The Plow-Woman Part 45

He was naked, save for a loin-cloth. Coup-sticks were braided in his hair. Eagle feathers trailed from his scalp-lock. The skin of his body was hidden beneath devices.

He signified a wish to suffer wounding, to have willow wands run through the flesh of his back. Standing Buffalo was dancing beside him. And it was that warrior's knife which leaped from its beaded sheath to do the cutting.

And then the wounds weakened the chief Moon Dog. The wands tore his flesh past all power to endure. And he knew nothing. But when the squaws brought him to life again, they told him that, like a squaw, he had pleaded for mercy--and wept!

For this he was branded, spat upon, cast out, and cursed. For this he had gone hungry, scoured kettles, and herded with the dogs.

David Bond had come, telling him of One Who was bruised, reviled, and nailed to a tree. That One was the G.o.d of the white man. Broken in spirit, The Squaw had accepted Him.

Yet--what had the new G.o.d done for him? Was his work lighter? No! Was the food not the cast-off's still, fouled by the touch and the tongues of others and by the dirt of the pen? Yes. If the new G.o.d was good, _why had He not saved the evangelist_?

The soul of Squaw Charley tottered.

Hark!

Overhead, a high-sailing crane bugled. But to the outcast, the lonely night-cry seemed supernatural, a hail from one of the departed!

He uncovered his eyes and looked up. Above him stretched the pale, shining ribbon of the Milky Way.

Again the crane sounded its rousing, guttural cry. He shook himself, as if to free his body from a chain.

Once more he took out flint and steel and lit the bit of grapevine.

Then, he sank to the prairie, where he crossed his legs like a brave.

Now, with deep breath, he drew upon the stem. His nostrils filled, he tipped back his head; and from them, upward to the path, sent wreath upon wreath of adoring smoke.

CHAPTER XXVII

SIMON PLAYS A PART

One morning in early July, Matthews came swaggering into the post barber-shop, his air that of a man who is mightily pleased with himself.

"Bill," said he, as he flung off blouse and hat, "wish you'd mow down this stubble of mine."

The barber set about stropping a razor. "Don't want your mane trimmed?"

he inquired. "Strikes me--eh--it's pretty long."

The interpreter loosened the collar of his shirt and took a chair.

"Never you mind about my mane," he answered. "It's just as long's I want it. You turn loose on my chin." He leaned back to elevate a pair of bright-topped boots.

The other directed his gaze upon the sharpening blade. "Do you happen t'

know Portugee?" he asked humbly. "One of the boys is loony on a gal at Bismarck that he ain't writ to for a year. She's Portugee----"

Matthews gave a dismissing wave of the hand. "I savvy English and most Injun," he said; "none of them fancy languages, though. I been to school only a week in my hull life. That was down in Omyha, and one week was plenty." At the remembrance, he shook with silent laughter. "That week, as I say, was 'nough for _me_. The teacher--she was a lady, mind y'!--tries to tell me that it's the same blamed sun we see comin' up every mornin'. 'Look a-here, now,' I says; 'don't we git a new moon onct in a while? Then, what's the matter with havin' a change of sun?'

Well, that plumb stumped her. She shut up."

The barber was now ready for operations, so Matthews adjusted his shoulders, closed his pink-lidded eyes, and followed the suit of his nonplussed teacher.

"Bill" felt there was something in the wind, and longed to question Matthews, yet dared not. The interpreter, formerly so feared, and even disliked, by the enlisted men, was now regarded in B Troop as a generally misunderstood and maligned individual--this in consequence of the Lancaster inquiry. Hence, he was playing the role of injured innocence, and seriously taking himself for a popular hero. He was more c.o.c.ksure and conceited than ever before, and more p.r.o.ne to brag and bully. Sc.r.a.ping diligently away, the barber shuddered at the thought of even letting the razor slip.

Kippis was less respectful. He entered when Matthews was rising, all redolent of bay-rum, and surveyed the latter in mock amaze. "My, ho, my!" he cried. "Hain't we bloomin' fine!"

Matthews wriggled those faint lines upon his glistening forehead that served for eyebrows. "You go soak your head," he retorted.

"And no gun hon 'is 'ip," went on the sergeant. "But w'y, ho, w'y does 'e wear red shirts?"

The interpreter spraddled out his legs. "Folks git rich mindin' their own business," he said meaningly.

Kippis could not forego a last jibe. "Person'd _halmost_ think you's goin' sparkin'," he declared.

Matthews gave a start, and his keen eyes shot a searching glance at the sergeant's smiling countenance. What he read there rea.s.sured him. The other was bantering without a notion that he approached the truth. The interpreter shrugged and stalked out. Within the hour, he was on his way to the Lancasters'.

He did not go to the shack, however. From the cottonwoods, he spied Dallas at work in the corn, so he directed his steps thither. She did not see him. Her back was toward the river, and the sun was glinting on her swinging hoe. Beyond her, on a picket-rope, was Simon, the bull. He was travelling in a restless circle, and sending lonesome blasts across the deserted prairie. He, alone, saw the interpreter, and paused in his rounds, head raised and eyes bulging inquiringly.

Dallas weeded on, unconscious of a visitor. The corn was shoulder-high now, and bearded. Its long leaves swayed and whispered, covering the sound of Matthews' approach. But when he was yet some rods off, a flock of ground-sparrows rose before him with startled twitters. At that, she looked back. The next instant, she had caught up the Sharps.

Matthews halted and lifted his hat, displaying hair pasted down to a silky smoothness. "I ain't got no gun," he said quietly. "I jus' come for to have a talk."

She made no answer.

The interpreter shifted from foot to foot and mopped his forehead. "I allus been sorry for what I done las' winter," he went on. "I was a blame fool to come scarin' you gals--ought to knowed better. But, you see, when I started, n.o.body told me there was women folks over here."

Dallas took a deep breath.

"I wanted to tell you," continued Matthews. "And--and I wanted to say I feel sorry about you' losin' your pa. Now he's dead, I wouldn't take this here land if you come to me and says, 'Nick, it's yourn.' That's jus' the way I feel--yes, ma'am. I savvy how to treat a lady, Miss Lancaster, gentlemanly and honourable."

"You talk nice," commented the girl.

His look faltered from hers. He gave his hard laugh. "You're a little out of temper," he said soothingly. "_That's_ natural, though. You had a lot of trouble."

"My trouble's all owing to you," she answered pa.s.sionately. "And I'll thank you to go--_right now_."

He put out a hand in expostulation. "Jus' a minute," he begged. "You done me wrong, but I don't hold it ag'in you. Jus' believe I didn't hurt your pa. And I admire you and your sister--sure I do. By golly! You're blamed sandy!"

"You take big chances to come here."

"Now, Miss Lancaster!" His chin sank. He wagged his head dolefully.

Then, whether from warmth, or a desire to display the glories of his raiment, he took off his blouse.

As he talked, in a half-whine that was meant to be placating, Simon suddenly became a more interested spectator. He began to revolve again, and at the very end of his rope, slipping around with tigerish gracefulness; or, the rope taut, he halted as near as possible to the two in the corn, stamped one forefoot angrily and shook his curly head.

There, a bold affront, was that blot of glaring scarlet. It awoke in him a long-slumbering l.u.s.t for fight.

But the interpreter did not remark the bull. After repeated praise and condolence, he had arrived at the main object of his visit.

"I got a proposition to make you," he was saying, the while he cooled himself with his hat. "It's jus' this, and it puts a' end to the hull row. You and me will forgit what's past and done. Eh?" He paused impressively, and threw out an arm toward the shack. Smoke was curling out of the chimney. A slender figure was flitting to and fro within the open door. "And if I come to see the little one, maybe it'll be O. K.?"

To make himself clearer, he touched a hand to his mouth and wafted toward the house a smacking kiss.