskin, " he blazed. "We'd have letyou go if you'd given up the girl; but now--now--May God have mercy onyour soul now, How Landor!"

Again there was silence; silence absolute. As at that first meeting onthe car platform, the girl had turned facing them. It was the crisis, and as before an instinct which she did not understand, which she merelyobeyed, brought her to the Indian's side; held her there motionless, passive, mysteriously unafraid. Her usually brown face was very pale andher eyes were unnaturally bright; but withal she was unbelievablycalm--calm as a child with its hand in its father's hand. Not even thatsolid zone of menacing, staring eyes had terror for her now. Whether orno she loved him, as she believed in God she trusted in that motionless, dominant human by her side. 

A moment they stood so in a silence wherein they could hear each otherbreathe, wherein the prayer that had never left the minister's lipsbecame audible; then came the end. Incredible after it was over was that_dénouement_, inexplicable to a legion of old men, then among the boys, who witnessed it, to this day. Yet as the incredible continues to takeplace in this world it took place then. As one man can ever dominateother men it was done that silent noon hour. For that moment the firstchallenge that had ever passed the lips of How Landor was spoken. Theonly challenge that he ever made to man or woman in his life foundvoice; and was not accepted. One step he took toward that listening, expectant throng and halted. With the old, old motion his arms foldedacross his chest. 

"Men, " he said, "I don't want trouble here to-day. I've done my best toavoid it; but the end has come. I've stood everything at your hands, every insult which you could conceive, things which no white man wouldhave permitted for a second; and so far without resentment. But I shallstand it no more. I'm one to a hundred; but that makes no difference. Bess Landor and I are to be married now and here; here before you all. Ishall not talk to you again. I shall not ask you to leave us in peace;but as surely as one of you speaks another word of insult to her or tome, as surely as one of you attempts to interfere or prevent, I shallkill that man. No matter which of you it is, I shall do this thing. " Amoment longer he stood so, observing them steadily, with folded arms;then, still facing, he moved back a step. "Mr. Mitchell, " he said, "weare ready. "

And there that October noonday, fair in the open with two hundredcurious eyes watching, in a silence unbroken as that of prairie nightitself, Bess Landor and Ma-wa-cha-sa the Sioux were married. Theminister stumbled in the ritual, and though he held the book closebefore his face, it was memory alone that prompted the form; for thepages shook until the letters were blurred. Yet it was done, and, saveone alone, every spectator who had come with a far different intentstayed and listened to the end. That one, a tall, modish alien with ared, flushed face covered with a two-days' growth of bread, was likewisewatching when it began. But when it was over he was not there; and notone of those who had followed his lead had noticed his going. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE MYSTERY OF SOLITUDE

Westward across the unbroken prairie country, into the smiling, sun-kissed silence and emptiness, two people were driving: a white girlof two-and-twenty summers and an Indian man a few years older. Back ofthem, in the direction from which they had come, was the outline of astraggling, desolate village. Ahead, to either side, was the rollingbrown earth; and at the end of it, abrupt apparently as a material wall, the blue of a cloudless October sky. The team they were driving, amouse-coloured broncho and a mate a shade darker, were restless afterthree days of enforced inactivity and tugged at the bit mightily. Thoughthe day was perfectly still, the canvas curtains of the old surreyflapped lazily in a breeze born of the pace alone. The harness on theponies shuffled and creaked with every move. Though the bolts of theancient vehicle had been carefully tightened, it nevertheless groaned atintervals with the motion; mysteriously, like the unconscious sigh ofthe aged, apparently without reason. Beneath the wheels the frost-driedgrass rattled continuously, monotonously; but save this last there wasno other sound. Since the two humans had left the limits of the tinytown there had been no other sound. Now and then the girl had glancedbehind, instinctively, almost fearfully; but not once had the manfollowed her example, had he stirred in his place. Swiftly, silently, hewas leaving civilisation behind him; by the scarce visible landmarks healone distinguished was returning to his own, to the wild that lay inthe distance beyond. 

Thus westward, direct as a tight cord, on and on they went; and back ofthem gradually, all but unconsciously, the low-built terminus grewdimmer and dimmer, vanished detail by detail as completely as though ithad never been. Last of all to disappear, already a mere black dotagainst the blue, was the water tank beside the station. For threemiles, four, it held its place; then, as, with the old unconsciousmotion the girl turned to look back, she searched for it in vain. Behindthem as before, unbroken, limiting, only the brown plain and the bluesurrounding wall met her gaze. At last, there in the solitude, therewith no observer save nature and nature's God, she and the other werealone. 

As the first man and the first woman were alone they were alone. Fromhorizon to horizon was not a sign of human handiwork, not a suggestionof human presence. They might live or die, or laugh or weep, or love orhate--and none of their kind would be the wiser. All her life that shecould remember the girl had lived so, all her life she had but to lifther eyes above her feet to gaze into the infinite; yet in the irony offate never until this moment, the moment when of all she should havebeen the happiest, did the immensity of this solitude appeal to her so, did appreciation of the terrible, haunting loneliness it concealed touchher with its grip. Care free, thoughtless, never until the whirl of thelast fortnight had the future, her future, appealed to her as somethingwhich she herself must shape or alter. Heretofore it had been a thingtaken for granted, preordained as the alternate coming of light and ofdarkness. But in that intervening time, short as it was, she hadawakened. Rude as had been the circumstances that had aroused her, theyhad nevertheless been effective. Without volition upon her part thepanorama of another life had been unrolled before her eyes. Sensations, thoughts, impulses of which she had never previously dreamed had beenhers. Passions unconceived had stalked before her gaze. More a nightmareon the whole than an awakening it had all been; yet nevertheless theexperience had been hers. Much of its meaning had passed her by. Eventshad crowded too thickly for her to grasp the whole; but _en masse_ theeffect had been definite--startlingly definite. Unbelievable as it mayseem, for the first time in her existence she had aroused to theconsciousness of being an individual entity. The inevitablemetamorphosis of age, the thing which differentiates a child from anadult, belated long in her passive life, had at last taken place. Bewilderingly sudden, so sudden that as yet she had not adjusted herselfto the change, had barely become conscious thereof, yet certain asexistence itself, the transformation had come to pass. Looking backthere that afternoon, looking where the town had been and now was not, mingling with the impressions of a day full to overflowing, there cameto the girl for the first time a definite appreciation of this thingthat she had done. And that moment from the scene, never to appearagain, passed Bess Landor the child; and invisibly into her place, taking up the play where the other had left, came Elizabeth Landor thewoman. 

Very, very long the girl sat there so; unconsciously long. With theswift reaction of youth, the scene of the excitement vanished, thepersonal menace gone, the impression it had made passed promptly intoabeyance. As when she and the man had sat alone in the tiny room of thehotel, another consideration was too insistent, too vital, to preventdominating the moment. Any other diversion, save absolute physical painitself, would have been inadequate, was inadequate. Gradually, minute byminute, as the outline of the town itself had vanished, the depressingimpression of that jeering frontier mob faded; and in its stead, loomingbigger and bigger, advancing, enfolding like a storm cloud until itblotted out every other thought, came realisation of the thing she haddone: came appreciation of its finality, its immensity. Then it was thatthe infinite bigness of this uninhabited wild, the sense of its infiniteloneliness, pressed her close. Despite herself, against all reason, as achild is afraid of the dark there grew upon her a terror of thisintangible thing called solitude that stretched out into the futureendlessly. Smiling as it was this day, unchangeably smiling, she fancieda time when it would not smile, when its passive eventless monotonywould be maddening. Swiftly, cumulatively as with every intense natureimpressions reproduce, this one augmented. Again into the considerationintruded the absolute finality, the irrevocability of her choice. Moredistinctly than when she had listened to the original, memory recalledthe vow of the marriage ceremony she had taken: "For better or forworse, in sickness or in health, until death do us part. " No, there wasno escape, no possible avenue that remained unguarded. The knowledgeoverwhelmed her, suffocated her. Vague possibilities, recently born, became realities. Closer and closer gripped the solitude. For the firsttime in her existence the dead surrounding silence became unbearable. Almost desperately she shifted back in her seat. Instinctively shesought the hand of her companion, pressed it tight. A mist came into hereyes, until the very team itself was blotted out. 

"Oh, How, " she confessed tensely, "I'm afraid!"

The man roused, as one recalled from reverie, as one awakened but notyet completely returned. 

"Afraid, Bess? Afraid of what?"

"Of the silence, of the future; of you, a bit. "

"Afraid of me, Bess?" Perplexed, wondering, the man held the team to awalk and simultaneously the side curtains ceased flapping, hung close. "I don't think I understand. Tell me why, Bess. "

"I can't. A child doesn't know why it's afraid of the dark. The dark hasnever hurt it. It merely is. "

At her side the man sat looking at her. He did not touch her, he did notmove. In the time since they had come into his own a wonderful changehad come into the face of this Indian man; and never was it so wonderfulas at this moment. He still wore the grotesque ready-made clothes. Thehigh collar, galling to him as a bridle to an unbroken cayuse, had madea red circle about his throat; yet of it and of them he was oblivious. Very, very young he looked at this time; fairly boyish. There was acolour in his beardless cheeks higher than the bronze of his race. Theblack eyes were soft as a child's, trusting as a child's. In the careerof every human being there comes a time supreme, a climax, a period ofexaltation to which memory will ever after recur, which serves as astandard of happiness absolute; and in the career of How Landor the hourhad struck. This he knew; and yet, knowing, he could scarcely credit thetruth. His cup of happiness was full, full to overflowing; yet he wasalmost afraid to put it to his lips for fear it would vanish, lest itshould prove a myth. 

Thus he sat there, this Indian man with whom fate was jesting, worshipping with a faith and love more intense than a Christian for hisGod; yet, with instinctive reticence, worshipping with closed lips. Thusthe minutes passed; minutes of silence wherein he should have beeneloquent, minutes that held an opportunity that would never be hisagain. Smiling, ironic, fate the satirist looked on at her handiwork, watched to the end; and then, observing that _finale_, laughed--and withthe voice of Elizabeth Landor. 

"Don't work at it any more, How, " derided destiny. "You don'tunderstand, and I can't tell you. "

She straightened in her seat and shrugged her shoulders with a gestureshe had never used before, that had come very lately: come concomitantlywith the arrival of the woman Elizabeth. "Anyway, I think it will be allright. I at least am not afraid of your eloping with someone else. " Shelaughed again at the thought and folded her hands carefully in her lap. "It's quite impossible to think of you interfering with the property ofsomeone else; even though that property were a girl. "

Mechanically the Indian chirruped to the team and shook the reins. Onhis face the look of perplexity deepened. Instinctively he realised thatsomething was wrong; but how to set it right he did not know, and, trueto his instincts, waited. 

"You wouldn't be afraid in the least to do so, " wandered on the girl, "even though the woman were another man's wife. You aren't afraid ofanything. You'd take her from before his very eyes if you'd decided todo so, if you saw fit. It's not that. It merely would never occur toyou; not even as possibility. "

Still groping, the man looked at her, looked at her full; but no lightcame. 

"Yes, you're right, Bess, " he corroborated haltingly. "It would neveroccur to me to do so. "

More ironically than before laughed fate; and again with the voice ofElizabeth Landor. 

"You're humorous, How, deliciously humorous; and still you haven't thevestige of a sense of humour. " She laughed again involuntarily. "Ihadn't myself a few weeks ago. I think I was even more deficient thanyou; but now--now--" Once again the tense-strung laugh, while in her lapthe crossed hands locked and grew white from mutual pressure. "Now of asudden I seem to see humour in everything!"

More than perplexed, concerned, distressed from his very inability tofathom the new mood, the man again brought the team to a walk, fumbledwith the reins impotently. 

"Something's wrong, Bess, " he hesitated. "Something's worrying you. Tellme what it is, won't you?"

"Wrong?" The girl returned the look fair, almost defiantly. "Wrong?"Still again the laugh; unmusical, hysterical. "Certainly nothing iswrong. What could be wrong when two people who have so much in common asyou and I, who touch at so many places, are just married and alone?Wrong: the preposterous idea!"

She was silent, and of a sudden the all-surrounding stillness seemed tobe intensified. For at last, at last the man understood and was lookingat her; looking at her wordlessly, with an expression that was terriblein its haunting suggestion of unutterable sadness, of infinite pain. Hedid not say a word; he merely looked at her; but shade by shade as theseconds passed there vanished from his face to the last bit every traceof the glory that had been its predecessor. Not until it was gone didthe girl realise to the full what she had done, realise the mortal stabshe had inflicted; then of a sudden came realisation in a gust andcontrition unspeakable. Swiftly as rain follows a thunderclap her moodchanged, her own face, hysterically tense, relaxed in a flood of tears. In an abandon of remorse her arms were about him, her face was pressedclose to his face. 

"Forgive me, How, " she pleaded. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm nervousand irresponsible, that's all. Please forgive me; please!"

 * * * * *

At a dawdling little prairie stream, superciliously ignored by themap-maker, yet then and now travelling its aimless journey from nowhereto nowhere under the name of Mink Creek, they halted for the night. 

Though they had been driving steadily all the afternoon, save once when, far to the south, they had detected the blot of a grazing herd, they hadseen no sign of human presence. They saw no indication now. The shortfall day was drawing to a close. The sun, red as maple leaf in autumn, was level with the earth when How Landor pulled up beside the lowsloping bank, and, the girl watching from her observation seat in theold surrey, unharnessed and watered the team and hobbled them amid thetall frost-cured grass to feed. 

"Now for the tent, " he said on returning. "Will your highness have itface north, south, east, or west?"

"East, please, How. I want to see the sun when it first comes up in themorning. "

With the methodical swiftness of one accustomed to his work the man setabout his task. The tent, his own, was in the rear of the waggon box. The furnishings, likewise his own, were close packed beside. Morequickly than the watcher fancied it possible the whole began to takeshape. Long before the glory had left the western sky the tent itselfwas in place. Before the chill, which followed so inevitably andswiftly, was in the air the diminutive soft coal heater was installedand in service. Following, produced from the same receptacle as bylegerdemain, vanishing mysteriously within the mushroom house, followedthe blanket bed, the buffalo robes, the folding chairs and table, thefrontier "grub" chest. Last of all, signal to the world that the taskwas complete, the battered lantern with the tin reflector was trimmedand lit and, adding the final touch of comfort and of intimacy thatlight alone can give, was hung from its old hook on the ridge pole. Then at last, the first shadows of night stealing over the soundlessearth, the man approached the lone spectator and held out his arms forher to descend. 

"Come, Bess, " he said. He smiled up at her as only such a man at such atime can smile. "This is my night. I'm going to do everything; cooksupper and all. Come, girlie. "

 * * * * *

The meal was over, and again, as on that other occasion when ColonelWilliam Landor had called, the two people within the tent occupied thesame positions. In the folding rocking chair sat the girl, the lightfrom the single lantern playing upon her brown head and soft oval face. In the partial darkness of the corner, stretched among the buffalorobes, lay the man. His arms were locked behind his head. His face wastoward her. His eyes--eyes unbelievably soft and innocent for a matureman--were upon her. As he had said, this was his night, and he wasliving in it to the full. Ever taciturn with her as with others, he wasat this time even more silent than usual, silent in a happiness whichmade words seem sacrilege. He merely looked at her, wonderingly, worshipfully, with the mute devotion of a dog for its master, as adevout Catholic gazes upon the image of the Virgin Mother. Since theyhad entered the tent he had scarcely spoken more than a single sentenceat a time. Only once had he given a glimpse of himself. Then he hadapologised for the meagreness of the meal. "To-morrow, " he had said, "we will have game, the country is full of it; but to-day--" he hadlooked down as he had spoken--"to-day I felt somehow as though I couldnot kill anything. Life is too good to destroy, to-day. "

Thus he lay there now, motionless, wordless, oblivious of passing time;and now and then in her place the girl's eyes lifted, found him gazingat her--and each time looked away. For some reason she could not returnthat look. For some reason as each time she caught it, read its meaning, her brown face grew darker. As truly as out there on the prairie she wasafraid of the infinite solitude, she was afraid now of the worship thatgaze implied. She had awakened, had Elizabeth Landor; and in the depthsof her own soul she knew she was not worthy of such love, suchconfidence absolute. She expected it, she wanted it--and still she didnot want it. She longed for oblivion such as his, oblivion of all savethe passing minute; and it was not hers. Prescience, without a reasontherefor which she would admit, prevented forgetfulness. She tried toshake the impression off; but it clung tenaciously. Instinctively, almost under compulsion, she even went ahead to meet it, to prepare theway. 

"You mustn't look at me that way, How, " she laughed at last forcedly. "It makes me afraid of myself--afraid of dropping. Supposing I shouldfall, from up in the sky where you fancy I am! No one, not even you, could ever put the pieces together. "

"Fall, " smiled the man, "you fall? You wouldn't; but if you did, I'd bethere to catch you. "

"Then you, too, would be in fragments. I'm very, very far above earth, you know. "

"I'd want to be so, if you fell, " said the man. "You're all there is inthe world, all there is in life, for me. I'd want to be annihilated, too, then. "

The girl's hands folded in her lap; as they had done that afternoon, very carefully. 

"You don't know me even yet, How, " she guided on. "You think I'mperfect, but I'm not. I know I'm very, very human, very--bad at times. "

The other smiled; that was all. 

"I'm liable to do anything, be anything. I'm liable to even fancy Idon't like you and run away. "

"If you did you'd return very soon. "

"Return?" She looked at him fully. "You think so?"

"I know so. "

"Why, How?"

"Because you care for me. "

"But it would be because I didn't care for you that I'd go, you know. "

"You'd find your mistake and come back. "

The clasped hand locked, as once before they had done. 

"And when I did--come back--you'd forgive me, How?"

"There'd be nothing to forgive. "

"It wouldn't be wrong--to leave you that way?"

"To me you could do no wrong, Bess. "

"Not if I did anything, if I--ran away with another man?"

The listener smiled, until the beardless face was very, very boyish. 

"I can't imagine the impossible, Bess. "

"But just supposing I should?" insistently. "You'd take me back, nomatter what I'd done, and forgive me?"

For a half minute wherein the smile slowly vanished from his face theman did not answer, merely looked at her; then for the first time sincethey had been speaking his eyes dropped. 

"I could forgive you anything, Bess; but to take you back, to haveeverything go on as before--I am human. I could not. "

A moment longer the two remained so, each staring at their feet; then ofa sudden, interrupting, the girl laughed, unmusically, hysterically. 

"I'm glad you said that, How, " she exulted; "glad I compelled you to sayit. As you confess, it makes you seem more human. A god shouldn't marrya mortal, you know. "

The man looked up gravely, but he said nothing. 

"I'm going to make you answer me just one more thing, " rushed on thegirl, "and then I'm satisfied. You'd forgive me, you say, forgive meanything; but how about the other man, the one who had induced me to runaway? Would you forgive him, too?"

Silence, dead silence; but this time the Indian's eyes did not drop. 

"You may as well tell me, How. I'm irresponsible to-night and I won'tgive you any peace until you do. Would you forgive the other man, too?"

Once more for seconds there was a lapse; then slowly the Indian liftedin his place, lifted until he was sitting, lifted until his face stoodout clear in the light like the carving of a master. 

"Forgive _him_, Bess?" A pause. "Do you think I am a god?"

That was all, neither an avowal nor a denial; yet no human being lookingat the speaker that moment would have pressed the query farther, nohuman being could have misread the answer. With the same littlehysterical, unnatural laugh the girl sank back in her seat. The tensehands went lax. 

"I'll be good now, How, " she said dully. "One isn't married every day, you know, and it's got on my nerves. I'm finding out a lot of thingslately, and that's one of them: that I have nerves. I never supposedbefore that I possessed them. "

Deliberately, without a shade of hesitation or of uncertainty, the manarose. As deliberately he walked over and very, very gently lifted thegirl to her feet. 

"Bess, " he said low, "there's something that's troubling you, somethingyou'd feel better to tell me. Don't you trust me enough to tell me now, girlie?"

Very long they stood so, face to face. For a time the girl did not lookup, merely stood there, her fingers locked behind her back, her longlashes all but meeting; then of a sudden, swiftly as the passing shadowof an April cloud, the mood changed, she glanced up. 

"I thought I could scare you, How, " she joyed softly, "and I have. " Shesmiled straight into his eyes. "I wanted to see how much you cared forme, was all. I've found out. There's absolutely nothing to tell, How, man; absolutely nothing. "

For another half minute the man looked at her deeply, silently; but, still smiling, she answered him back, and with a last lingering gripthat was a caress his hands dropped. 

"I trust you, Bess, completely, " he said. "It makes me unhappy to feelthat you are unhappy, is all. "

"I know, How. " Tears were on the long lashes now, tears that came soeasily. "I'll try not to be bad again. " She touched his sleeve. "I'mvery tired now and sleepy. You'll forgive me this once again, won'tyou?"

"Forgive you!--Bess!" She was in his arms, pressed close to his breast, the presence of her, intense, feminine, intoxicating him, bearing him asthe fruit of the poppy to oblivion. "God, girl, if you could onlyrealise how I love you. I can't tell you; I can't say things; but if youcould only realise!"

Passionate, throbbing, the girl's face lifted. Her great brown eyes, sparkling wet, glorious, looked into his eyes. Her lips parted. 

"Say that again, How, " she whispered, "only say that again. Tell me thatyou love me. Tell me! tell me!"

CHAPTER XIV

FATE, THE SATIRIST

Four months drifted by. The will of Colonel William Landor had been readand executed. According to its provisions the home ranch with one-tenthof the herd, divided impartially as they filed past the executor, wereleft to Mary Landor; in event of her death to descend to "an onlynephew, Clayton Craig by name. " A second fraction of the great herd, atenth of the remainder, selected in the same manner, reverted at once"unqualifiedly and with full title to hold or to sell to theaforementioned sole blood relative, Clayton Craig. " All of the estatenot previously mentioned, the second ranch whereon How Landor hadbuilded, various chattels enumerated, a small sum of money in a citybank, and the balance of the herd, whose number the testator himselfcould not give with certainty, were willed likewise unqualifiedly to "myadopted daughter, Elizabeth Landor. " That was all. A single sheet ofgreasy note paper, a collection of pedantic antiquated phrases, pennedlaboriously with the scrawling hand of one unused to writing; butincontrovertible in its laconic directness. Save these three no othernames were mentioned. So far as the Indian Ma-wa-cha-sa, commonly calledHow Landor, was concerned he might never have existed. In a hundredwords the labour was complete; and at its end, before the single sheetwas covered, sprawling, characteristic, was the last signature of himwho at the time was the biggest cattleman west of the river: WilliamLandor of the Buffalo Butte. 

Craig himself did not appear, either at the reading or the execution. Instead a dapper city attorney with a sarcastic tongue and an isolatedmanner was present to conserve his interests; and, satisfied on thatscore, and ere the supply of Havanas in a beautifully embossed leathercase was exhausted, in fact, to quote his own words, "as quickly as akind Providence would permit, " he vanished into the unknown from whencehe came. Following, on the next train, came a big-voiced, red-beardedIrishman who proclaimed himself the new foreman and immediately tookpossession. Simultaneously there disappeared from the scene the BuffaloButte ranch and the brand by which it had been known; and in its placeupon the flank of every live thing controlled, stared forth a C lockedto a C (C-C): the heraldry of the new master, Clayton Craig. 

Likewise the long-planned wedding journey had taken place and become amemory. Into the silent places they went, this new-made man andwife--and no one was present at the departure to bid them adieu. Backfrom the land of nothingness they came--and again no one was at hand towelcome their return. In but one respect did the accomplishment of thatplan alter from the prearranged; and that one item was the considerationof time. They did not stay away until winter, as the girl had announced. Starting in November, they did not complete the month. Nor did they stayfor more than a day in any one spot. Like the curse of the WanderingJew, a newborn restlessness in the girl kept calling "On, on. " Battleagainst it as she might, she was powerless under its dominance. She knewnot from whence had come the change, nor why; but that in the last weeksshe had altered fundamentally, unbelievably, she could not question. Thevery first night out, ere they had slept, she had begun to talk ofchange on the morrow. The next day it was the same--and the next. Whenthey were moving the morbid restlessness gradually wore away; for thetime being she became her old careless-happy self; and in sympathy hercompanion opened as a flower to the sun. Then would come a pause; andthe morbid, dogging spirit of unrest would close upon her anew. Thus dayby day passed until a week had gone by. Then one morning when camp wasstruck, instead of advancing farther, the man had faced back the waythey had come. He made no comment, nor did she. Neither then nor in daysthat followed did he once allude to the reason that had caused thechange of plan. When the girl was gay, he was gay likewise. When shelapsed listlessly into the slough of silence and despond, he went onprecisely as though unconscious of a change. His acting, for acting itwas, even the girl could not but realise at that time, was masterly. What he was thinking no human being ever knew, no human being could everknow; for he never gave the semblance of a hint. Probably not since manand woman began under the sanction of law and of clergy to mate, hadthere been such a honeymoon. Probably never will there be such another. That the whole expedition was a piteous, dreary failure neither couldhave doubted ere the first week dragged by. That the marriage journeywhich it ushered in was to be a failure likewise, neither could havequestioned, ere the second week, which brought them home, had passed. The Garden of Eden was there, there as certainly in its frost-brownsun-blessed perfection as though spread luxuriously within the tropics. Adam was there, Adam prepared to accept it as normally content as thefirst man; but Eve was not satisfied. Within the garden the serpent hadshown his face and tempted her. For very, very long she would not admitthe fact even to herself, deluded herself by the belief that thisnewborn discontent was but temporary; yet bald, unaltering as theprairie itself, the truth stood forth. Thus they went, and thus theyreturned. Thus again thereafter the days went monotonously by. 

One bright spot, and one alone, appeared on their firmament; and thatwas the opening of the new house. This was to be a surprise, a climaxboyishly reserved by its builder for their return. The man hadintentionally so arranged that the start should be from the old ranch, and in consequence the girl had never seen either the new or itsfurnishings, until the November day when the overloaded surrey drew upin the dooryard, and the journey was complete. Pathetic, indescribable, in the light of the past, in the memory of the solitary hours thatfrontier nest represented, the moment must have been to the man when heled the way to the entrance and turned the key. Yet he smiled as hethrew open the door; and, standing there, ere she entered, he kissedher. 

"It isn't much, but it was mine, Bess, and now it's yours, " he said, and, her hand in his, he crossed the threshold. 

A moment the girl stood staring around her. Crude as everything was, andcheap in aggregate, it spoke a testimony that was overwhelming. Neverbefore, not even that first night they had been alone, had the girlrealised as at this moment what she meant to this solitary, impassivehuman. Never before until these mute things he had fashioned with hisown hands stood before her eyes did she realise fully his love. With theknowledge now came a flood of repentance and of appreciation. Her armsflew about his neck. Her wet face was hid. 

"How you love me, man, " she voiced. "How you love me!"

"Yes, Bess, " said the other simply; and that was all. 

For that day, and the next, and the next, the mood lasted, an awakeningthe girl began to fancy permanent; then inevitably came the reaction. The man took up his duties where he had laid them down: the supervisionof a herd scattered of necessity to the winds, the personal inspectionof a range that stretched away for miles. Soon after daylight, his lunchfor the day packed in the pouch he slung over his shoulder, he leftastride the mouse-coloured, saddleless broncho; not to return until darkor later, tired and hungry, but ever smiling at the home-coming, everconsiderate. Thus the third night he returned to find the house dark andthe fire in the soft coal stove dead; to find this and the girlstretched listless on the bed against the wall, staring wide-eyed intothe darkness. 

"I was tired and resting, How, " she had explained penitently, and goneabout the task of preparing supper; but the man was not deceived, andthat moment, if not before, he recognised the inevitable. 

Yet even then he made no comment, nor altered in the minutest detail hismanner. If ever a human being played the game, it was How Landor. With ablindness that was masterly, that was all but fatuous, he ignored theobvious. His equanimity and patience were invulnerable. Silent bynature, he grew fairly loquacious in an effort to be companionable. Probably no white man alive would have done as he did, would have bornewhat he did; perhaps it would have been better had he done differently;but he was as he was. Day after day he endured the galling starchedlinen and unaccustomed clothing, making long journeys to the distanttown to keep his wardrobe clean and replenished. Day after day hepolished his boots and struggled with his cravat. Puerile unqualifiedlyan observer would have characterised this repeated farce; but to one whoknew the tale in its entirety, it would have seemed very far fromhumorous. All but sacrilege, it is to tell of this starved human's doingat this time. The sublime and the ridiculous ever elbow so closely inthis life and jostled so continuously in those stormy hours of HowLandor's chastening. Suffice it to repeat that every second through itall he played the game; played it with a smiling face, and the ghost ofa jest ever trembling on his lips. Played it from the moment he enteredhis house until the moment he daily disappeared, astride the vixenishundersized cayuse. Then when he was alone, when there were no human eyesto observe, to pity perchance, then--But let it pass what he did then. It is another tale and extraneous. 

Thus drifted by the late fall and early winter. Bit by bit the days grewshorter; and then as a pendulum vibrates, lengthened shade by shade. Nohuman being came their way, nor wild thing, save roving murderers onpillage bent. Even the cowmen he employed, the old hands he and Bess hadboth known for years, avoided him obviously, stubbornly. After theexecution of the will he had built them another ranch house at adistance on the range, and there they congregated and clung. Theyaccepted his money and obeyed his orders unquestioningly; but furtherthan that--they were white and he was red. Howard, the one man withwhom he had been friendly, had grown restless and drifted on--whither noone knew. Save for the Irish overseer and one other cowboy, the oldBuffalo Butte ranch was deserted. Locally, there neither was nor hadbeen any outward manifestation of hostility, nor even gossip. But theolden times when the hospitable ranch house of Colonel William Landorwas the meeting point of ranchers within a radius of fifty miles weregone. They did not persecute the new master or his white wife; they dida subtler, crueller thing: they ignored them. To the Indian's face, whenby infrequent chance they met, they were affable, obliging. Hisreputation had spread too far for them to appear otherwise; but, again, they were white and he was red--and between them the chasm yawned. 

Thus passed the months. Winter, dead and relentless, held its sway. Itwas a normal winter; but ever in this unprotected land the period wasone of inevitable decimation, of a weeding out of the unfit. Here andthere upon the range, dark against the now background of universalwhite, stared forth the carcass of a weakling. Over it for a few nightsthe coyotes and grey wolves howled and fought; then would come a freshlayer of white, and the spot where it had been would merge once moreinto the universal colour scheme. Even the prairie chickens vanished, migrated to southern lands where corn was king. No more at daylight orat dusk could one hear the whistle of their passing wings, or thebooming of their rallying call. Magnificent in any season, thisimpression of the wild was even more pronounced now. The thought of Godis synonymous with immensity; and so being, Deity was here eternallymanifest, ubiquitous. The human mind could not conceive a more infinitebigness than this gleaming frost-bound waste stretched to the horizonbeneath the blazing winter sun. Magnificent it was beyond the power ofwords to describe; but lonely, lonely. Within the tiny cottage, thegirl, Bess, drew the curtains tight over the single window and for daysat a time did not glance without. 

Then at last, for to all things there is an end, came spring. Longbefore it arrived the Indian knew it was coming, read incontestably itsadvance signs. No longer, as the mouse-coloured cayuse bore him over therange, was there the mellow crunch of snow underfoot. Instead the soundwas crisp and sharp: the crackling of ice where the snow had melted andfrozen again. Distinct upon the record of the bleak prairie pageappeared another sign infallible. Here and there, singly and _en masse_, wherever the herds had grazed, appeared oblong brown blots the size ofan animal's body. The cattle were becoming weak under the influence ofprolonged winter, and lay down frequently to rest, their warm bodiesbranding the evidence with melted snow. The jack rabbits, ubiquitous onthe ranges, that sprang daily almost from beneath the pony's feet, werechanging their winter's dress, were becoming darker; almost as thoughsoiled by a muddy hand. Here and there on the high places the sparklingwhite was giving way to a dull, lustreless brown. Gradually, day by day, as though they were a pestilence, they expanded, augmented until they, and not the white, became the dominant tone. The sun was high in the skynow. At noontime the man's shadow was short, scarcely extended back ofhis pony's feet. Mid-afternoons, in the low places when he passedthrough, there was a spattering of snow water collected in tiny puddles. After that there was no need of signs. Realities were everywhere. Dipsin the rolling land, mere dry runs save at this season, became creeks;flushed to their capacity and beyond, sang softly all the day long. Notonly the high spots, but even the north slopes lost their whiteblankets, surrendered to the conquering brown. Migratory life, longabsent, returned to its own. Prairie kites soared far overhead onmotionless wings. Meadow larks, cheeriest of heralds, practised theirfive-toned lay. Here and there, to the north of prairie boulders, appeared tufts of green; tufts that, like the preceding brown, grew andgrew and grew until they dominated the whole landscape. Then at last, the climax, the _finale_ of the play, came life, animal and vegetable, with a rush. Again at daylight and at dusk swarms of black dots onwhistling wings floated here and there, descended to earth; and, following, indefinite as to location, weird, lonely, boomed forth intheir mating songs. Transient, shallow, miniature lakes swarmed withtheir new-come denizens. Last of all, final assurance of a new season'sadvent, by day and by night, swelling, diminishing, unfailingly musicalas distant chiming bells, came the sound of all most typical of prairieand of spring. From high overhead in the blue it came, often so highthat the eye could not distinguish its makers; yet alway distinctive, alway hauntingly mysterious. "Honk! honk! honk!" sounded and echoed andre-echoed that heraldry over the awakened land. "Honk! honk! honk!" itrepeated; and listening humans smiled and commented unnecessarily eachto the other: "Spring is not coming. It is here. "

CHAPTER XV

THE FRUIT OF THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

A shaggy grey wolf, a baby no longer but practically full grown, swungslowly along the beaten trail connecting the house and the barn as thestranger appeared. He did not run, he did not glance behind, he made nosound. With almost human dignity he vacated the premises to thenewcomer. Not until he reached his destination, the ill-lighted stable, did curiosity get the better of prudence; then, safe within the doorway, he wheeled about, and with forelegs wide apart stood staring out, hislong, sensitive nose taking minutest testimony. 

The newcomer, a well-proportioned, smooth-faced man in approved ridingtogs, halted likewise and returned the look; equally minutely, equallysuspiciously. The horse he rode was one of a kind seldom seen on theranges: a thoroughbred with slender legs and sensitive ears. The ridersat his saddle well; remarkably well for one obviously from anotherlife. Both the horse and man were immaculately groomed. At a distancethey made a pleasant picture, one fulfilling adequately the adjective"smart. " Not until an observer was near, very near, could the loosenessof the skin beneath the man's eyelids, incongruous with his generalyouth, and the abnormal nervous twitching of a muscle here and there, have been noted. For perhaps a minute he sat so, taking in every detailof the commonplace surroundings. Then, apparently satisfied, hedismounted and, tying the animal to the wheel of an old surrey drawn upin the yard, he approached the single entrance of the house and rapped. 

To the doorway came Elizabeth Landor; her sleeves rolled to the elbow, afrilled apron that reached to the chin protecting a plain gingham gown. A moment they looked at each other; then the man's riding cap came offwith a sweep and he held out his hand. 

"Bess!" he said intimately; and for another moment that was all. Then helooked her fair between the eyes. "I came to see your husband, " heexclaimed. "Is he at home?"

The girl showed no surprise, ignored the out-stretched hand. 

"I was expecting you, " she said. "How told me last night that you hadreturned. "

A shade of colour stole into the man's blonde cheeks and his handdropped; but his eyes held their place. 

"Yes. I only came yesterday, " he returned. "I've a little business totalk over with How. That's why I'm here this morning. Is he about?"

Just perceptibly the girl smiled; but she made no answer. 

"Don't you wish to be friends, Bess?" persisted the man. "Aren't we tobe even neighbourly?"

"Neighbourly, certainly. I have no desire to be otherwise. "

"Why don't you answer me, then?" The red shading was becoming positivenow, telltale. "Tell me why, please. "

"Answer?" The girl rolled down one sleeve deliberately. "Answer?" Sheundid its mate. "Do you really fancy, cousin by courtesy, that afterI've lived the last four months I'm still such a child as that? Do youreally wish me to answer, Neighbour Craig?"

For the first time the man's eyes dropped. Some silver coins in histrousers pocket jingled as he fingered them nervously. Then again helooked up. 

"I beg your pardon, Bess, " he said. "I saw your husband leave an hourago. I knew he wasn't here. " He looked her straight. "It was you I cameto see. May I stay?"

Again the girl ignored the question. 

"You admit then, " she smiled, "that if How were here you wouldn't havecome, that nothing you know of could have made you come? Let'sunderstand each other in the beginning. You admit this?"

"Yes, " steadily, "I admit it. May I stay?"

The smile left the girl's lips. She looked him fair in the eyes;silently, deliberately, with an intensity the other could not fathom, could not even vaguely comprehend. Then as deliberately she releasedhim, looked away. 

"Yes, you may stay, " she consented, "if you wish. "

"If I wish!" Craig looked at her meaningly; then with an obvious efforthe checked himself "Thank you, " he completed repressedly. 

This time the girl did not smile. 

"Don't you realise yet that sort of thing is useless?" she queriedunemotionally. 

It was the man this time who was silent. 

"If you wish to stay, " went on the girl monotonously, "do so; but foronce and all do away with acting. We're neither of us good, we're bothliving a lie; but at least we understand each other. Let's not wasteenergy in pretending--when there's no one to be deceived. "

Just for a second the man stiffened. The histrionic was too much a partof his life to shake off instantly. Then he laughed. 

"All right, Bess. I owe you another apology, I suppose. Anyway be it so. And now, that I'm to stay--" A meaning glance through the open door. "You were working, weren't you?"

"Yes. "

"Go ahead, then, and I'll find something to sit on and watch. Youremember another morning once before, don't you--a morning before yougrew up--"

"Perfectly. "

"We'll fancy we're back there again, then. Come. "

"I am quite deficient in imagination. "

"At least, though, dishes must be washed. "

"Not necessarily--this moment at least. They have waited before. "

"But, Bess, on the square, I don't wish to intrude or interfere. "

"You're not interfering. I've merely chosen to rest a bit and enjoy thesun. " She indicated the step. "Won't you be seated? They're clean, Iknow. I scrubbed them this very morning myself. "

The man hesitated. Then he sat down. 

"Bess, " he said, "you've been pretty frank with me and I'm going toreturn the privilege. I don't understand you a bit--the way you are now. You've changed terribly. "

"Changed? On the contrary I'm very normal. I've been precisely as I amthis moment for--a lifetime. "

"For--how long, Bess?"

"A lifetime, I think. "

"For four months, you mean. "

"Perhaps--it's all the same. "

"Since you did a foolish thing?"

"I have done many such. "

"Since the last, I mean. "

"No. " Just perceptibly the lids over the brown eyes tightened. "The lastwas when I asked you to sit down. I have not changed in the smallestpossible manner since then. "

The man inspected his boots. 

"Aren't you, too, going to be seated?" he suggested at length. 

"Yes, certainly. To tell the truth I thought I was. " She took a placebeside him. "I had forgotten. "

They sat so, the man observing her narrowly, in real perplexity. 

"Bess, " he initiated baldly at last, "you're unhappy. "

"I have not denied it, " evenly. 

The visitor caught his breath. He thought he was prepared for anything;but he was finding his mistake. 

"This life you've--selected, is wearing on you, " he added. "Frankly, Ihardly recognise you, you used to be so careless and happy. "

"Frankly, " echoed the girl, "you, too, have altered, cousin mine. You'redissipating. Even here one grows to recognise the signs. "

The man flushed. It is far easier in this world to give frank criticismthan to receive it. 

"I won't endeavour to justify myself, Bess, " he said intimately, "norattempt to deny it. There is a reason, however. "

"I've noticed, " commented his companion, "that there usually is anexplanation for everything we do in this life. "

"Yes. And in this instance you are the reason, Bess. "

"Thank you. " A pause. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment. "

"You may if you wish. Leastways it's the truth. "

The girl locked her fingers over her knees and leaned back against thelintel of the door. She looked very young that moment--and very old. 

"And your reason?" persisted the man. "You know now my explanation forbeing--as I am. What is yours?"

"Do you wish a compliment, also, Clayton Craig?"

"I wish to know the reason. "

"Unfortunately you know it already. Otherwise you would not be here. "

"You mean it is this lonely life, this man of another race you havemarried?"

"No. I mean the thing that led me away from this life, and--the man youhave named. "

"I don't believe I understand, Bess. "

"You ought to. You drank me dry once, every drop of confidence Ipossessed, for two weeks. "

"You mean I myself am the cause, " said the man low. 

"I repeat you have the compliment--if you consider it such. "

Again there was silence. Within the stable door, during all the time, the grey wolf had not stirred. He was observing them now, steadily, immovably. Though it was bright sunlight without, against the backgroundof the dark interior his eyes shone as though they were afire. 

"Honestly, Bess, " said the man, low as before, "I'm sorry if I havemade you unhappy. "

"I thought we had decided to be truthful for once, " answered a voice. 

"You're unjust, horribly unjust!"

"No. I merely understand you--now. You're not sorry, because otherwiseyou wouldn't be here. You wouldn't dare to be here--even though myhusband were away. "

Again instinctively the man's face reddened. It was decidedly a noveltyin his life to be treated as he was being treated this day. Ordinarilyglib of speech, for some reason in the face of this newfound emotionlesscharacterisation, he had nothing to say. It is difficult to appear whatone is not in the blaze of one's own fireside. It was impossible underthe scrutiny of this wide-eyed girl, with the recollection of eventsgone by. 

"All right, Bess, " he admitted at last, with an effort, "we've got otherthings more interesting than myself to discuss anyway. " He looked at heropenly, significantly. "Your own self, for instance. "

"Yes?"

"I'm listening. Tell me everything. "

"You really fancy I will after--the past?"

"Yes. "

"And why, please?"

"You've already told me why. "

"That's right, " meditatively. "I'd forgotten. We were going to beourselves, our natural worst selves, to-day. "

"I'm still listening. "

"You're patient. What do you most wish to know?"

"Most? The thing most essential, of course. Do you love your husband?You're unhappy, I know. Is that the reason?"

The girl looked out, out over the prairies, meditatively, impassively. Far in the distance, indistinguishable to an untrained eye, a black dotstood out above the horizon line. Her eyes paused upon it. 

"You'll never tell anyone if I answer?" she asked suddenly. 

"Never, Bess. "

"You swear it?"

"I swear. "

Just perceptibly the girl's lips twitched. 

"Thanks. I merely wished to find out if you would still perjureyourself. To answer your question, I really don't know. "

"Bess!" The man was upon his feet, his face twitching. "I'll stand a lotfrom you, but there's a limit--"

"Sit down, please, " evenly. "It's wasted absolutely. There's not a soulbut myself to see; and I'm not looking. Please be seated. "

From his height the man looked down at her; at first angrily, resentfully--then with an expression wherein surprise and unbelief weremingled. He sat down. 

The girl's eyes left the dot on the horizon, moved on and on. 

"As I was saying, " she continued, "I don't know. I'd give my soul, if Ihave one, to know; but I have no one with whom to make the exchange, noone who can give me light. Does that answer your question?"

Her companion stared at her, and forgot himself. 

"Yes, it answers the now. But why did you marry him?"

"You really wish to know?" Again the lips were twitching. 

"Yes. "

"You're very hungry for compliments. You yourself are why. "

No answer, only silence. 

"You've seen a coursing, haven't you?" wandered on the girl. "A littletired rabbit with a great mongrel pack in pursuit? You're not plural, but nevertheless you personified that pack. You and the unknown thingsyou represented were pressing me close. I was confused and afraid. I wasa babe four months ago. I was not afraid of How, I had loved him--atleast I thought I had, I'm sure of nothing now--and, as I say, I wasafraid of you--then. "

"And now--"

Just for a second the girl glanced at the questioner, then she lookedaway. 

"I'm not in the least afraid of you now--or of anything. "

"Not even of your husband?"

"No, " unemotionally. "I leave that to you. "

Again the man's face twitched, but he was silent. 

"I said afraid of nothing, " retracted the girl swiftly. "I made amistake. " Of a sudden her face grew old and tense. "I am afraid ofsomething; horribly afraid. I'm as afraid, as you are of death, of thisinfinite eventless monotony. " She bit her lip deep, unconsciously. "Isometimes think the old fear of everything were preferable, were thelesser of the two evils. "

Just perceptibly the figure of the man grew alert. The loose skin underhis eyes drew tight as the lids partially closed. 

"You've been a bit slow about it, Bess, " he said, "but I think you'vegotten down to realities at last. " He likewise looked away; butunseeingly. The mind of Clayton Craig was not on the landscape thatspring morning. "I even fancy that at last you realise what a messyou've made of your life. "

The girl showed no resentment, no surprise. 

"Yes, I think I do, " she said. 

"You are perhaps even prepared to admit that I wasn't such a brute afterall in attempting to prevent your doing as you did. "

"No, " monotonously. "You could have prevented it if you hadn't been abrute. "

Again the man looked at her, unconscious of self. 

"You mean that you did really and truly care for me, then, Bess? Caredfor me myself?"

"Yes. "

"And that I frightened you back here?"

"Yes. "

Unconsciously the man swallowed. His throat was very dry. 

"And now that you're no longer afraid of me, how about it now?"

The girl looked away in silence. 

"Tell me, Bess, " pleaded the man, "tell me!"

"I can't tell you. I don't know. "

"Don't know?"

"No. I don't seem to be sure of anything now-a-days--anything exceptthat I'm afraid. "

"Of the future?"

"Yes--and of myself. "

For once at least in his life Clayton Craig was wise. He said nothing. Along silence fell between them. It was the girl herself who broke it. 

"I sometimes think a part of me is dead, " she said slowly, and the voicewas very weary. "I think it was buried in Boston with Uncle Landor. "

"Was I to blame, Bess?"

"Yes. You were the grave digger. You covered it up. "

"Then I'm the one to bring it to life again. "

The girl said nothing. 

"You admit, " pressed Craig, "that I'm the only person who can restorethe thing you have lost, the thing whose lack is making you unhappy?"

"Yes. I admit it. "

The man took a deep breath, as one arousing from reverie. 

"Won't you let me give it you again, Bess?" he asked low. 

"You won't do it, " listlessly. "You could, but you won't. You're tooselfish. "

"Bess!" The man's hand was upon her arm. 

"Don't do that, please, " said the girl quietly. 

The man's face twitched; but he obeyed. 

"You're maddening, Bess, " he flamed. "Positively maddening!"

"Perhaps, " evenly. "I warned you that if you stayed we'd be ourselvesto-day. I merely told you things as they are. "

Craig opened his lips to speak; but closed them again in silence. One ofhis hands, long fingered, white as a woman's, lay in his lap. Againsthis will now and then a muscle contracted nervously; and of a sudden hethrust the telltale member deep into his trousers pocket. 

"But the future, Bess, " he challenged, "your future. You can't go onthis way indefinitely. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. "

"Haven't you ever thought of it?"

"It seems to me I've thought of nothing else--for an age. "

"And you've decided nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing. "

Again the man drew a long breath; but even thereafter his voicetrembled. 

"Let me decide for you then, Bess, " he said. 

"You?" The girl inspected him slowly through level eyes. "By what rightshould you be permitted to decide?"

The man returned her look. Of a sudden he had become calm. His eyes weresteady. Deep down in his consciousness he realised that he would win, that the moment was his moment. 

"The right is mine because I love you, Bess Landor, " he said simply. 

"Love me, after what you have done?"

"Yes. I have been mad--and done mad things. But I've discovered myfault. That's why I've come back; to tell you so--and to make amends. "

Intensely, desperately intensely, the girl continued her look; but theman was master of himself now, sure of himself, so sure that he voiced achallenge. 

"And you, Bess Landor, love me. In spite of the fact that you ran away, in spite of the fact that you are married, you love me!"

Into the girl's brown face there crept a trace of colour; her lipsparted, but she said no word. 

"You can't deny it, " exulted the man. "You can't--because it is true. "

A moment longer they sat so, motionless; then for a second time that dayClayton Craig did a wise thing, inspiration wise. While yet he wasmaster of the situation, while yet the time was his, he arose. 

"I'm going now, Bess, " he said, "but I'll come again. " He looked at herdeeply, meaningly. "I've said all there is to say, for I've told youthat I love you. Good-bye for now, and remember this: If I've stolenyour happiness, I'll give it all back. As God is my witness, I'll giveit all back with interest. " Swiftly, before she could answer, he turnedaway and strode toward the impatient thoroughbred. Equally swiftly heundid the tie strap and mounted. Without another word, or a backwardglance, he rode away; the galloping hoofs of his mount muffled in thedamp spring earth. 

Equally silent, the girl sat looking after him. She did not move. Shedid not make a sound. Not until the horse turned in at the C-C ranchhouse, until the buildings hid the owner from view, did her eyes leavehim. Then, as if compelled by an instinct, she looked away over theprairie, away where the last time she had glanced a tiny black dot stoodout against the intense blue sky. But look as she might she could notfind it. It was there no more. It had been for long; but now was not. Clean as though drawn by a crayon on a freshly washed blackboard, theunbroken horizon line stretched out in a great circle before her eyes. With no watcher save the grey wolf staring forth from the stabledoorway, she was alone with her thoughts. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE RECKONING

It was later than usual when How Landor returned that evening, and as hecame up the path that led from the stable, he shuffled his feet as oneunconsciously will when very weary. He was wearing his ready-madeclothes and starched collar; but the trousers were deplorably baggy atthe knees from much riding, and his linen and polished shoes were soiledwith the dust of the prairie. 

Supper was waiting for him, a supper hot and carefully prepared. Servingit was a young woman he had not seen for long, a young woman minus theslightest trace of listlessness, with a dash of red ribbon at belt andthroat, and a reflection of the same colour burning on either cheek. Ayoung woman, moreover, who anticipated his slightest wish, who took hishat and fetched his moccasins, and when the meal was over brought thebuffalo robes and stretched them carefully on the gently sloping terracejust outside the ranch house door. Meanwhile she chatted bubblingly, continuously; with a suggestion of the light-hearted gaiety of a yearbefore. To one less intimately acquainted with her than the man, hercompanion, she would have seemed again her old girlish self, returned, unchanged; but to him who knew her as himself there was now and then anote that rang false, a hint of suppressed excitement in the unwontedcolour, an abnormal energy bordering on the feverish in her everymotion. Not in the least deceived was this impassive, all-observinghuman, not in the least in doubt as to the cause of the transformation:yet through it all he gave no intimation of consciousness of theunusual, through it all he smiled, and smiled and smiled again. Neverwas there a more appreciative diner than he, never a more attentive, sympathetic listener. He said but little; but that was not remarkable. He had never done so except when she had not. When he looked at herthere was an intensity that was almost uncanny in his gaze; but thatalso was not unusual. There was ever a mystery in the depths of hissteady black eyes. Never more himself, never outwardly more unsuspiciouswas the man than on this occasion; even when, the meal complete, thegirl had led him hand in hand out of doors, out into the soft springnight, out under the stars where she had stretched the two robesintimately close. 

Thus, side by side, but not touching, they lay there, the soft southbreeze fanning their faces, whispering wordless secrets in their ears;about them the friendly enveloping darkness, in their nostrils thesubtle, indescribable fragrance of awakening earth and of growingthings. But not even then could the girl be still. Far too full of thisday's revelation and of anticipation of things to come was she to besilent. The mood of her merely changed. The chatter, heretofore aimless, ceased. In its place came a definite intent, a motive that prompted adefinite question. She was lying stretched out like a child, her crossedarms pillowing her head, her eyes looking up into the great unknown, when she gave it voice. Even when she had done so, she did not alter herposition. 

"I wonder, " she said, "whether if one has made a mistake, it were betterto go on without acknowledging it, living a lie and dying so, or toadmit it and make another, who is innocent, instead of one's self, paythe penalty?" She paused for breath after the long sentence. "What doyou think, How?"

In the semi-darkness the man looked at her. Against the lighter sky herface stood out distinct, clear-cut as a silhouette. 

"I do not think it ever right to live a lie, Bess, " he answered. 

"Not even to keep another, who is innocent, from suffering?"

"No, " quickly, "not even to keep another from suffering. "

The girl shifted restlessly, repressedly. 

"But supposing one's acknowledging the lie and living the truth makesone, according to the world, bad. Would that make any difference, How?"

The Indian did not stir, merely lay there looking at her with his steadyeyes. 

"There are some things one has to decide for one's self, " he said. "Ithink this is one of them. "

Again the arms beneath the girl's head shifted unconsciously. 

"Others judge us after we do decide, though, " she objected. 

"What they think doesn't count. We're good or bad, as we're honest withourselves or not. "

"You think that, really?"

"I know it, Bess. There's no room for doubt. "

Silence fell, and in it the girl's mind wandered on and on. At last, abrupt as before, abstractedly as before, came a new thought, a newquery. 

"Is happiness, after all, the chief end of life, How?" she questioned. 

"Happiness, Bess?" He halted. "Happiness?" repeated; but there was noirony in the voice, only, had the girl noticed, a terrible mute pain. "How should I know what is best in life, I, who have never known life atall?"

Blind in her own abstraction, the girl had not read beneath the wordsthemselves, did not notice the thinly veiled inference. 

"But you must have an idea, " she pressed. "Tell me. "

This time the answer was not concealed. It stood forth glaring, wherethe running might read. 

"Yes, I have an idea--and more, " he said. "Happiness, your happiness, has always been the first thing in my life. "

Again silence walled them in, a longer silence than before. Step bystep, gropingly, the girl was advancing on her journey. Step by step shewas drawing away from her companion; yet though, wide-eyed, he watchedher every motion, felt the distance separating grow wider and wider, hemade no move to prevent, threw no obstacle in her path. Deliberatelyfrom his grip, from beneath his very eyes, fate, the relentless, wasfilching his one ewe lamb; yet he gave no sign of the knowledge, spokeno word of unkindness or of hate. Nature, the all-observing, could notbut have admired her child that night. 

One more advance the girl made; and that was the last. Before she hadwalked gropingly, as though uncertain of her pathway. Now there was nohesitation. The move was deliberate; even certain. 

"I know you'll think I'm foolish, How, " she began swiftly, "but Ihaven't much to think about, and so little things appeal to me. " Shepaused and again her folded arms reversed beneath her head. "I've beenwatching 'Shaggy, ' the wolf here, since he grew up; watched him becomerestless week by week. Last night, --you didn't notice, but I did, --Iheard another wolf call away out on the prairie, and I got up to seewhat Shaggy would do. Somehow I seemed to understand how he'd feel, andI came out here, out where we are now, and looked down toward the barn. It was moonlight last night, and I could see everything clearly, almostas clearly as day. There hadn't been a sound while I was getting up; butall at once as I stood watching the call was repeated from somewhereaway off in the distance. Before, Shaggy hadn't stirred. He was standingthere, where you had chained him, just outside the door; but when thatsecond call came, it was too much. He started to go, did go as far as hecould; then the collar choked him and he realised where he was. Hedidn't make a sound, he didn't fight or rebel against something hecouldn't help; but the way he looked, there in the moonlight, with thechain stretched across his back--" She halted abruptly, of a sudden satup. "I know it's childish, but promise me, How, you'll let him go, " shepleaded. "He's wild, and the wild was calling to him. Please promise meyou'll let him go!"

Not even then did the man stir or his eyes leave her face. 

"Did I ever tell you, Bess, " he asked, "that it was to save Shaggy'slife I brought him here? Sam Howard dug his mother out of her den andshot her, and was going to kill the cub, too, when I found him. "

"No. " A hesitating pause. "But anyway, " swiftly, "that doesn't make anydifference. He's wild, and it's a prison to him here. "

Deliberately, ignoring the refutation, the man went on with theargument. 

"Again, if Shaggy returns, " he said, "the chances are he won't livethrough a year. The first cowboy who gets near enough will shoot him onsight. "

"He'll have to take his chance of that, How, " countered the girl. "Weall have to take our chances in this life. "

For the second time the Indian ignored the interruption. 

"Last of all, he's a murderer, Bess. If he were free he'd kill the firstanimal weaker than himself he met. Have you thought of that?"

The girl looked away into the infinite abstractedly. 

"Yes. But again that makes no difference. Neither you nor I made him ashe is, nor Shaggy himself. He's as God meant him to be; and if he's bad, God alone is to blame. " Her glance returned, met the other fair. "I wishyou'd let him go, How. "

The man made no answer. 

"Won't you promise me you'll let him go?"

"You really wish it, Bess?"

"Yes, very much. "

Still for another moment the man made no move; then of a sudden hearose. 

"Come, Bess, " he said. 

Wondering, the girl got to her feet; wondering still more, followed hislead down the path to the stable. At the door the Indian whistled. Butthere was no response, no shaggy grey answering shadow. A lantern hungfrom a nail near at hand. In silence the man lit it and again led theway within. The mouse-coloured broncho and its darker mate were asleep, but at the interruption they awoke and looked about curiously. Otherwisethere was no move. Look where one would within the building, there wasno sign of another live thing. Still in silence the Indian led the wayoutside, made the circuit of the stable, paused at the south end wherea chain hung loose from a peg driven into the wall. A moment he stoodthere, holding the light so the girl could see; then, impassive asbefore, he extinguished the blaze and returned the lantern to its place. 

They were half way back to the house before the girl spoke; then, detainingly, she laid her hand upon his arm. 

"You mean you've let him go already, How?" she asked. 

"Yes. I didn't fasten him this evening. "

They walked on so. 

"You wanted him to go?"

No answer. 

"Tell me, How, did you want him to leave?"

"No, Bess. "

Again they advanced, until they reached the house door. 

"Why did you let him go, then?" asked the girl tensely. 

For the second time there was no answer. 

"Tell me, How, " she repeated insistently. 

"I heard you get up last night, Bess, " said a voice. "I thoughtI--understood. "

For long they stood there, the girl's hand on the man's arm, but neitherstirring; then with a sound perilously near a sob, the hand dropped. 

"I think I'll go to bed now, How, " she said. 

Deliberately, instinctively, the man's arms folded across his chest. That was all. 

The girl mounted the single step, paused in the doorway. 

"Aren't you coming, too, How?" she queried. 

"No, Bess. "

A sudden suspicion came to the girl, a sudden terror. 

"You aren't angry with me, are you?" she trembled. 

"No, Bess, " repeated. 

"But still you're not coming?"

"No. "

Swift as a lightning flash suspicion became certainty. 

"You mean you're not going to come with me to-night?" She scarcelyrecognised her own voice. "You're never going to be with me again?"

"Never?" A long, long pause. "God alone knows about that, Bess. " Asecond halt. "Not until things between us are different, at least. "

"How!" Blindly, weakly, the girl threw out her hand, grasped the casingof the door. "Oh, How! How!"

No answer, not the twitching of a muscle, nor the whisper of a breath;just that dread, motionless silence. A moment the girl stood it, hopingagainst hope, praying for a miracle; then she could stand it no longer. Gropingly clutching at every object within reach, she made her way intothe dark interior; flung herself full dressed onto the bed, her faceburied desperately among the covers. 

All the night which followed a sentinel paced back and forth in frontof the ranch house door; back and forth like an automaton, back andforth in a motion that seemed perpetual. Within the tiny low-ceiledroom, in the fulness of time, the girl sobbed herself into a fitfulsleep; but not once did the sentinel pause to rest, not once in thosedragging hours before day did he relax. With the coming of the firsttrace of light he halted, and on silent moccasined feet stole within. But again he only remained for moments, and when he returned it wasmerely to stride away to the stable. Within the space of minutes, beforethe east had fairly begun to grow red, silently as he did everything, herode away astride the mouse-coloured cayuse into the darkness to thewest. 

 * * * * *

It was broad day when the girl awoke, and then with a vague sense ofdepression and of impending evil. The door was open and the brightmorning light flooded the room. Beyond the entrance stretched the openprairie: an endless sea of green with a tiny brown island, her owndooryard, in the foreground. With dull listlessness, the girl proppedherself up in bed and sat looking about her. Absently, aimlessly, hereyes passed from one familiar object to another. Without any definiteconception of why or of where, she was conscious of an impression ofchange in the material world about her, a change that corresponded tothe mental crisis that had so recently taken place. Glad as was thesunshine without this morning, in her it aroused no answering joy. Ubiquitous as was the vivid surrounding life, its message passed her by. Like a haze enveloping, dulling all things, was a haunting memory ofthe past night and of what it had meant. As a traveller lost in thisfog, she lay staring about, indecisive which way to move, idly waitingfor light. Ordinarily action itself would have offered a solution of theproblem, would have served at least as a diversion; but this morning shewas strangely listless, strangely indifferent. There seemed to her noadequate reason for rising, no definite object in doing anything morethan she was doing. In conformity she pulled the pillow higher and, lifting herself wearily, dropped her chin into her palm and lay withwide-open eyes staring aimlessly away. 

Just how long she remained there so, she did not know. The doorway facedsouth, and bit by bit the bar of sunlight that had entered therein beganmoving to the left across the floor. Unconsciously, for the lack ofanything better to do, she watched its advance. It fell upon a tinyshelf against the wall, littered with a collection of papers andmagazines; and the reflected light from the white sheets glared in hereyes. It came to the supper table of the night before, the table she hadnot cleared, and like an accusing hand, lay directed at the evidence ofher own slothfulness. On it went with the passing time, on and on;crossed a bare spot on the uncarpeted floor, and like a live thing, began climbing the wall beyond. 

Deliberately, with a sort of fascination now, the girl watched itsadvance. Her nerves were on edge this morning, and in its relentlessstealth it began to assume an element of the uncanny. Like a hostilealien thing, it seemed searching here and there in the tiny room forsomething definite, something it did not find. Fatuous as it may seem, the impression grew upon her, augmented until in its own turn it becamea dominant influence. Her glance, heretofore absent, perfunctory, becameintense. The glare was well above the floor by this time and climbinghigher and higher. Answering the mythical challenge, of a sudden she satup free in bed and, as though at a spoken injunction, looked about herfairly. 

The place where she glanced, the point toward which the light wasmounting, was beside her own bed and where, from rough-fashioned woodenpegs, hung the Indian's pathetically scant wardrobe. At first glancethere seemed to the girl nothing unusual revealed thereon, nothingsignificant; and, restlessly observant, the inspection advanced. Then, ere the mental picture could vanish, ere a new impression could take itsplace, in a flash of tardy recollection and of understanding camerealisation complete, and her eyes returned. For perhaps a minutethereafter she sat so, her great eyes unconsciously opening wider andwider, her brown skin shading paler second by second. A minute so, aminute of nerve-tense inaction; then with a little gesture of wearinessand of abandon absolute, she dropped back in her place, and covered herface from sight. 

CHAPTER XVII

SACRIFICE

A week had gone by. Each day of the seven the thoroughbred with theslender legs and the tiny sensitive ears had stood in the barrendooryard before Elizabeth Landor's home. Moreover, with each repetitionthe arrival had been earlier, the halt longer. Though the weather wasperfect, nevertheless the beast had grown impatient under the longwaits, and telltale, a glaring black mound had come into being where hehad pawed his displeasure. At first Craig on departing had carefullyconcealed the testimony of his presence beneath a sprinkling of dooryardlitter; but at last he had ceased to do so, and bit by bit the mound hadgrown. Day had succeeded day, and no one had appeared to question thevisitor's right of coming or of going. Even the wolf was no longerpresent to stare his disapproval. Verily, unchallenged, the king hadcome into his own in this realm of one; and as a monarch absolute everrules, Clayton Craig had reigned, was reigning now. 

For he no longer halted perforce at the doorstep. He had never beeninvited to enter, yet he had entered--and the girl had spoken no word toprevent. Not by request were his cap and riding stick hanging from apeg beside the few belongings of How Landor; yet, likewise unchallenged, they were there. Not by the girl's solicitation was he loungingintimately in the single rocker the room boasted; yet once again thebald fact remained that though it was not yet nine by the clock, he waspresent, his legs comfortably crossed, his eyes, beneath drooping lids, whimsically observing the girl as she went about the perfunctory labourof putting the place to rights. 

"I say, Bess, " he remarked casually at length, "you've dusted thatunoffending table three times by actual count since I've been watching. Wouldn't it be proper to rest a bit now and entertain your company?"

The girl did not smile. 

"Perhaps. " She put away the cloth judicially. "I fancied you weretolerably amused as it was. However, if you prefer--" She drew anotherchair opposite, and, sitting down, folded her hands in her lap. 

A moment longer the man sat smiling at her; then shade by shade thewhimsical expression vanished, and the normal proprietary look he hadgrown to assume in her presence took its place. 

"By the way, Bess, " he commented, "isn't it about time to drop sarcasmwhen you and I are together? I know I've been a most reprehensibleoffender, but haven't I been punished enough?"

"Punished?" There was just the ghost of a smile. "Is this your idea ofpunishment?"

The man flushed involuntarily. His face had cleared remarkably in thepast week of abstinence, and through the fair skin the colour showedplain. 

"Well, perhaps punishment is a little too severe. Leastways you've heldme at arm's length until I'm beginning to despair. "

"Despair?" Again the ghost smiled forth. "Do you fancy I'm so dull thatI don't realise what I'm doing, what you've done?"

For the second time the involuntary colour appeared; but the role thatthe man was playing, the role of the injured, was too effective toabandon at once. 

"You can't deny that you've held me away all this last week, Bess, " heobjected. "You've permitted me to call and call again; but that is all. Otherwise we're not a bit nearer than we were when I first returned. "

"Nearer?" This time the smile did not come. Even the ghost refused toappear. "I wonder if that's true. " A pause. "At least I've gottenimmeasurably farther away from another. "

"Your husband you mean?"

"I mean How. There are but you and he in my life. "

The pose was abandoned. It was useless now. 

"Tell me, Bess, " said the man intimately. "You and I mean too much toeach other not to know everything there is to know. "

"There's nothing to tell. " The girl did not dissimulate now. Theinevitable was in sight, approaching swiftly--and she herself hadchosen. "He's merely given me up. "

"He knows, Bess?" Blank unbelief was on the questioner's face, somethingelse as well, something akin to exultation. 

"Yes, " repressedly. "He's known since that first night. "

"And he hasn't objected, hasn't done anything at all?"

Just for an instant, ere came second thought, the old defiance, the oldpride, broke forth. 

"Do you fancy you would be here now, that you wouldn't have known beforethis if he objected?" she flamed. 

"Bess!"

"I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. " Already the blaze haddied, never to be rekindled. "Forget that I said that. I didn't meanto. "

The man did not answer, he scarcely heard. Almost as by a miracle, thelast obstacle had been removed from his way. He had counted uponblindness, the unsuspicion of perfect confidence; but a passive, conscious conformity such as this--The thing was unbelievable, providential, too unnaturally good to last. The present was a strategicmoment, the time for immediate, irrevocable action, ere there came achange of heart. It had not been a part of Clayton Craig's plans topermit a meeting between himself and the Indian. As a matter of fact hehad taken elaborate, and, as it proved, unnecessary precautions toavoid such a consummation. Even now, the necessity passed, he did notalter his plans. Not that he was afraid of the red man. He had proven tohimself by an incontrovertible process of reasoning that such was notthe case. It was merely to avoid unpleasantness for himself and for thegirl--particularly for the latter. Moreover, no possible object could begained by such a meeting. Things were as they were and inevitable. Hemerely decided to hasten the move. It was the forming of this decisionthat had held him silent. It was under its influence that he spoke. 

"When is it to be, Bess, " he asked abruptly, "the final break, I mean?"

"It has already been, I tell you. It's all over. "

"The new life, then, " guided the man. "You can't go on this way anylonger. It's intolerable for both of us. "

"Yes, " dully, "it's intolerable for all of us. "

Craig arose and, walking to the door, looked out. In advance he hadimagined that the actual move, when all was ready, would be easy. Nowthat the time had really arrived, he found it strangely difficult. Hehardly knew how to begin. 

"Bess. " Of a sudden he had returned swiftly and, very erect, verydominant, stood looking down at her. "Bess, " repeated, "we've avoidedthe obvious long enough, too long. As I said, you've succeeded inkeeping me at arm's length all the last week; but I won't be denied anylonger. I'm willing to take all the blame of the past, and all theresponsibility of the future. I love you, Bess. I've told you thatbefore, but I repeat it now. I want you to go away with me, away fromthis God-cursed land that's driving us both mad--at least leave for atime. After a while, when we both feel different, we can come back if wewish; but for the present--I can't stand this uncertainty another week, another day. " He paused for breath, came a step nearer. 

"Your marrying this Indian was a hideous mistake, " he rushed on; "but wecan't help that now. All we can do is to get away and forget it. " Hecleared his throat needlessly. "It's this getting away that I'vearranged for since I've been here. I've not been entirely idle the lastweek, and every detail is complete. There are three relays of horseswaiting between here and the railroad. One team is all ready at theranch house the minute I give the signal. They'll get us to town beforemorning. You've only to say the word, and I'll give the sign. " Again, nervously, shortly, he repeated the needless rasp, "How may, as you say, not interfere; but it's useless, to take any chances. There's beenenough tragedy already between you two, without courting more. Besides, the past is dead; dead as though it had never been. My lawyer is over atthe ranch house now. He'll straighten out everything after we're gone. Things here are all in your name; you can do as you please with them. There's no possible excuse for delay. " He bent over her, his hands onher shoulders, his eyes looking into hers compellingly. "God knowsyou've been buried here long enough, girl. I'll teach you to live; tolive, do you hear? We'll be very happy together, you and I, Bess;happier than you ever dreamed of being. Will you come?"

He was silent, and of a sudden the place became very still; still as thedead past the man had suggested. Wide-eyed, motionless, the girl satlooking up at him. She did not speak; she scarcely seemed to breathe. Asshe had chosen, so had it come to pass; yet involuntarily she delayed. Deliverance from the haunting solitude that had oppressed her like anevil dream was beckoning; yet impotent, she held back. Of a sudden, within her being, something she had fancied dormant had awakened. Theinstinct of convention, fundamental, inbred, more vital to a woman thanlife itself, intruded preventingly, fair in her path. Warning, pleading, distinct as a spoken admonition, its voice sounded a negative in herears. She tried to silence it, tried to overwhelm it with her newbornphilosophy; but it was useless. Fear of the future, as she had said, shehad none. Good or bad as the man might be, she had chosen. With fullknowledge of his deficiencies she had chosen. But to go away with himso, without sanction of law or of clergy; she, Bess Landor, who was awife--. 

The hands on her shoulders tightened insistently, the compelling facedrew nearer. 

"Answer me, Bess, " demanded a tense voice; "don't keep me in suspense. Will you go?"

With the motion of a captured wild thing, the girl arose, drew backuntil she was free. 

"Don't, " she pleaded. "Don't hurry me so. Give me a little time tothink. " She caught her breath from the effort. "I'll go with you, yes;but to-day, now--I can't. We must see How first. He must know, mustconsent--"

"See How!" The man checked himself. "You must be mad, " he digressed. "Ican't see How, nor won't. I tell you it's between How and myself youmust choose. I love you, Bess. I'm proving I love you; but I'm notinsane absolutely. I ask you again: will you come?"

The girl shook her head, nervously, jerkily. 

"I can't now, as things are. "

"And why not?" passionately. "Haven't you said you care for me?"

For answer the red lower lip trembled. That was all. 

The man came a step forward, and another. 

"Tell me, Bess, " he demanded. "Don't you love me?"

"I have told you, " said a low voice. 

Answering, coercing, swift as the swoop of a prairie hawk, as a humanbeing in abandon, the man's arms were about her. Ere the girl could moveor resist, his lips were upon her lips. "You must go then, " hecommanded. "I'll compel you to go. " He kissed her again, hungrily, irresistibly. "I won't take no for an answer. You will go. "

"Don't, please, " pleaded a voice, breathless from its owner's impotenteffort to be free. "You must not, we must not--yet. I'm bad, I know, butnot wholly. Please let me go. "

Unconscious of time, unconscious of place, oblivious to aught save themoment, the man held his ground, joying in his victory, in her effort toescape. Save that one casual glance long before, he had not looked outof doors. Had he done so, had he seen--. 

But he had forgotten that a world existed without those four walls. Hisback was toward the door. His own great shoulders walled the girl in. Neither he nor she dreamed of a dark figure that had drifted from outthe prairie swiftly into the dooryard, dreamed that that sameall-knowing shadow, on soundless moccasined feet, had advanced to thedoorway, stood silent, watching therein. As the first man and the firstwoman were alone, they fancied themselves alone. As the first man mighthave exulted over his mate, Clayton Craig exulted now. 

"Let you go, Bess, " he baited, "let you go now that I've just gottenyou?" He laughed passionately. "You must think that I'm made of clay andnot of flesh and blood. " He drew her closer and closer, until she couldno longer struggle, until she lay still in his arms. "I'll never let yougo again, girl, not if God himself were to demand your release. You'remine, Bess, mine by right of capture, mine--"

The sentence halted midway; halted in a gasp and an unintelligiblemuttering in the throat. Of a sudden, darkening, ominous, fateful, theshadow within the entrance had silently advanced until it stood besidethem, paused so with folded arms. Simultaneously the wife and theinvader saw, realised. Instantly, instinctively, like similar repellentpoles, they sprang apart. Enveloped in a maze of surging divergentpassions, the two guilty humans stood silent so, staring at the intruderin breathless expectation, breathless fascination. 

 * * * * *

While an observer could have counted ten slowly, and repeated the count, the three remained precisely as they were. While the same mythicalspectator could have counted ten more, the silence held; but inactionhad ceased. While time, the relentless, checked off another measure, there was still no interruption; then of a sudden, desperately tense, desperately challenging, a voice sounded: the voice of Clayton Craig. 

"Well, " he queried, "why don't you do something?" He moistened his lipsand shuffled his feet restlessly. "You've seen enough to understand, Iguess. What are you going to do about it?"

The Indian had not been looking at him. Since that first moment when thetwo had sprang separate he had not even appeared conscious of hispresence. Nor did he alter now. Erect as a maize plant, dressed oncemore in the flannels and corduroys of his station, as tall and graceful, he merely stood there with folded arms, looking down on the girl. Moremaddening than an execration, than physical menace itself, was thatpassionless, ignoring isolation to the other man. Answering, the hotblood flooded his blonde face, swelled the arteries of his throat untilhis collar choked him. Involuntarily his hand went to his neckband, tugged until it was free. Equally involuntarily he took a step forwardmenacingly. 

"Curse you, How Landor, " he blazed, "you've learned at last, perhaps, not to dare me to take something of yours away from you. " Word by wordhis voice had risen until he fairly shouted. "You've lost, fool; lost, lost! Are you blind that you can't see? You've lost, I say!"

From pure inability to articulate more, the white man halted; and thatinstant the room became deathly still. 

A second, or the fraction of a second thereof, it remained so; then, white-faced, apprehensive, the girl sprang between the two, paused so, motionless:--for of a sudden a voice, an even, passionless voice, wasspeaking. 

"You don't know me even yet, do you, Elizabeth?" it chided. Just a stepthe speaker moved backward, and for the first time he recognised thewhite man's presence. His eyes were steady and level. His voice, unbelievably low in contrast to that of the other, when he spoke waseven as before. 

"I won't forgive you for what you've just done, Mr. Craig, " he said. "I'll merely forget that you've done anything at all. One thing Iexpect, however, and that is that you'll not interrupt again. You maylisten or not, as you wish. Later, I may have a word to say to you; butnow there is nothing to be said. " Just a moment longer the look held, amoment wherein the other man felt his tongue grow dumb; then with theold impassivity, the old isolation, the black eyes shifted until theyrested on the face of the girl. 

But for still another moment--he was as deliberate as nature herself, this man--he stood so, looking down. Always slender, he had grown moreso these last weeks. Moreover, he had the look of one weary unto death. His black eyes were bright, mysteriously bright, and on his thin hands, folded across his chest, the veins stood out full and prominent; butlook where one would on the lithe body, the muscles lay distinct beneaththe close-fitting clothes, distinct to emaciation. Standing there now, very grave, very repressed, there was nevertheless no reproach in hisexpression, no trace of bitterness; only a haunting tenderness, infinitein its pathos. When he spoke the same incredible tolerance throbbed inthe low-pitched voice. 

"I've just a few things I wish to say to you, Bess, " he began, "and arequest to make--and that is all. I didn't come back so, unexpectedly, to be unpleasant, or to interfere with what you wish to do. I camebecause I fancied you were going to do an unwise thing: because I hadreason to believe you were going to run away. " Unconsciously, one of thefolded hands loosened, passed absently over his forehead; then returnedabruptly to its place. "Perhaps I was mistaken. If so I beg your pardonfor the suspicion; but at least, if I can prevent, I don't want you todo so. It's this I came to tell you. " Again the voice halted, and intoit there came a new note: a self-conquered throb that lingered in thegirl's recollection while memory lasted. 

"It's useless to talk of yourself and of myself, Bess, " he went on. "Things are as they are--and final. I don't judge you, I--understand. Above everything else in life, I wish you to be happy; and I realise nowI can't make you so. Another perhaps can; I hope so and trust so. Atleast I shall not stand in your way any longer. It is that I came totell you. It is I who shall leave and not you, Bess. " Of a sudden hestepped back and lifted one hand free, preventingly. "Just a moment, please, " he requested. "Don't interrupt me until I say what I came tosay. " His arms folded back as before, his eyes held hers compellingly. 

"I said I had a request to make. This is it--that you don't leave untilyou are married again. You won't have to wait long if I leave. I haveinquired and found out. A few days, a few weeks at the longest, and youwill be free. Meanwhile stay here. Everything is yours. I never ownedanything except the house, and that is yours also. " For the last time hehalted; then even, distinct, came the question direct. "Will you promiseme this, Bess?" he asked. 

Save once, when she had tried to interrupt, the girl had listenedthrough it all without a move, without a sound. Now that he was silent, and it was her turn to speak, she still stood so, passive, waiting. Everin times of stress his will had dominated her will; and the present wasno exception. There was an infinity of things she might have said. Amyriad which she should have spoken, would occur to her when he wasgone. But at the present, when the opportunity was hers, there seemednothing to offer; nothing to gainsay. She even forgot that she wasexpected to answer at all, that he had asked a question. 

"Won't you promise me this one thing, Bess?" repeated the voice gently. "I've never made a request of you before, and I probably never shallagain. "

At last the girl aroused; and of a sudden she realised that her lipswere very dry and hot. She moistened them with her tongue. 

"Yes, How, " she said dully, "I promise. "

Silence fell, a silence deathly in its significance, in its finality;but the girl did not break it, said no more--and forever the moment, hermoment, vanished into the past. 

"Thank you, Bess, " acknowledged the man monotonously. Slowly, strangelydifferent from his usual alert certainty, he moved across the room. "There are just a few things here I'd like to take with me, " heexplained apologetically. "They'd only be in your way if I left them. "

With a hand that fumbled a bit, he took down a battered telescopesatchel from a peg on the wall and began packing. He moved about slowlyhere and there, his moccasined feet patting dully on the bare floor. Noone offered to assist him, no one interrupted; and in dead silence, except for the sound he himself made, he went about his work. Into thesatchel went a few books from the shelf on the wall: an old armygreatcoat that had been Colonel William Landor's: a weather-stained capwhich had been a present likewise: a handful of fossils he had gatheredin one of his journeys to the Bad Lands: an inexpensive trinket here andthere, that the girl herself had made for him. The satchel was small, and soon, pitifully soon, it was full. A moment thereafter he stoodbeside it, looking about him; then with an effort he put on the coverand began tightening the straps. The leather was old and the holeslarge, but he found difficulty even then in fastening the buckles. Atlast, though, it was done, and he straightened. Both the white man andthe girl were watching him; but no one spoke. For the second time, thelast time, the Indian stood so while his intense black eyes shifted fromnook to nook, taking in every detail of the place that had once been hisheaven, his nest, but now his no more; then of a sudden he lifted hisburden and started to leave. Opposite the girl he paused and held outhis hand. 

"Good-bye, Bess, " he said. He looked her deep in the eyes, deep into hervery soul. "If I knew what religion is, I'd say God bless you, girl; butI don't, so I'll only say good-bye--and--I wish you happiness. " Just amoment longer he remained so; then at something he saw, he dropped herhand and drew away swiftly, preventingly. 

"Don't, Bess, " he pleaded, "don't say it--as you cared for me once. Don't make things any harder--make them impossible!" Desperately, without another pause, ere she could disobey, he started for the door. Beside the entrance--for he was not watching these last minutes--stoodthe white man; and just for a moment at his side the Indian halted. Despite the will of Clayton Craig, their eyes met. For an instant, wherein time lapsed, they stood face to face; then swiftly as he dideverything, now the Indian spoke: and, as once before in his life, thosewords and the look that accompanied them went with the alien to hisgrave. 

"As for you, Mr. Craig, " said the voice, "I have one thing only to say. Make Bess happy. There's nothing in the world to prevent your doing so, if you will. If you do not--" a pause of horrible ice-cold menace--"ifyou do not, " repeated, "suicide. " Just for the fraction of a second nota civilised man but a savage stared the listener in the face. "I shallknow if you fail, and believe me, it were better, a thousand timesbetter, if you do as I say. "

Again, as beside the girl, there was a mute, throbbing lapse; then, similarly before there could be an answer, upon the tense silence therebroke the swift pat of moccasined feet, and he was gone. 

CHAPTER XVIII

REWARD

The month was late September. The time, evening. The place, the ranchhouse of a rawboned Yankee named Hawkins. Upon the scene at the hour thesupper table was spread appeared a traveller in an open road waggon. Thevehicle was covered with dust. The team which drew it were dust-stainedlikewise, and in addition, on belly and legs, were covered with a whitepowder-like frost where the sweat had oozed to the hair tips and dried. Without announcing his arrival or deigning the formality of askingpermission, the newcomer unhitched and put his team in the barn. From aconvenient bin he took out a generous feed, and from a stack beside theeaves he brought them hay for the night. This done, he started for thehouse. A minute later, again without form of announcement or seekingpermission, he opened the ranch house door and stepped inside. 

Within the room, beside a table with an oilcloth cover, four men wereeating. A fifth, a dark-skinned Mexican, was standing by a stove in onecorner baking pancakes. All looked up as the door opened. 

Then, curiosity satisfied, the eyes of all save one, the proprietor, Hawkins, returned to their plates, and the rattle of steel on heavyqueensware proceeded. 

"Good-evening, " recognised the Yankee laconically. He hitched along hischair until a space was clear at his elbow. "Draw up and fall to, stranger. Bring the gentleman a chair, Pete. "

In silence the Mexican obeyed, and in equal silence returned to hiswork. 

Appetites are keen on the prairie, and not until the meal was completewas there further conversation. Then after, one by one, the cowmen hadfiled out of doors, the host produced two corn-cob pipes from a shelf onthe wall and tendered one across the littered table. 

"Smoke?" he again invited laconically. 

The visitor fumbled in the pockets of his coat and drew out a couple ofcigars. 

"Better have one of these instead, " he suggested. 

Hawkins accepted in silence, and thereafter--for cigars were a rarity onthe frontier--puffed half the length of the weed in wordless content. The Mexican went impassively about his work, cleared the table andwashed the dishes methodically. The labour complete, he rolled acigarette swiftly and, followed by a vanishing trail of blue, disappeared likewise out of doors. Then, and not until then, the visitorintroduced himself. 

"My name's Manning, Bob Manning, " he said. "I run the store over at theCentre. "

The host scrutinised his guest, deliberately, reminiscently

"I thought there was something familiar about you, " he commented atlast. "I haven't seen you for twenty years; but I remember you now. You're one of the bunch who was with Bill Landor that time he picked upthe two kids. "

It was the guest's turn to make critical inspection. 

"You wouldn't remember me, " explained the rancher. "I came in while youwere gone, and only saw you the day you returned. " The reminiscent lookreappeared. "I used to know Landor pretty well when we were on the otherside of the river, before the country settled up; but when we came overhere we got too far apart and lost track of each other. "

The visitor smoked a full minute in meditative silence. At last heglanced up. 

"You knew he was dead, didn't you?"

"Yes. And the two youngsters grew up and got married and--" Hawkinslaughed peculiarly--"made a fizzle of it. "

"Knew them personally, did you?" queried Manning. 

"No. I haven't seen the young folks for ten years, and I haven't evenheard anything of them for six months now. " He twirled the cigar withhis fingers in the self-consciousness of unaccustomed gossip. "The girlwent East with Landor's nephew, Craig, afterward, I understood. "

"Yes. "

Hawkins puffed at the cigar fiercely; then blew an avenue in the cloudof smoke obscuring his companion's face. 

"I'm not usually so confoundedly curious, " he apologised, "but, knowingthe circumstances, I've often wondered how the affair ended. Did theyhit it off well together?"

Manning settled farther back in his chair. One of his gnarled old handsfastened of a sudden upon the arm tightly. 

"While the money lasted, yes. "

"Money! Did they sell the ranch?"

"Mortgaged it, Craig did, until he couldn't get another cent. "

"And then--"

"It's the old story. "

"They went to pieces?"

"Craig left her--for another woman. " The clawlike hands closed tighterand tighter. "He never really cared for Bess. He couldn't. It seems hewas supporting the other woman all the time. "

Hawkins sat chewing the stump of the cigar in silence. In a lean-to thecowboys were going to bed. Muffled by the intervening wall came themocking sound of their intermittent laughter. 

"And then what?" asked the rancher at last. 

"Bess came back. "

"Alone?"

Manning had sunk deeper and deeper into his seat. His face was concealedby the straggling grey beard, but beneath his shaggy brows his old eyeswere blazing. 

"Yes, she was alone, " he said. 

The cigar had gone dead in Hawkins's lips, and he lit it jerkily. Theblaze of the match illumined a face that was not pleasant to look upon. 

"And Craig himself, " he suggested, "where is he?"

"He's back at the ranch by this time. He went through town yesterday, just before I left, with a man who wants to buy. "

The rancher looked at the other meaningly. 

"Back at the ranch--with the Indian?"

Equally directly Manning returned the look. 

"Evidently you didn't hear all the story, " he said. "The Indian is notthere. "

"No?" swiftly. "Where is he?"

Manning's free hand, his distorted hand, caught at the table before him. 

"That's what I came to ask you, " he returned equally swiftly. "He camehere, to work for you, six months ago, when he left Bess. Do you mean totell me you don't know where he is gone?"

Face to face the two men sat staring at each other. The sounds from thelean-to had ceased. In the silence they could hear each other breathing. For perhaps a minute they sat so; while bit by bit on the rancher's faceincredulity merged into belief, and belief into understanding perfect. 

"Know where he is? Of course I do--now. " He leaned back in his chair. "To think that I never suspicioned who he was all the time he was here, or even when he left. I'm an ass, an ass!"

He did not now. "Tell me where he is, if you know. "

"About twelve miles from here, unless he's changed camp in the lastweek. " The rancher looked at the other understandingly. "He worked forme until about a month ago. Then he left and started away alone. Wenever got a word out of him while he was here, not even his name. " Of asudden came realisation complete, and his great bony fist crashed on theboard. "I'm dull as a post, but I begin to understand at last, and I'mwith you absolutely. I'll take you there to-night, it won't be atwo-hour drive. I'll hitch up right now if you're ready. "

For the first time in the last tense minutes Manning relaxed. The handon the chair arm loosened its grip. 

"I'm glad you know where he is, " he said unemotionally. "I don't thinkwe'll go to-night, though. " He fumbled in his pocket and produced twofresh cigars. One he slid across the table to the other man and lit itsmate carefully. "I don't think we'd better both go anyway. In themorning you can fit me out with a fresh team, if you will. I crowdedthings a bit on the way up. "

For a moment the rancher sat staring at his guest blankly, unbelievingly; then for the second time came understanding. 

"Perhaps after all you're right, " he acquiesced. "It's only eightymiles, and there's plenty of time. "

Beneath the craggy brows the blaze still glowed undimmed in the oldstorekeeper's deep-set eyes. 

"Yes, there's plenty of time--after How Landor knows, " he said. 

 * * * * *

In the midst of the prairie wilderness Providence had placed a tinydawdling creek. At a point where the creek wandered through a spot ashade lower than the surrounding country, man, a man, had builded a dam. In the fulness of time the accumulated water had formed a fair-sizedpond that glittered and shimmered in the sunlight, until from a littlealtitude it could be seen for miles. To this pond, for open water wasvery, very scarce on the prairie in September, came water fowl from nearand afar; from no man knew where. As steel filings respond to a magnet, they came, and as inevitably; stragglingly, suspiciously by day, inflocks that grew to be a perfect cloud by night. A tent that had oncebeen white, but that was now weather-stained and darkened by smoke, waspitched near at hand; but they minded it not. An evil-lookingmouse-coloured cayuse grazed likewise, hard by; but for them a bronchohad no terror. A rough blind, ingeniously fashioned from weeds andgrasses, stood at the water's edge; yet again even of this they wereunsuspicious. Now and anon, at long intervals, something happened, something startlingly sudden, bewilderingly loud; and in blind terrorthey would take wing and vanish temporarily, like smoke. But thissomething never pursued them, never repeated itself the same day, andinvariably after a time they came back, to take up anew, with theconfidence of children, the careless thread of their life where it hadbeen interrupted. 

Thus it had been for days past. Thus it was of a certain morning in lateSeptember. Though it was ten of the clock, they were still there: sleepybrown mallards, glossy-winged teal, long-necked shovellers, greyishspeckled widgeon: these and others less common, representatives of allthe native tribe. Happy as nature the common mother intended, asirresponsibly idle, they dawdled here and there, back and forth whiletime drifted swiftly by; and unknown to them, concealed from view withinthe blind, a dark-skinned man lay watching. 

Since before daylight, ere they were yet awake, he had been there. Onsoundless moccasined feet he had come. Motionless as an inanimate thing, he had remained. Not two rods away the flock were feeding. More thanonce the water they carelessly spattered had fallen upon him; but he didnot stir. He had no gun or weapon of any kind. Though they were withinstone's throw, he had not brought even a rock. Unbelievable to anAnglo-Saxon sportsman, he merely lay there observing them. With thatobject he had come; for this purpose he remained. A long dark statue, hepeered through the woven grasses steadily, admiringly; with aninstinctive companionship, a mute forbearance, that was haunting in itsrevelation. Lonely as death itself were the surrounding unbrokenprairies. Lonely as a desert of sand, their absolute isolation. Lonelybeyond comparison, beyond the suggestion of language, was that silenthuman in their midst this autumn day. 

How long he would have remained there so, idly watching, no one couldhave told; the man himself could not have told; for at last, interrupting, awakening, a new actor appeared. Answering, with a greatquacking and beating of webbed feet, the flock sprang a-wing; and almostbefore the shower of water drops they scattered in their wake hadceased, a road waggon, with a greybearded old man on the seat, drew upbeside the tent. 

Then, for the first time in hours, the Indian arose and stretchedhimself. Still in silence he came back to where the newcomer waswaiting. 

They exchanged the conventionalities, and thereafter the white man sateyeing the other peculiarly, analytically. 

"Well, where's your game?" he queried at last. "There seemed to beenough around when I came. "

The Indian smiled; the smile of one accustomed to being misunderstood. 

"I wasn't hunting, " he said. "I was merely watching. "

A moment longer Manning continued the inspection; then with an effort hedismounted. 

"I was over to see Hawkins yesterday on business, " he digressedabruptly, "and he said you were out here somewhere, so I thought beforeI went back I'd look you up. " The man was not accustomed todissimulation, and the explanation halted lamely. "If you don't mindI'll go inside and smoke a bit. "

In silence the Indian led the way to the tent and buttoned back theflap. There was but one chair and he indicated it impassively. 

"I'm very glad to see you, " he said then simply. 

Manning lit a pipe clumsily with his crippled hand, and thereafter drewon it deliberately until the contents of the bowl were aglow. Even then, however, he did not speak. That which had been on his mind trembled nowat the tip of his tongue. The one for whose ear the information wasintended was waiting, listening; yet he delayed. With the suddenness ofa revelation, in those last minutes, there had come to the oldstorekeeper an appreciation of the other he had never felt before. Themessage of the artificial pond and the harmless watcher at its edge hadbegun the alteration. A glimpse of the barren interior of the tent, witha pathetic little group of valueless trinkets arranged with infinitecare on a tiny folding table, added its testimony. The sight of the manhimself, standing erect in the doorway, gazing immovably out over thesunlit earth, looking and waiting, but asking no question, completed theimpression. He had known this repressed human long and, as he fancied, well; but now of a sudden he realised that in fact he had not known himat all. Fearless unquestionably he had found him to be. That in ameasure he was civilised, he had taken for granted; but more than this, that he was an individual among individuals, that beneath thatemotionless exterior there lay a subtle, indescribable somethinginadequately termed soul, with the supercilious superiority of the whitehe had ignored. Before he had been merely a puppet: the play actor of aninferior, conquered race. Injustice, horrible, unforgivable injustice, with this being one of the injured, had been done in the white man'ssight; and instinctively he had come to him as the agent of Providencecalculated to mete out retribution. That an irresponsible, relentlesssavage lurked beneath the thin veneer of alien civilisation he had takenfor granted, and builded thereon. Now with disconcerting finality herealised the thing he was doing. It was not a mere agent of divinepunishment he was calling to action; but a fellow human being, an equal, with whose affairs he was arbitrarily meddling. Whatever the motive thathad inspired his coming, however justifiable in itself, hisinterference, as a mere spectator, was under the circumstancesunjustified and an impertinence. This he realised with startlingsuddenness; and swift in its wake came a new point of view, areadjustment absolute in his attitude. Under its influence thedissimulation of a moment ago vanished. From out of concealment he camefair into the open. What he knew he would reveal--if the other wished;but it was for the Indian to request, not him to proffer. With thedecision he aroused. In the interval his pipe had gone dead and he litit afresh suggestively. 

"I lied to you a bit ago, How, " he confessed abruptly. "It was notHawkins I came to see at all, but you. "

The dark statue did not turn, showed no sign of surprise. 

"I thought so, " it said simply. 

Puff, puff went the white man's pipe, until even though it was daylight, the glow lit up his face. 

"You did me a service once, " he continued at last, "a big service--andI've not forgotten. I'll go now, or stay, as you wish. "

Still the Indian stood in the doorway looking out into the careless, smiling infinite. 

"I understand. You have something to tell me, something you think Ishould know. "

The old man thumbed the ashes in the pipe bowl absently. 

"I repeat, it is for you to choose. "

Silence fell; a lapse so long that, old man as he was, Manning felt hisheart beat more swiftly in anticipation. Then at last the Indian moved. Deliberately, noiselessly he turned. Equally deliberately he drew a robeopposite his visitor and, still very erect, sat down on the ground--hislong fingers locked across his knees. 

"I choose to listen, " he said. "Tell me, please. "

For the second time, because he needs must be doing something, the whiteman filled his pipe. The hand that held the tobacco pouch shook a bitnow involuntarily, and a tiny puff of the brown flakes fell scatteringoutside the bowl onto his knee. 

"About a month ago"--the speaker cleared his throat raspingly--"onAugust 16th it was, to be exact, there was a funeral in town. It startedfrom the C-C ranch house and ended in the same lot with Mary Landor. Itwasn't much of a funeral, either. Besides myself and Mrs. Burton no onewas there. " Again the voice halted; and following there came the sharpcrackling of a match, and the quick puff, puff of an habitual smoker. "It was the funeral of a child: a child half Indian, half white. "

Again the story paused; but the steady smoking continued. 

"Go on, please, " requested a voice. 

"Early yesterday morning"--again the narrator halted perforce, to clearhis throat--"just before I left three men went through town on their wayto the same ranch. One was the owner, another a lawyer, the third a manwho wished to buy. They were in a hurry. They only stopped to watertheir team and to visit Red Jennings's place. They are at the ranchhouse closing the bargain now. "

"Yes, " repeated the voice, "I'm listening. "

The speaker did not respond at once. With the trick of the very agedwhen they relax, in the past minutes he seemed to have contractedphysically, to have shrunk, as it were, within himself. The nervousnessand uncertainty of a moment ago had passed now absolutely. The deep-seteyes of him were of a sudden glowing ominously as they had done whentelling the same tale to Rancher Hawkins the night before; but that wasall. His voluntary offering was given; more than this must come byrequest. 

"I have nothing more to say--unless you wish, " he repeated in the oldformula. 

For a second time silence fell; to be broken again by the crackling of amatch in the white man's hand. Following, as though prompted by thesound, came a question. 

"Why, "--the Indian did not stir, but his eyes had shifted until theylooked immovably into those of his companion, --"why, please, was not themother of the child at least at the funeral?"

"Because she could not come, " impassively. "The baby was less than twodays old. "

"She had been back, though, back at the ranch, for some time?"

"Yes. Several weeks. "

"She returned alone?"

"Yes. "

"And to stay?"

Swifter and more swiftly came the questions. Even yet no muscle of theinquisitor's body stirred; but in the black eyes a light new to theother man, ominous in its belated appearance, was kindling. 

"Yes, " answered Manning. 

"She, Bess, had left her husband?"

"No, Craig had left her. "

Suddenly, instinctively, the impersonal had been dropped; but neitherman noticed the change. 

"There was a reason?"

"Yes, " baldly. "Another woman. "

The locked fingers across the Indian's knee were growing white; white asthe sunlight without. 

"And now he has returned, you say, to sell the ranch, her ranch?"

"It is her ranch no more. It is his. "

"She, Bess, gave it to him after all that had happened, all that he haddone? You mean to tell me this?"

Abruptly, instinctively, for the end was very close at hand, the whiteman got to his feet, stood so silent. 

"Tell me. " The Indian was likewise erect, his dark face standing clearagainst the white background of the tent wall. "Did Bess do this thing?"

"No, " said a voice. "It came to him in another way. "

"Another way!" swiftly. "Another way!" repeated. "Another way!" for thethird time; and then a halt. For that moment realisation had come. "There could be but one other way!"

Swiftly, instinctively, the white man turned about, until the faceopposite was hid. Hardened frontiersman as he was, prepared for themoment as he had thought himself, he could not watch longer. To do sowas sacrilege unqualified. In his youth the man had been a hunter of biggame. Of a sudden now, horribly distinct, he had a vision of theexpression in the eyes of a great moose, mortally wounded, when at theend he himself had drawn the knife. Under its influence he halted, waiting, postponing the inevitable. 

"There could be but one other way, " repeated the voice slowly, repressedly. "Tell me, please. Let me know all. Am I not right?"

To hesitate longer was needless cruelty; and in infinite pity, the blowfell. 

"Yes, How, " said Manning gently, "Bess is dead. "

CHAPTER XIX

IN SIGHT OF GOD ALONE

An hour had passed. Manning had gone; and on the horizon to the eastwhither he had taken his way not even a dot now indicated his formerpresence. Even the close-fed grass whereon the wheels of the old roadwaggon had temporarily blazed a trail had returned normally erect. Suddenly, as a rain cloud forms over the parched earth, the storm hadgathered and broken; and passed on as though it had not been. All aboutsmiled the sunshine; sarcastic, isolate as though it had seen nothing, heard nothing. On the surface of the pond the ducks, again returned, swam and splashed and dawdled in their endless holiday. The eternalbreeze of the prairie noontime, drifting leisurely by, sang its old, oldsong of abandon and of peace. Not in the merest detail had nature, theserene, altered; not by the minutest trifle had she deviated from hercustomary course. Man alone it is who changes to conform with thepassing mood. Man alone it was amid this primitive setting who hadaltered now. 

For How Landor, the Indian, was no longer idle or dreaming. Instead, hisevery action was that of one with a definite purpose. Yet even then hedid not hurry. At first he seemed merely to be going about the ordinaryroutine of his life. Methodically he kindled a fire and prepared himselfa generous meal. Deliberately, fair in the sunshine, he ate. Then forthe first time an observer who knew him well would have detected theunusual. Contrary to all precedent the dishes were not washed or eventouched. Instead, the meal complete, he went swiftly toward the tent anddisappeared inside. 

For minutes he remained within, moving about from place to place; andwhen he again returned it was to do a peculiar thing indeed. In his armswere several articles of clothing rolled into a bulky bundle. Without ahalt he made his way back to the place where he had eaten. The firewhich he had builded had burned low ere this; and, standing there besideit, he scraped away the ashes with the toe of his moccasined foot untilthe glowing embers beneath came to view. The bundle he carried hadopened with the action, revealing clearly the various articles of whichit was composed. Outside was an old army-blue greatcoat; within abattered felt hat and a pair of moccasins, wholly unused. A moment theIndian stood looking at them meditatively, intensely; then gently asthough they were a lost child he was returning to its mother's arms helaid them fair upon the glowing coals. Wool is slow to catch ablaze andfor the moment they lay there black against the brown earth; then of asudden, like the first lifting of an Indian signal smoke, a tiny columnof blue went trailing upward. Second by second it grew until with amuffled explosion the whole was ablaze. Before the man had merely stoodwatching; now deliberately as before, yet as unhesitatingly, he returnedto the tent. 

This time he was gone longer; and when he returned it was with an armfulof books--and something more. The fire was crackling merrily now, andvolume by volume his load disappeared. Then for the first time hehesitated. There was still something to destroy, something which he hadgathered in the old felt hat from off his own head; yet he hesitated. Greedy as a hungry animal deprived of its due the fire at his feet keptsending out spurts of flame like longing tentacles toward him; yet hedelayed. Like the sulky thing it was, it had at last drawn back intopassive waiting, when of a sudden, without a single glance, the man laidthis last sacrifice, as he had done the first, gently down. But thistime he did not watch the end. Swiftly, his bare black head glisteningin the sunlight, he started away toward the now expectant broncho; andback of him the pathetic little gathering of useless trinkets, bearingindelibly the mark of a woman's handiwork, a woman's trust, mingled withthe ashes of the things which had gone before. 

Long ere the fire had burned itself out, the wicked-looking cayusefollowing a bridle's length at his heels, he was back; waitingimpatiently for the flame to die. No frontiersman, in a land whereprairie fires spread as the breath of scandal, ever leaves fire alivewhen out of his sight; and to this instinct the Indian was true. Minuteafter minute he waited; until the flame vanished and in its stead therelay a mass of blazing coals. Then with a practical hand he banked thewhole with a layer of earth until, look where one would, not a dot ofred was visible. The act was the last, the culmination of preparation. At its end, with a single spoken command, the pony was alongside; hishead high in the air, his tiny ears flattened back in anticipation. Wellhe knew what was in store, what was expected. No need was there of asecond command nor the touch of a bridle rein. Almost ere the taking ofthe single leap that put the rider in his seat the little beast wasaway, his wide-spread nostrils breathing deep of the prairie air, thepatter of his tiny hoofs a continuous song upon the close-cropped sod. As two human beings living side by side grow to know each other, so thisdumb menial had grown to know his master. With a certainty attributed tothe dog alone he had learned to recognise the mood of the hour. He didso now; and as time passed and the miles flowed monotonously beneath hisgalloping feet the relentless determination of the man himself wasrepeated in that undeviating pace. 

Thus the journey southward was begun. Thus through the dragging hours ofthe September afternoon it continued. Many a time before the littlebeast had followed the trail from sun to sun. As well as the rider knewhis own endurance he knew the possibilities of his mount, knew that nowhe would not fail. He did not attempt to quicken the pace, nor did hecheck it. He spoke no word. The earth was dry as tinder in the annualdrouth of fall, and as time passed on the dust the pony raised collectedupon the man's clothes and upon his bare head; but apparently he noticedit not. Shade by shade the mouse-coloured hair of the broncho grewdarker from sweat, moistened until the man's hand on the diminutivebeast's neck grew wet; but of this likewise he was unconscious. Silentas fate, as nature the immovable, he sat his place; his lithe bodyconforming involuntarily to the motion, to the play of muscles beneathhis legs; yet as unconsciously as one breathes in sleep. Not until thesun was red in the west, until of its own accord the broncho had drawnup at the first bit of water they had met on the way--a shallow marshypond--did he move. Then, while the pony drank and drank his fill, theman washed his face and hands, and more from instinct than volition, shook the dust from his clothing. 

For a half hour thereafter the rider did not mount. Side by side the manand the beast moved ahead at a walk; but ever moved and ever southward. Darkness fell swiftly. There was no moon; but the sky was clear as ithad been during the day, and the man needed no guide but the stars toshow him the way. As he moved the hand of the Indian remained on thebroncho's neck; and bit by bit as the time passed he felt the moist hairgrow stiff and dry. Then, and not until then, came the final move, thebeginning of the last relay. As when they had started, with one motion, apparently without an effort, he was once more in his seat; and againas at first, equally understandingly, equally willingly, that instantthe broncho sprang into a lope. Relentlessly, silent as before, aghostly animate shadow, the two forged ahead into the night and thesolitude. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, for the second time within the year, the C-C ranch hadchanged hands. All day long Craig and the prospective buyer had drivenabout the place. One by one the cowboys had given testimony of thefraction of the herd intrusted to their care. At first resignedlycomplaisant, as the hours drifted by Craig had grown cumulativelyimpatient at the inevitably dragging inventory. Nothing but necessityabsolute in the shape of an imminent foreclosure had brought him back tothis land at all. Delay had followed delay until at last immediateaction was imperative. Then, having agreed to come personally, he was ina fever of haste to have the deal complete and to be away. Since theyhad left the railroad and crossed the river the mood had been upon him. The team that had brought them out could not move fast enough. Thepreceding night, shortened by liquor as it had been, neverthelessdragged interminably. Strive as he might to combat the impression, toignore it, this land had of a sudden become to him a land of terror. Every object which met his eye called forth a recollection. Every minutethat passed whispered a menace. In a measure it had been so a half yearago ere he had tempted fate. Now, with the knowledge of what hadoccurred in that time staring him in the face, the impression augmentedimmeasurably, haunted him like a ghostly presence. Not for a minutesince his return had he been alone. Not for an instant had he beenwithout a revolver at hand. All the previous night, despite thegrumbling protest of the overseer with whom he had bunked, a lamp hadburned beside the bed; yet even then he could not sleep. Whether or nohe felt contrition for the past, this man, he could not have told, henever paused to consider. All he knew was that he had a deathly fear ofthis silent waste and of a certain human who dwelt somewhere therein. Repugnant as consideration of the return had been, it was as nothingcompared with the reality. Had he realised in advance what the actualexperience of his coming would mean, even the consideration of money, badly as he needed it, could not have bought his presence. Now that hewas here he must needs see the transaction through; he could not well dootherwise; but as the afternoon drew to a close and the necessity oftarrying a second night became assured, the premonition of retribution, that had before lowered merely as a possibility, loomed into theproportions of certainty. Then it was that in abandon he began to drink;not at stated intervals, as had been his habit, but frequently, all butcontinuously, until even his tolerant companions had exchanged glancesof understanding. 

To all things, however, there is an end, and at last the deal wascomplete. Within the stuffy living-room, hazy now with tobacco smoke, bythe uncertain light of a sputtering kerosene lamp Craig had accomplisheda sprawling signature and received in return a check on a Chicago bank. It was already late, and very soon the new owner, with a significantlook at a half-drained flask by the other's hand, and a curt"Good-night, " had departed for bed. Immediately following, with a thinlyveiled apology, the lawyer had likewise excused himself, and Craig andhis one-time overseer were alone. For five minutes thereafter the twomen sat so in silence; then, at last, despite his muddled brain, theformer realised that the big Irishman was observing him with aconcentration that was significant. Ever short of temper, the man'snerves were stretched to the jangling point this night, and the lookirritated him. Responsive, he scowled prodigiously. 

"Well, " he queried impatiently, "what is it?"

No answer; only, if possible, the look became more analytic than before. 

"What's on your mind?" repeated Craig. "You make me nervous staring thatway. Speak up if you've got anything to say. Don't you like my sellingand putting you out of a job?"

"No, it's not that, " refuted the Hibernian. "There are plenty of otherplaces I can get. I could stay right here for that matter if I wantedto--but I don't. I wouldn't live in this house any longer if my pay weredoubled. " As he spoke he had looked away. Now of a sudden his glancereturned. "I meant to quit anyway, whether you sold or not. "

"Why so?" queried Craig, and unconsciously the scowl was repeated. "Youseemed glad enough to come. "

"I was--then, " shortly. 

"And why not now? Talk up, if you've any grievance. Don't sit there likea chimpanzee, hugging it. "

"You know why well enough, " ignored the other. He passed a knotty handthrough his shock of red whiskers absently. "I've expected the devil orworse here every night these last weeks. "

Craig tried to laugh; but the effort resulted in failure. 

"God, " he satirised, "who'd ever imagined you were the superstitioussort! Weren't you ever in a place where anyone died before?"

"I never was where a woman and her child were murdered, " deliberately. 

Quick as thought Craig's red face whitened. 

"Damn you, O'Reilly, " he challenged, "you're free with your tongue. " Hechecked himself. "I don't wish to quarrel with you to-night, though, " heconciliated. 

"Nor I with you, " returned the other impassively. "I was merely tellingyou the truth. Besides, it's none of my affair; and even if it were, I'mthinking you'll pay for it dear enough before you're through. "

Craig straightened in his seat; but not as before in attitudesupercilious. 

"What the deuce do you mean, O'Reilly? You keep suggesting things, butthat is all. Talk plain if you know anything. "

"I don't know anything, " impassively; "unless it is that I wouldn't bein your shoes if I got a dollar for every cent you've made out of thiscursed business. "

Bit by bit Craig's face whitened. If anything the air of conciliationaugmented. 

"You think circumstances weren't to blame?" he queried. "That, in otherwords, I've brought things about as they are deliberately?"

"I don't think anything. I know what you've done--and what you've got toanswer for. "

Instinctively, almost with a shudder, Craig glanced about him. 

The shade of the single window was up, and of a sudden he aroseunsteadily and drew it over the blackness outside with a jerk. 

"You're beastly hard on me, " he commented, "but let that pass. It'sprobably the last time we'll ever see each other, and we may as wellpart friends. " He was back in his place again with the flask before him, and with a propitiatory motion he extended the liquor toward the otherman. "Come, let's forget it, " he insinuated. "Have a drink with me. "

"Not a drop. "

"Not if I requested it?"

"Not if you got down on your knees and begged. "

"All right. " The hand was withdrawn with a nervous little laugh. "I'llhave to spoil it all myself, then. "

The Irishman watched in silence while the other gulped down swallowafter swallow. The hand of the drinker trembled uncontrollably, and atiny red stream trickled down the unshaven chin to the starched linenbeneath. 

"If you'll take a word of advice, " commented the spectator at last, "you'll cut that--for the time being at least. " He hesitated; then wenton reluctantly. "I've been in your pay and I'll try to be square withyou. If you've got an atom of presentiment you'll realise that this isno place for you to get into the shape you're getting. " Again he halted, and again with an effort he gave the warning direct. "If I were you Iwouldn't be at this ranch a second longer than it took me to leave; notas long as I had a broncho or a leg or a crutch to go on. "

Slowly and more slowly came the words. Then followed silence, with thetwo men staring each other face to face. Breaking it, the overseerarose. 

"I've said more than I intended already, " he added, "and now I wash myhands of you. Do as you please. I'm going to bed. "

Preventing, of a sudden sobered, Craig was likewise on his feet. 

"In common decency, even if you're no friend of mine, don't go, O'Reilly, " he pleaded. He had no thought of superiority now, no thoughtof malice; only of companionship and of protection. "I know what youmean. I'm no fool, and what you suggest is exactly what's been drivingme insane these last two days. I'm going in the morning, as soon as it'sdaylight; the team is all ordered; but to-night, now--" instinctively heglanced at the window where recollection pictured the darknesswithout--"I haven't nerve to face it now. I'd go plumb mad out therealone. "

The Irishman shrugged in silence and attempted to pass. 

"Please don't go, " repeated Craig swiftly. "I know I'm acting like achild, but this cursed country's to blame. Stay with me this last night. I couldn't sleep, and it's madness to be alone. See me through this andI swear you'll not regret it. I swear it!"

Just for a second O'Reilly paused; then of a sudden his face flamed redthrough his untrimmed beard. 

"To hell with your money!" he blazed. "I wouldn't lift my finger for youif How Landor were to come this second. " He checked himself and took astep forward meaningly. "Besides, I couldn't help you any if I would. God himself couldn't protect you now unless He performed a miracle. Outof my way. I tell you I'm done with you. "

Craig had not stirred. He did not now; and of a sudden the overseerturned to pass around. As he did so for the first time he faced thesingle window that looked north toward the second ranch house: the housewhich How Landor had builded to receive his bride. The curtain was stilldown, but to the Irishman's quick eye there rested upon it now a dullglow that was not a reflection of the light within. A second after henoticed the man halted, looking at it, speculating as to its meaning. Then of a sudden he realised; and in two steps he was across the roomand simultaneously the obscuring shade shot up with a crash. Instantlyfollowing, startlingly unexpected, the red glow without sprang throughthe glass and filled the room. 

"Fire!" announced the observer involuntarily to the sleepers above. "Theother ranch house is afire!" Then, as they were slow in awakening, thecry was repeated more loudly: "Fire! Fire!"

 * * * * *

A conflagration is the universal contagion, the one excitement thatnever palls. Forth into the night, forgetful of his companion, forgetfulof all save the interest of the moment, rushed O'Reilly. Half dressed, hatless, working with buttons as they went, Parker, the new owner, andMead, the lawyer, descended the rickety stairs like an avalanche andwithout pausing to more than look followed running in his wake. Theunused ranch house was dry as cardboard and was burning fiercely. Thoughthere was still no moon and the overseer had several minutes the start, against the light they could see his running figure distinctly. Standingin the living-room as they rushed through, white faced, hesitant, wasClayton Craig; but though he had spoken to them--they both recalled thatfact afterward--neither had paused to listen or to answer. That he wouldnot follow never occurred to them until minutes thereafter. Not until, panting, struggling for breath after the unusual effort, they hadcovered the intervening mile, and the heat of the already diminishingfire was on their faces, did they think of him at all. Even then it wasnot the first thought which occurred; for the moment they arrivedO'Reilly, who was waiting, turned, facing them excitedly. 

"Do you see that?" he queried, pointing to a black band that surroundedthe building in a complete circle. 

Parker nodded understandingly; but Mead, who was city bred, lookedmystified. "What is it?" he returned. 

"A firebreak, " explained the Irishman. "Someone didn't want the blaze tospread and scattered earth clear around the place, with a spade. "Leaning over he picked up a clod and thumbed it significantly. "Ithasn't been done a half hour. The dirt isn't even dry. "

Brief as the time had been, already the frail walls were settling toembers. There was nothing to do; and standing there the three men lookedunderstandingly into each other's faces. The same thought stood clear onall; for all alike knew every detail of the story. 

"The Indian, How Landor, " suggested Mead adequately. 

"Yes, " corroborated Parker, "and I'm glad of it. I'm not squeamish, butthe Lord knows I'd never have used the place myself. "

Of a sudden, O'Reilly, who had turned and was staring into the blaze, faced about. That second he had remembered. 

"Where's Craig?" he queried swiftly, glancing back the way they hadcome. "Didn't he follow?"

Until that moment none of the three had thought of the other man. Nowthey realised that they were alone. But even then two of the trio didnot understand. 

"Evidently he didn't start, " said Mead. "He couldn't have missed thelight if he did. "

"I remember now he was standing by the door when we left, " added Parker. 

"Standing by the door, was he?" took up the Irishman swiftly. "Asthere's a Heaven and a Hell he's not standing there now, I'll wager!"

Again face to face, as when they had first caught sight of that meaningblack band, the three spectators there beneath the stars stood staringat each other. It was O'Reilly again who broke the silence. 

"Don't you people understand yet what this all means, what's happened?"he interrogated unbelievingly. 

"It means there's been an incendiary here; I guess there's no doubtabout that, " said Mead. 

"Yes, " blurted O'Reilly, "and that incendiary's How Landor, and he'sbeen here within the half hour; and Craig's been alone back there in theranch house. " He paused for breath. "Can't you see now? At last theIndian has found out!"

For the fraction of a minute, while understanding came home, not a manstirred. Then of a sudden Parker turned swiftly and started back intothe night. 

"By the Eternal, " he corroborated, "I believe you're right. We can't getthere a second too quick. "

"Too quick!" caught up the Irishman for the last time. "We couldn't getthere quick enough if we had wings. It's all over before this, take myword for it. "

 * * * * *

And it was. Though the men ran every step of the mile back they were toolate. As O'Reilly had anticipated, the ranch house was empty, deserted. Similarly the stables hard by. Likewise the adjoining tool shed. Thoughthey searched every nook, until a mouse could not have escapeddetection, they found not a trace of him for whom they looked, nor aclue to his disappearance. Though they shouted his name until they werehoarse not an answer came back from the surrounding darkness. Within theranch house itself, or upon the dooryard without, there was no sign of astruggle or of aught unusual. The living-room was precisely as it hadbeen at that last moment when O'Reilly had left. Craig's cap and topcoatwere on a chair as he had thrown them down. At the stable every horsewas within its own stall: every piece of saddlery was intact. While thethree men were looking, attracted by the blaze, the distant cowboys oneby one began drifting in; and when they had heard the tale joined inthe search. All through the night, in ever-widening circles, lanterns, like giant fireflies, played around the premises until they covered aradius of a half mile; but ever the report was the same. With the comingof morning not the home force alone but men from distant ranchesappeared. The reflection of fire on the sky reaches far indeed on theprairie, and ere the sun shone again a goodly company was assembled. Then it was that the real search began and a swarm of riders scoured thecountry for miles and miles. And once more, from all, the testimony wasas before. There was not a clue to the disappearance, nor the semblanceof a clue. As out of the darkness of night surrounding, a great hornedowl swoops down upon its prey, and as mysteriously disappears, so theIndian had come and gone; and satisfied at last, irresistibly awed aswell into an unwonted quiet, one by one, as they had arrived, theranchers dispersed--and the search was over. 

And to this day that disappearance remains a mystery unsurmountable. Onemorning a week later, after Mead and O'Reilly had gone, when the newmaster of the ranch arose it was to find a wicked-looking mouse-colouredcayuse standing motionless by the stable door. Upon him was neithersaddle nor bridle nor mark of any kind. Somewhere out on that limitlesswaste he had been released, and, true to an unerring homing instinct, hehad returned; but from where no man could do more than speculate. Hecould not speak, and his rider was seen no more. Somewhere out thereamid that same solitude a thing of mystery had come to pass; but what itwas only Nature and Nature's God, who alone were witness, could everknow.