Where the Trail Divides Part 7

"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 men were headed due west, into the night, apparently into the infinite.

There was no moon, but here, with nothing to cast a shadow, it was not dark. The month was late October, and a suggestion of frost was in the air: on the gra.s.s blades of the low places, was actually present. As was all but usual at that day, the direction they were going bore no trace of a road; but the man astride the vicious-looking roan cayuse who led the way, the same copper-brown man with the corduroys of Bob Manning's store, showed no hesitation. Like a hound, he seemed to discern landmarks where none were visible to the eye. He rode without saddle or blanket, or spur, or quirt; yet, though he had not spoken a word from the moment they had started, the roan with the tiny ears had not broken its steady, swinging, seemingly interminable lope, had scarcely appeared conscious 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 a sailor on a tiny boat, accustomed through a lifetime to a rolling, uncertain equilibrium, the adjustment thereto had become involuntary as a heart beat, instinctive as breathing. A splendid picture he made there in the starlight and the solitude; but of it the man who followed was oblivious. Of one thing alone he was conscious, and that was that he was very tired; weary from the effect of an unusual exercise, doubly exhausted in the reaction from excitement pa.s.sed. With an effort he urged his own horse alongside the leader, drew rein meaningly.

"Let's hold up a bit," he protested. "I've come twenty-five miles to-day already, and I'm about beat." He slapped the breast pocket of his coat a bit obviously, and as his companion slowed to a walk, produced a silver-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 even glance around.

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

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

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

For a second the white man hesitated; then with something akin to a flush 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 with strangers, unused to speech at all; but without a trace of embarra.s.sment or 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 had scratched an aborigine, and to his surprise was finding indications of a man.

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

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

For the third time the white man hesitated, and for the third time his face shaded red; consciously and against his will. Even the starlight could not alter the obtrusive fact that he had cut a sorry figure in the late drama, and his pride was sore. Extenuation, dissimulation even, would have been a distinct solace. Looking at the matter now, the excitement past, palliation for what he had done was easy, almost logical. He had not alone conformed. He had but done, without consideration, as the others with him had done. But even if it were not so, back in the land from which he had come, a spade was not always so called. His colour went normal at the recollection. The habitual, the condescending pressed anew to the fore.

He inspected the silent figure at his side ingenuously, almost quizzically; as in his schoolboy days he had inspected his plodding master 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," he proffered easily. "I'm not trying to clear myself; but between you and me, don't you think that Pete was merely bluffing, there at the end when you came?" The speaker shifted sideways on the saddle, until his weight rested on one leg, until he faced the other fair. "The fellow was drunk, irresponsibly drunk, at first, when the little chap stirred him up; but afterwards, when he was sober.... On the square, what do you think he would have done if--if you hadn't happened in?"

For so long that Craig fancied he had not given attention to the question, the guide did not respond, did not stir in his seat; then slowly, deliberately, he turned half about, turned and for the first time 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, Clayton Craig remembered that look; remembered it and was silent, remembered it with a tingling of hot blood and a mental imprecation--for as indelibly as a red-hot iron seals a brand on a maverick, that look left its impress. No voice could have spoken as that simple action spoke, no tongue thrust could have been so pointed. With no intent of discourtesy, no premeditated malice was it given; and therein lay the fine sting, the venom. It was unconscious as a breath, unconscious as nature's joy in springtime; yet in the light of after events, it stood out like a signal fire against the blackness of night, as the beginning of an enmity more deadly than death itself, that lasted into the grave and beyond. For that silent, unwavering look set them each, the red man and the white, in their niche; placed them with an a.s.surance that was final. It was a questioning, a.n.a.lytic look, yet, unconcealed, it bore the tolerance of a strong man for a weak. Had that look been a voice, it would have spoken one word, and that word was "cad."

For a moment the two men sat so, unconscious of time, unconscious of place; then of a sudden, to both alike, the present returned--and again that return was typical. As deliberately as he had moved previously, the Indian 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 no detail did he alter, nor in a muscle. By his side, the white man stiffened, jerked without provocation at the cruel curb bit, until his horse halted uncertain; equally without provocation, sent the rowels of his long spurs deep into the sensitive flank, with a curse held the frightened beast down to a walk. That was all, a secondary lapse, a burst of flowing, irresponsible pa.s.sion like a puff of burning gunpowder, and it was over; yet it was enough. In that second was told the tale of a human life. In that and in the surrept.i.tious sidelong glance following, that searched for an expression in the boyishly soft face of his companion. But the Indian was looking straight before him, looking as one who has seen nothing, heard nothing; and, silent as before 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 of companionship, the necessity of conversation, urban-fostered, gained mastery. Then as before, he looked at the other surrept.i.tiously, through unconsciously narrowed lids.

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

The guide showed no surprise, no consciousness of the long silence preceding.

"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 a pipe 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 it alight, 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 it were better to hold down six feet of earth in an Eastern cemetery than to 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. "You certainly don't intend to vegetate here always?"

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