THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS
A Tale of the Western Prairies
by
RIDGWELL CULLUM
With Frontispiece by J. C. Leyendecker
HIS EYES WERE INTENT UPON THE DARK HORIZON]
A. L. Burt CompanyPublishers :: New York
Copyright, 1909, byGeorge W. Jacobs and Company
Published March, 1909
ToB. W. M.my good friend and counselorI affectionately dedicatethis book
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I. A Letter 9 II. On the Plains 17 III. An Alarm in Beacon Crossing 28 IV. Rosebud 41 V. A Birthday Gift 54 VI. A Newspaper 69 VII. An Indian Pow-Wow 76 VIII. Seth Washes a Handkerchief 87 IX. The Adventures of Red Riding Hood 97 X. Seth Attempts to Write a Letter 108 XI. The Letter Written 118 XII. Cross Purposes 127 XIII. The Devotion of Wanaha 135 XIV. The Warning 144 XV. The Movements of Little Black Fox 154 XVI. General Distinguishes Himself 162 XVII. The Letter from England 173 XVIII. Seth's Duty Accomplished 184 XIX. Seth Plays a Strong Hand 197 XX. Seth Pays 207 XXI. Two Heads in Conspiracy 217 XXII. Rosebud's Answer 227 XXIII. Love's Progress 239 XXIV. Rosebud's Fortune 254 XXV. In Which the Undercurrent Belies the Superficial Calm 267 XXVI. The Sun-Dance 283 XXVII. In Desperate Plight 294XXVIII. A Last Adventure 304 XXIX. Hard Pressed 315 XXX. The Last Stand 327 XXXI. The Sentence 337 XXXII. Wanaha the Indian 346XXXIII. The Capitulation 359
THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS
CHAPTER I
A LETTER
A solitary hut, dismal, rectangular, stands on the north bank of the WhiteRiver. Decay has long been at work upon it, yet it is still weather-proof.It was built long before planks were used in the Bad Lands of Dakota. Itwas built by hands that aimed only at strength and durability, caringnothing for appearances. Thus it has survived where a lighter constructionmust long since have been demolished.
And it still affords habitation for man. The windows have no glass; thedoor is a crazy affair; there is an unevenness in the setting of thelateral logs which compose its walls; the reed thatching has been patchedwhere the weather has rotted it; and here and there small spreads oftarpaulin lend their aid in keeping out the snows of winter and the stormsof summer. It occupies its place, a queer, squat sentry, standing midwaybetween the cattle ford and the newer log wagon-bridge lower down theriver toward its mouth, where it joins the giant Missouri some twohundred miles distant. It backs into the brush fringing the wood-linedriver bank, and is dangerously sheltered from the two great IndianReservations on the other side of the river. Dangerously, because it is atall times dangerous to live adjacent to woods when so near such a restlessrace as the Indians on the Rosebud and the Pine Ridge Reservations. Still,it has stood there so long, and yet bears no sign of hostile actiondirected against it by the warlike Sioux, that it seems safe to reckon itwill continue to stand there in peace until decay finishes it off. And thefact is significant.
Those who lived in that hut must have had reason to know that they dweltthere in safety.
The present tenant of the hut is a white man. He is seated on the tread ofhis crazy doorway, holding an open letter in one hand, while he stares inan unpleasantly reflective manner out across the prairie in front of him.
And the letter, which is slowly crumpling under the clutch of his nervousfingers, is worthy of attention, for it is written on crested paper whichis blue. And the ink is blue, too, and might reasonably indicate the toneof the blood of the sender, though hardly of the recipient.
Still appearances are deceptive on the prairie with regard to humanbeings, even more so perhaps than elsewhere. This man has a somethingabout him which speaks of a different life--a life where people live ingreater ease and more refined surroundings. But even so, his face is verymean and narrow; an appearance in nowise improved by its weather-stained,unwashed condition.
Nevil Steyne--for that is the man's name--has read the letter, and now heis thinking about it. And as he thinks, and mentally digests that which aright-minded man would accept as its overwhelmingly kindly tone, his angerrises slowly at first, but ever higher and higher, till it culminates in abitter, muttered exclamation.
"The crawler!" he said under his breath.
Suddenly he looked down at the paper, and proceeded to straighten it out.And his pale blue eyes were glittering as he read the letter again frombeginning to end. The very crest at the top was an aggravation to him. Andhe conjured meaning between the lines as he went, where meaning lay onlyin what was written.
The heading bore a date at New York. It had been written on the second ofJune--ten days earlier. And it was a letter that should have put joy intohis heart, rather than have raised his anger and hatred.
"MY DEAR BROTHER (it ran)--
"It is possible that a letter from me may not be as welcome as I try to hope. I can only trust that your resentment against me has abated in these long twelve years since you cut yourself out of my life. I know you blamed me for what happened at our father's death. You said nothing, would not see me, or the whole thing could have been adjusted then. You went off believing what was not true. Whether father treated you justly or unjustly you are the best judge. From my point of view it was the latter. It was always a mystery to me that he cut you out of his will. I was as disappointed as you, and it is for that reason that, for twelve years, I have been seeking you, to restore to you your share of the property. My dear boy, I'm sure you cannot imagine what joy it is to me that at last I am able to write this, that at last I shall be able to say it to you. We both know what a martinet father was, and what a disappointment it was to him when you refused to adopt the army and join me in following in the old boy's footsteps, but, unless there was something else between you, that was insufficient reason for the injustice of his will.
"Well, all that is past now. What I have set aside as your share is untouched, and has been accumulating all these years. It is waiting for you. If you refuse it, I shall never touch it. In that case it remains tied up for my little daughter, at such time as she shall marry. But of course I have done this only as an emergency. You will not, I know, refuse it.
"Thank God, I have found you at last, dear old boy! Now, listen! I have set my plans with great care, and hope you will appreciate them. I do not want to subject you to any curiosity among our friends--you know how inquisitive people are--so I have come out here ostensibly on a big game shoot in the Rockies. Alice, my wife--you remember
Alice Travers--and little Marjorie, our daughter, are with me. They know nothing of my secret. We shall break our journey at Sioux City, and then come across to you by road. And, lo! when we arrive my little surprise for them--Marjorie finds an uncle, Alice a brother.
"In conclusion, I hope to be with you on the 16th at latest; we shall come by way of the south bank of the Missouri River, then across the Pine Ridge Reservation, and so on to Beacon Crossing. I hope to find you as young in spirit as ever. I have many gray hairs, but no matter, so long as I find you well I shall be more than satisfied. _Au revoir._
"Your affectionate
"LANDOR."
"_Au revoir_," muttered the man, as he viciously tore the letter into theminutest fragments, and ground them into the hard earth with a ruthlessheel. "_Au revoir_," he said again, and louder. Then he laughed. "But wehaven't met yet. Why should I take a share when you and your wife, andyour brat are the only people who stand between me and the lot?"
And after that he relapsed into silence, and his thoughts flew on apace.The unwashed face grew meaner and more brooding, the fair brows drewcloser over the large blue eyes, the jaws were shut as tight as they wellcould be, for he was painfully overshot, and his chin was almost hidden,so far receding was it under the long, drooping, tobacco-stainedmoustache.
That letter, it would seem, required no depth of thought, unless it werethe happy thought that he possessed such a brother. It seemed to be amoment for nothing but happiness. And in such a man one might reasonablyhave expected to see him mount the horse tethered a few yards away infront of the hut, and ride into Beacon Crossing, where he could tell hisassociates of his good fortune, and celebrate it in the usual manner.
But there was nothing of happiness in the face that stared so steadily outat the hazy sky-line in the direction of the Cheyenne Reservation away tothe north. There was a hard look, such as is to be seen only in pale blueeyes;--a look of unyielding hatred and obstinacy; a look which, combinedwith the evident weakness of character displayed in his features,suggested rather the subtle treachery of a coward than the fierceresentment of a brave man.
Never was a character more fully laid bare than was his at that moment. Hewas conscious of his isolation. There was no one to see. He hated hisbrother as a weak nature hates a strong. He hated him because years agohe, Nevil, had refused to go into the army for the reason of an obstinatecowardice, while his younger brother gladly embraced the profession ofwhich their father, the stern old general, had been such an honoredmember. And so he had eschewed his mother country, leaving England, whenhe had been disinherited, for the wilderness of South Dakota, and hadbecome one of those stormy petrels which, in those days, were ever to befound hovering about the territory set apart for the restless Indians.Yes, and with his destruction of that kindly, simple letter his resolvehad been taken. He would have nothing at the hands of the man who hadousted him.
It was not thoughts of his resolve that gave his face its look oftreacherous cunning now, but something else. Something which kept himsitting on his door-step thinking, thinking, until the sun had set and thetwilight darkened into night. Something which, during that time, broughtcruel smiles to his lips, and made him glance round on either side at thebrush that marked the boundary of the Sioux camping ground.
Something which at last made him rise from his hard seat and fetch out hissaddle from within the hut. Then he brought his horse in from itstethering ground, and saddled it, and rode off down to the ford, and on tothe tepee of old Big Wolf, the great chief, the master mind that plannedand carried out all the bloody atrocities of the Pine Ridge Indianrisings.
"_Au revoir_, eh?" this tall renegade muttered, as he dismounted beforethe smoke-begrimed dwelling. "There's only we two, Landor; and yourprecious wife and child, and they are--no, we haven't met yet." And hebecame silent as he raised the hide door of the tepee, and, withoutannouncing himself, stepped within.
The dark, evil-smelling interior was lit only by the smouldering embers ofa small wood-fire in the centre of the great circle. Though it was summerthese red heritors of the land could not do without their fire atnight-time, any more than they could do without their skins and frowsyblankets. Nevil Steyne glanced swiftly over the dimly outlined faces hesaw looming in the shadows. The scene was a familiar one to him, and eachface he beheld was familiar. The puffy, broad face of the great chief, thefierce, aquiline features of the stripling who was sitting beside him, andwho was Big Wolf's fifteen-year-old son, and the dusky, delicate,high-caste features of the old man's lovely daughter, Wanaha.
He saw all these and entered in silence, leaving his well-trained horse toits own devices outside. He closed up the doorway behind him, and squattedupon his haunches in their midst.
Big Wolf removed the long-stemmed, red-clay pipe from his lips and held itout to the newcomer. The newcomer took it while the other said "How." Andall those about him followed suit and welcomed the white man in choruswith this customary greeting.
Then a conversation started which lasted far into the night. It entailedmuch subtle argument on the part of the visitor, and the introduction ofmany dusky warriors into the tepee, who also smoked the pipe in council,with many deliberate grunts of approval at the words of wisdom the whiteadviser spoke.
And all this was the result of that crested letter.
The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies Page 1
