Where the Trail Divides Part 16

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 returned monotonously.

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

For the first time the girl glanced up; but it was not at Craig that she looked. It was at that other figure in the background, the figure that not 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 recognise the other's presence by so much as a glance. Only the look of exultation left 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 what you feel is right."

It was the white man who had decided, but it was another who brought the decision to pa.s.s. How Landor, the Indian, it was who, alone in the dreary chamber beneath the roof, laid the dead man out decently, and for five dragging minutes thereafter, before the others had come, stood like a statue gazing down at the kindly, heavy face, with a look on his own that no living human had ever seen or would ever see. How Landor, the Indian, it was who, again alone in the surrey, with the closely drawn canvas curtains, drove all that day and half the night to the nearest undertaker at the railroad terminus beyond the river, seventy-five miles away. 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 Mary Landor he knew. How Landor it was once more who, before twenty-four hours from the time he had left, had pa.s.sed, with the unwilling visitor by his side, re-entered the Buffalo b.u.t.te ranch yard. Last of all, How Landor, the Indian, it was who faced the old surrey once more to the east, and with still another team before him and a cold lunch in his pocket, 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 expected what had taken place in his absence, his bringing Mrs. Burton proved. At last realisation had come, and Mary Landor was paying the price of the brief lethargic respite; paying it with usury, paying it with the helpless abandon of the dependent. The dreary weather-coloured ranch house was not a pleasant place to be in that day. Craig left it thankfully, with a shrug of the shoulders beneath the box-fitting topcoat, as the door closed behind him. The other pa.s.senger, the one who should have left also and did not, the girl Elizabeth--.

How Landor it was again who, when minutes of waiting had pa.s.sed, minutes wherein Craig consumed cigarettes successively, tied the team and disappeared within doors. What he said none save the girl herself knew; but when he returned he was not alone, and though the eyes of his companion were red, there was in her manner no longer a trace of hesitation.

The two pa.s.sengers comfortably m.u.f.fled in the robes of the rear seat, the driver b.u.t.toned the curtains tight about them methodically. The day was very still, not a sound came to them from over the prairie, and of a sudden, startlingly clear, from the house itself there came an interruption: the piteous, hopeless wail of a woman in a paroxysm of grief, 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 hand authoritatively, pressed it within his own.

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

But already the Indian was gone. Within the house as before, even keen-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 took place. Of a sudden, the hysterical voice was silent. The man spoke again and--the watcher stared in pure unbelief--her own hand in her companion'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 flap of 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 the utter weariness of a somnambulist awakened. Fully a half minute the Indian stood looking down at her. For one of the few times in his life his manner indicated indecision. His long arms hung loose from his shoulders. His wide-brimmed hat hid his eyes. The watcher thought he looked very, very weary. Then of a sudden he roused. Bending over--did he foresee what was to come, that moment?--he did something he had never done before.

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

The door closed behind him noiselessly, and a half minute later the loose-wheeled old surrey went rumbling past the door. Mrs. Burton was feminine and curious, and she went to the window to watch it from sight.

The Indian, alone on the front seat, sat looking straight ahead. The bronchos, fresh from the stall, and but a few weeks before wild on the prairie, tugged at the bit wickedly, tried to bolt; but the driver did not stir in his place. The left hand, that held the reins, rose and fell with their motion, as an angler takes up slack in his line; that was all. The woman had lived long on the frontier. She was appreciative and pressed her face against the pane the better to see. They were through the gate now, well out on the prairie. The clatter of the waggon had ceased, the figure of the driver was concealed by the curtains; but the bronchos were still tugging at the bit, still--.

"Mary! In heaven's name!" The sound of a falling body had caught her ear and she had turned. "Mary Landor!" The dishes in the cupboard against the wall shook as something heavy met the floor. "Mary!" A pause and a tongue-tied examination. "My G.o.d! 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 rough cottonwood box was already in the baggage car. How himself had a.s.sisted in putting it there, had previously settled for its transportation.

Likewise he had bought the girl's ticket, and checked her scanty baggage. The usual crowd of loafers was about the place, and his every action was observed with the deepest interest. Wherever he moved the spectators followed. Urchins near at hand fought horrible mimic duels for his benefit; duels which invariably ended in the scalping of the vanquished--and with expressions of demoniacal exultation playing upon the face of the conqueror. From far in the rear a war whoop sounded; and when the effort was to all evidence ignored, was repeated intrepidly near at hand. They put themselves elaborately in his way, to move at his approach with grunts of guttural protestation. Already, even here on the frontier, the Sioux and his kind were becoming a novelty. Verily they were rare sportsmen, those mimicking loafers; and for Indians it was ever 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 gone about his business. Now as he left the ticket window and approached the single coach, it was nearly starting time. The girl had already entered and sat motionless in her seat watching him through the dusty window gla.s.s. Craig, his feet wide apart, stood on the platform smoking a last cigarette. He shrugged in silence as the other pa.s.sed him and mounted the steps.

Save for the girl, the coach was empty; but, dest.i.tute of courtesy, the spectators without stared with redoubled interest. Without a word the man handed over the ticket and checks. Still in silence he slipped a roll of bills into her pa.s.sive hand. Until that moment the girl had not thought of money; but even now as she accepted it, there never occurred the wonder from whence it had come. Had she known how those few dollars had been stored up, bit by bit, month by month--But she did not know.

Unbelievably unsophisticated, unbelievably innocent and helpless, was Elizabeth Landor at this time. Sitting there that morning on the threshold, she had no more comprehension of the world she was entering, she had entered, than of eternity itself. She was merely pa.s.sive, trusting, waiting to be led. Like a bit of down from the prairie milkweed plant, she was to be the sport of every breath of wind that blew. And already that wind was blowing. She had watched the scene on the platform, had understood the intent of the mimicry, had seen the winks and nudges, had heard the mocking war whoop. All this she had seen, all this had been stored away in her consciousness to recur again and again in the future. Even now her cheeks had burned at the knowledge, and at last she had watched the man's coming with a feeling of repression she had never known before, whose significance she did not try to a.n.a.lyse, did not in the least understand. She did not thank him for the money. To do so never occurred to her. It was the moment for parting, but she did not throw her arms about his neck in abandon, as she would have done a week before. Something, she knew not what, prevented. She merely sat there, repressed, pa.s.sive, waiting. A moment, by her side, the Indian paused. He did not speak, he did not move. He merely looked at her; and in his dark eyes there was mirrored a reflection of the look there had been in the eyes of the wild thing he had stalked and captured that day alone on the prairie. But the girl was not looking at him, did not see. A moment he stood so, unconsciously as so many, many times before, in pose; then deliberately, gently, ignoring the row of curious observant eyes, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Good-bye, Bess," he said low. "Come back as soon as you can; and don't worry. Everything will come right." Gently as he had lifted the hand, he released it. A smile--who but he could have smiled at that moment?--played for an instant over his face. Then, almost before the girl realised the fact, before the repressive something that held her in its grip gave release, he was gone.

As he left the coach, Craig, who was waiting, started without a word or a hint of recognition to enter. His foot was already on the step, when he felt a hand upon his arm; a hand with a grip whose meaning there was no misinterpreting. Against his will he drew back. Against his will he met 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 was spoken, of warning or of commonplace. There was no polite farce for the benefit of the spectators. The Indian merely looked at him; but as once before, alone under the stars, that look was to remain burned on the white 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 the weather-stained station and the curious a.s.sembled group, as apparently they slowly receded. The last thing they saw was the alien figure of an Indian in rancher's garb, gazing motionless after them; and by his side, in baiting pantomime, one gawky urchin engaged in the labour of scalping a mate. The last sound that reached their ears was the ironic note of a war 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 had left, the sixteenth since a new mound had arisen on the bare lot adjoining that beneath which rested Landman Bud Smith, the twelfth since How Landor had arrived to haunt the tiny railway terminus. The one train from 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 exterior and its wind-twisted sign, the best room, paid for in advance and freshly dusted for the occasion, awaited an occupant. In a stall of the single livery, a pair of half-wild bronchos, fed and harnessed according to directions, were pa.s.sively waiting. An old surrey, recently oiled and tightened in all its senile joints, was drawn up conveniently to the door. In a tiny room, designated the study, of the Methodist parsonage, on the straggling outskirts of the town, the only minister the settlement boasted sat staring at the unpapered wall opposite. He was a mild-featured young man of the name of Mitch.e.l.l, recently graduated from a school of theology, and for that reason selected as a sacrifice to the frontier. In front of him on the desk lay a duly prepared marriage licence, and upon it a bright gold half eagle. From time to time he glanced thereat peculiarly, and in sympathy from it to the tiny fast-ticking clock at its side. He did so now, and frowned unconsciously.

At the station the crowd of loafers that always preceded the arrival or departure of a train were congregated. In some way suggestions of the unusual had pa.s.sed about, and this day their number was greatly augmented. Just what they antic.i.p.ated they did not know; they did not care. Restless, athirst for excitement, they had dumbly responded to the influence in the air and come. In the foreground, where a solitary Indian stood motionless, waiting, there was being repeated the same puerile pantomime and horse-play of a former occasion. At intervals, from the rear, sounded the war whoop travesty. It was all the same as that afternoon eighteen days before, when the girl had left, similar even to the cloud of black smoke in the distance lifting lazily into the sky; only now the trail, instead of growing thinner and lighter, became denser and blacker minute by minute. In sympathy, the humorists on the platform redoubled their efforts. The instinct of antic.i.p.ation, of Anglo-Saxon love of excitement that had brought them there, urged them on. Not one throat but many underwent simultaneous pantomimic bisection.

A half dozen voices caught up the war whoop, pa.s.sed it on from throat to throat. Almost before they realised what they were doing, the thing became a contagion, an orgy. Many who had not taken part before, who had come from mere curiosity, took part now. The crowd pressed closer and closer about the alien, the centre of attraction. When he moved farther along the platform to avoid them, they followed. Heretofore pa.s.sive, the innate racial hostility became active. One youth with a dare-devil air jostled him--and disappeared precipitately. There was no response, no retaliation, and another followed his example. The confusion redoubled, drowned the roar of the approaching train. Spectators in the rear began mounting trucks and empty barrels the better to see. Within the station itself the shirt-sleeved agent surrept.i.tiously locked the door to the ticket-room and sprung the combination of the safe. Beginning harmlessly, the incident was taking on a sinister aspect, and he had lived too long in this semi-lawless land to take any chances. Re-turning to his place of observation at the window, he was just in time to see a decayed turnip come hurtling over the heads of the crowd and, with enviable accuracy, catch the Indian behind the ear. Simultaneously, with a roar and a puff of displaced air, the light train drew into the station, on time.

Through it all the Indian had not spoken a word. Save to move twice farther away along the platform, he had not stirred. Unbelievable as it may seem, even when the missile had struck him, though it had left a great red welt, he gave no sign of feeling. For a s.p.a.ce following the arrival of the train there was a lull, and in it, as though nothing had happened, 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 descended first, looked about him apprehensively, and disappeared with speed. A big rancher with great curling moustaches and a vest open save at the bottom b.u.t.ton followed. He likewise took stock of the surroundings, and discreetly withdrew. Following him there was a pause; then of a sudden onto the platform, fair into view of the crowd, appeared one for whom apparently they had been looking, one who on the instant caused the confusion, temporarily stilled, to break forth anew: the figure of a dainty brown girl with sensitive eyes and a soft oval chin, of Elizabeth Landor returned alone!

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

"Yes, there she is," repeated the intrepid youth who had introduced the jostle. "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 the single 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. Her great 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 take care of you."

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

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