CHAPTER VIII.
"WHEN THE SUN GOETH DOWN."
"Opitsah!--Klahowya."
They brought him--his dark, sad-faced brothers--bearing him on a bed ofelastic poles and the skins of beasts; and walking through the lines ofblue-coats as if not seeing them, they laid him on the floor of theshack, and grouped themselves clannishly in one corner, near his head.Stuart knelt with trembling hands to examine the cruel wound in thethroat, and turned away, shaking his head. He could not speak. There wasa slow, inward hemorrhage. He was bleeding to death.
"Determination has kept him alive," decided the Major, when thespokesman of the Kootenais told of the shot on the mountain, and howthey had to carry him, with Snowcap in his arms, to the wigwam of GreyEagle; of the council through which he kept up, and then told them hewould live until he reached camp--he was so sure of it! For the body ofSnowcap he had asked the horses left in the gulch, and was giventhem--and much more, because of the sorrow of their nation. He did nottry to speak at first, only looked about, drinking in the strangekindness in all the faces; then he reached out his hand toward Rachel.
"Opitsah!" he whispered, with that smile of triumph in his eyes. "Itold you I'd live--till I got back to you;" and then his eyes turned tothe Major. "I got a stand-off on the hostilities--till yourreturn--inside my coat--I wrote it." He ceased, gasping, while they drewout the "talking-paper" with the mark of Grey Eagle at the foot, and onit also were their murderous stains.
"You--treat with them now," he continued, "but--be careful. Don't shirkpromises. They're easy managed now--like a lot of children, just becausethey shot me--when I was carrying Snowcap home. But they'll getover--that, and then--be careful. They were ready for the war-path--whenI got there."
He saw Captain Holt not far from him, and through the pallor of his facea faint flush crept.
"Well, I've come back for my trial," he scowled, with something of hisold defiance; and the Major knelt down and took his hand.
"That's all over, Genesee," he said gently. "It was a big mistake. Thereis not a soul here with anything but gratitude and admiration for you.It was your own fault you were suspected; Miss Rachel has explained. Whydid you not?"
He did not answer--only looked at her, and seemed gathering his strengthfor some final effort.
"I want someone--to write."
He was still holding Rachel's hand. She had not said a word; only hereyes seemed to tell him enough.
Stuart came forward. "Will I do, Jack?"
Jack nodded, and more than one was astonished at the signs of grief inStuart's face. Rachel was past speculation.
"This lady, here," said Genesee, motioning to her, "has done a heap forme--more than she knows--I reckon--and I want--to square things."
Rachel attempted to speak; but he raised his hand.
"Don't," he whispered. "Let me say it--tillikum." Then he turned toStuart. "There's a bit of ground up in the hills; it's mine, and I wanther to have it--it's Tamahnous Hill--and the old mine--write it."
She thought of that other woman, and tried to protest. Again he saw it,and pressed her hand for silence.
"I want her to have it--for she likes these hills, and--she's beenmighty good to me. No one will interfere--with her claim--I reckon."
"No one shall interfere," said Stuart, toward whom he looked. Geneseesmiled.
"That's right--that's all right. She won't be afraid of the--witches.And she'll tell you where I want to go--she knows." His voice wasgrowing fainter; they could see he was almost done with the Kootenaivalley.
"In my pocket is something--from the mine," he said, looking at Rachel;"it will show you--and there's another will in the bank--atHolland's--it is--for Annie."
Stuart guided his hand for the signature to the paper. Stuart wrote hisown, and Hardy followed, his eyes opening in wonder at something writtenthere.
A slight rustle in the group at the door drew the Major's attention, anda young face coming forward made him turn to Stuart.
"I had altogether forgotten that I brought someone from Holland's foryou--a boy sent there to find J. S. Stuart. I knew it must be C. S.Stuart, though, and brought him along."
A dark-faced little fellow, with a sturdy, bright look, walked forwardat the commander's motion; but his wondering gaze was on the man lyingthere with such an eager look in his eyes.
"This is Mr. Stuart," said the Major, and then turned to Genesee.
The Stuart's face was white as the wounded man's as the boy looked up athim, frankly.
"I'm--I'm Jack," he said; "and mamma sent a letter."
The letter was held out, and the boy's plucky mouth trembled a little atthe lack of welcome; not even a hand-shake, and he was such a littlefellow--about ten. But Stuart looked like a man who sees a ghost. Hetook the letter, after a pause that seemed very long to the people whowatched his strange manner. Then he looked at the envelope, took the boyby the arm, and thrusting the Major blindly aside, he knelt by Genesee.
"This is for you, Jack," he said, motioning the others back by agesture--all but Rachel--that hand-clasp was so strong! "and yournamesake has brought it."
"Read it," and he motioned Rachel to take it; "read me Annie's letter."
She read it in a low tone--a repetition of that other plea that Jack hadleft with her, and its finale the same longing request that her boyshould at last be let know his father. Stuart was in tears when shefinished.
"Jack," he said, "ten years is a long time; I've suffered every hour ofthem. Give me the boy; let me know you are agreed at last. Give Annieback to me!"
Jack raised his hand to the bewildered boy, who took it reverently.
"You are Annie's boy?" he whispered; "kiss me for her--tell her--" Andthen his eyes sought Stuart's--"I held them in pawn for you. I reckonyou're earnest enough now--to redeem them. What was that verseabout--giving back the pledge when--the sun goes down? You read it.Mother used to read it--little mother! She will be glad, Ireckon--she--"
Stuart was sobbing outright, with his arms about the boy. Rachel, withthe letter in her hand, was as puzzled as those who had drawn out ofhearing. Only the Indians stood close and impassive. Jack, meeting hereyes, smiled.
"You know now--all about--them--and Annie. That was why I tried--to keepaway from you--you know now."
But she did not know.
"You took his wife from him?" she said, in a maze of conflictingrevelations; and Jack looked at Stuart, as she added, "and who wereyou?"
"He is my brother!" said Stuart, in answer to that look of Jack's. "Hewould not let me say it before--not for years. But he is my brother!"
The words were loud enough for all to hear, and there was a low chorusof surprise among the group. All concealment was about over forGenesee--even the concealment of death.
Then Stuart looked across at Rachel. He heard that speech, "You took hiswife from him;" and he asked no leave of Jack to speak now.
"Don't think that of him," he said, steadily. "You have been the onlyone who has, blindfolded, judged him aright. Don't fail him now. He isworth all the belief you had in him. The story I read you that night wastrue. His was the manhood you admired in it; mine, the one youcondemned. As I look back on our lives now, his seems to me one immensesacrifice--and no compensations--one terrible isolation; and now--noweverything comes to him too late!"
"He is--sorry," whispered Genesee, "and talks wild--but--you know now?"
"Yes," and the girl's face had something of the solemn elation of hisown. "Yes, I know now."
"And you--will live in the hills--may be?--not so very far awayfrom--me. In my pocket--is something--from the mine--Davy will tell you.Be good to--my Kootenais; they think--a heap of you. Kalitan!"
The Arrow came forward, and shook reverently the hand of the man who hadbeen master to him. The eyes roved about the room, as if in search ofothers unseen. Rachel guessed what was wanted, and motioned to theIndians.
"Come; your brother wants you," she said. And as they grouped about himand her, they barred out the sold
iers and civilians--the white brotherand child--barred out all from him save his friends of the mountains andthe wild places--the haunts of exiles. And the girl, as one by one theytouched her hand at his request, and circled her with their dark forms,seemed to belong to them too.
"When the--snow melts--the flowers are on that ledge," he whispered withhis eyes closed, "and the birds--not echoes--the echoes are in themine--don't be--afraid. I'll go long--and Mowitza."
He was silent for so long that she stooped and whispered to him ofprayer. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"Give me--your good wishes--and kiss me, and I'll--risk hell," was thecharacteristic answer given so low that she had to watch closely thelips she kissed.
"And you've kissed me--again! Who said--no compensation?--they--don'tknow; we know--and the moonlight, and--yes--mother knows; she thought,at last--I was not--all bad; not all--little mother! And now--don't beafraid; I won't go--far--klahowya, my girl--my girl!"
Then one Indian from the circle unslung his rifle from his shoulder andshattered it with one blow of an axe that lay by the fire. The uselessthing was laid beside what had been Genesee. And the owner, shroudinghis head in his blanket, sat apart from the rest. It was he of the bearclaws; the sworn friend of Lamonti, and the man who had shot him.
* * * * *
At sunset he was laid to rest in the little plateau on Scot's Mountainthat faces the west. He was borne there by the Indians, who buried inhis grave the tomahawk they had resurrected for the whites of CampKootenai. Mowitza, rebelliously impatient, was led riderless by Kalitan.All military honors were paid him who had received no honors in life,the rites ending by that volley of sound that seals the grave of asoldier.
Then the pale-faces turned again to the south, the dark-faces took thetrail to the north, and the sun with a last flickering blaze flooded thesnow with crimson, and died behind the western peaks they had watchedlight up one morning.
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 27
