CHAPTER II
ON THE PLAINS
There is no place in the world which affords more cheerful solitude thanthe prairie. One may be miles and miles away from human habitation and yetthere is an exhilaration in the very sunlight, in the long nodding grass,in the dusty eddies of the breeze which is never actually still on theplains. It is the suggestion of freedom in a great boundless space. Itgrips the heart, and one thanks God for life. This effect is not only withthe prairie novice. It lasts for all time with those who once sniff thescent of its delicious breath.
Dakota and the more southern Nebraska are not the finest examples of theAmerican plains, but they will do. What is better they will make one askfor more, and that is an excellent sign.
It is curious to gaze out over this wonderful virgin grass-land and seekfor signs of other human beings. Not a speck in view, except perchance agrazing steer or horse. Not a movement but the eddying whirls of dust, andthe nodding of the bowing grass heads as they bend to the gentle pressureof the lightest of zephyrs. And yet no doubt there are human beings about;aye, even within half a mile. For flat as those plains may seem they arereally great billows rolling away on every hand into the dim distance,hiding men and cattle and houses in their vast, open troughs.
A little party of six had just appeared over the brow of a rising, whichwas the last great wave toppling monstrously down toward that greatexpanse of the shallow valley, in the midst of which flows the Missouri.This tiny party, so meagre and insufficient-looking as they faced thesun-bound plains, had just left the river route to strike in a morewesterly direction. As they topped the rise a great, wholesome love forthe wide world about them welled up in the heart of the woman who wasriding in the wagon, and found vent in a low, thrilling exclamation.
"Wonderful!" Then louder and with eyes sparkling: "Beautiful!"
A child of about eleven summers, with fair curling ringlets flowingloosely beneath a wide, flat sun-hat, whose wide-open violet eyes stared alittle awe-struck at the vast world which greeted them, nestled closer tothe woman's side on the seat of the jolting wagon without comment, butwith a sharp little intake of breath. She had no words to add to hermother's.
At that moment one of three men riding ahead detached himself from theothers and dropped back to the wagon, to speak to the woman and child. Itwas easy to understand the relationship between them by the affectionatesmile that greeted him He was a tall man and much tanned by a life spentlargely in military camps in hot countries. He had the well-set-up figureof a fighting soldier.
"Well, dearie," he said cheerfully to his wife, "how do you like theprairie?"
The woman nodded.
"I'm so glad we came on by road, Landor. The hotel people were quitebothersome about the restlessness of the Indians. I suppose that is abogey they thrust before all strangers. I am glad you did not change yourmind."
The man understood his wife's strong character, and her reply made himfeel as though his responsibilities had been suddenly increased. He lookedat his companions riding in scout fashion in front. They were pointing atsomething on the horizon, and he followed the direction indicated.
At last he looked round and encountered the gaze of his wife's gray eyes.
"I thought you would be, Al," he said quietly. "You see the Indians arealways restless. Besides, if I----"
"Yes."
The man laughed happily.
"No not yet, dear. My secret must remain a little longer. You are awonder, Al. You have known that I have a secret for nearly two months, andstill you refrain from questioning me."
Alice shook her head, and stooped to readjust their daughter's hat. Heraction hid the smile at her husband's simplicity. A good wife learns manythings without questioning.
"You see I know I shall be told when it becomes expedient. How would youlike to make hay in these lovely open fields, Marjorie?" she asked theviolet-eyed child, gazing so steadfastly at this new world about her.
But Marjorie shook her head. She was a little overpowered.
"It's so big, mamma," she murmured, doubtfully.
At that moment one of the two horsemen ahead beckoned to the man a littleperemptorily, and he rode off. Then the child turned to her mother.
"What did you mean about the Indians, mamma?"
But the mother did not answer; she was watching her husband, who had justjoined the others, and she saw that all three were watching something thatlooked like smoke on the northwestern horizon.
"Don't Indians eat people, mamma?" asked the child presently.
Her mother laughed shortly, and answered, "No." The answer came a littlemore sharply than she usually spoke. Suddenly she leant forward andtouched the driver on the shoulder. He turned round instantly.
"What is that smoke on the horizon, Jim?" she asked.
The man looked into her steady gray eyes. Then he glanced down at thebeautiful child at her side, and, in a moment, his gaze came back to thehandsome dark face of the mother; but instantly he turned back to thehorses.
"Don't know," he threw back brusquely over his shoulder.
And the woman who learned so much without asking questions knew that helied.
The vehicle creaked on. The steady jog of the horses kept the neck-yokerattling in the harness with a sound that was almost musical. The sun wasvery hot, and the sweat was caked in white streaks all over thehard-working animals' flanks. Mother and child sat on in silence. Thosetwo pairs of lovely eyes were looking out ahead. The child interested, andthe mother thinking hard and swiftly. Curiously that smoke on the horizonhad set her thinking of her husband and child, but mostly of the child.The driver chirruped at his horses as he had done from the start. Hemunched his tobacco, and seemed quite at his ease. Only every now and thenhis keen eyes lifted to the smoke. He was an old prairie hand.
The horsemen on ahead had halted where a higher billow of grass-land thanusual had left a sharp, deep hollow. A hundred yards to the right of thetrail there was a small clump of undergrowth. The men had dismounted. Whenthe wagon came up the husband stepped to its side.
"We are going to camp here, Alice," he said quietly. "There is good waterclose by. We can spare the time; we have come along well."
Alice glanced at the faces of the others while he was speaking. One of themen was a long-haired prairie scout; his keen black eyes were intent uponher face. The other was a military "batman," a blue-eyed Yorkshireman. Hiseyes were very bright--unusually bright. The teamster was placidly lookinground his horses.
"Very well," she answered, and passed little Marjorie out into herfather's arms. Then she sprang lightly to the ground.
Then the teamster drove the horses away into the brush, and the wagon washidden from view. The scout and the batman pitched two "A" tents, and themother noticed that they were so placed as to be utterly hidden in thethick foliage. The horses were off-saddled, and, contrary to custom, weretethered further still from the road, down by the water.
Little Marjorie went off with the men who were securing the horses, andAlice stood watching her husband's movements. She was a beautiful woman ofthat strong, dark Celtic type, so common in Ireland. Her strong supplefigure was displayed to perfection in a simple tweed suit with a jacket ofthe Norfolk pattern. She stood for some moments watching with deepcontemplative eyes. Then she abruptly turned away.
"I will gather some fire-wood," she said deliberately to her husband.
He looked up from his work and their eyes met.
"Don't bother," he said; "we will use the oil stove."
And without further explanation the camp was arranged. There was no bustleor excitement. Yet each member of that little party, with the exception ofthe child, knew that the camp had been made in emergency--graveemergency.
A hearty meal was partaken of. Then the man and the scout disappeared. Theothers occupied themselves around the camp. The afternoon wore on. At teathe scout and his companion reappeared. The wife still asked no verbalquestions. Her eyes told her all she wished to know.
Du
ring the evening meal little Marjorie made a discovery.
"Mamma," she exclaimed, "you've got a belt on like daddy's. What arethese?" And she fingered a revolver holster, of which her mother's beltsupported two.
It was the rough, long-haired scout who saved the woman a deliberatefalsehood.
"Guess them's playthings," he said, with a sombre laugh. "B't don't figgerthey're fer kiddies to monkey with."
After supper the man and the scout again disappeared. Three hours laterthe moon was high in the starlit sky. It was a glorious summer moon, andthe whole country was bright with its silvery light.
Two men were lying upon their stomachs conning the northwestern sky-line.
The scout at last spoke in his slow drawling way.
"Guess it's played out, Colonel," he said. "We're up agin it."
It didn't seem clear to what he referred, but the other understood him.
"Yes, they're working this way," he replied. "See, something has beenfired away to the right front. They may be working round that way and willmiss us here. What are our chances?"
"Nix," responded the scout decidedly. "Them critturs hev got to git aroundthis way. They're on a line that'll strike Fort Randall, wi' a heap moremilitary 'n they'll notion. They'll strike south an' sweep round sheerthrough to Wyoming. We're dead in their line."
"Then we'd best get back and prepare. Mrs. Raynor and Marjorie will haveturned in; we can do it quietly."
"Yup."
They rose and returned to camp.
Colonel Raynor had intended to avoid his wife's tent. But Alice waswaiting for him on the outskirts of the camp. The scout saw her anddiscreetly passed on, and husband and wife were left together.
"Well?"
The woman's tone was quite steady. She was used to a soldier's life.Besides, she understood the man's responsibility and wished to help him.And Landor Raynor, looking into the gray eyes that were to him the gatesof the heart of purest womanhood, could not resort to subterfuge.
"They will be on us before morning, dearest," he said, and it was only bythe greatest effort he could check a tide of self-accusation. But thewoman understood and quickly interposed.
"I feared so, Landor. Are you ready? I mean for the fight?"
"We are preparing. I thought of sending you and little Marjorie south withJim, on saddle horses, but----"
"No. I would not go. I am what you men call 'useful with a gun.'" Shelaughed shortly.
There was a silence between them for some moments. And in that silence afaint and distant sound came to them. It was like the sound of droningmachinery, only very faint.
The wife broke the silence. "Landor, we are old campaigners, you and I."
"Yes, Al."
The woman sighed ever so lightly.
"The excitement of the foreknowledge of victory is not in me to-night.Everything seems--so ordinary."
"Yes."
"When the moment comes, Landor, I should not like to be taken prisoner."
"Nor shall you be, Al. There are four good fighting men with you. All oldcampaigners like--you."
"Yes. I wasn't thinking of that." The gray eyes looked away. The manshifted uneasily.
There was a prolonged silence. Each was thinking over old scenes in oldcampaigns.
"I don't think I am afraid of much," the woman said slowly, at last."Certainly not of death."
"Don't talk like that, Al." The man's arm linked itself through hiswife's. The woman smiled wistfully up into the strong face bending overher.
"I was thinking, dearest, if death faced us, little Marjorie and me, inany form, we should not like it at the hands of an Indian. We should bothprefer it from some one we know and--love."
Another silence followed, and the sound of machinery was nearer andlouder. The man stooped down and kissed the upturned face, and looked longinto the beautiful gray depths he loved so well.
"It shall be as you wish, Al--as a last resource. I will go and kissMarjorie. It is time we were doing."
He had spoken so quietly, so calmly. But in his soldier's heart he knewthat his promise would be carried out to the letter--as a last resource.He left the woman, the old campaigner, examining the revolvers whichlooked like cannons in her small white hands.
* * * * *
One brief hour has passed. The peace of that lonely little trail-side camphas gone. War, a thousand times more fierce than the war of civilizednations, is raging round it in the light of the summer moon. The deadbodies of three white men are lying within a few yards of the tent whichbelongs to the ill-fated colonel and his wife. A horde of shouting,shrieking savages encircle that little white canopy and its two remainingdefenders. Every bush is alive with hideous painted faces waiting for thelast order to rush the camp. Their task has been less easy than theysupposed. For the defenders were all "old hands." And every shot from therepeating rifles has told. But now it is different. There are only twodefenders left. A man of invincible courage--and a woman; and behind them,a little, awe-struck child in the doorway of the tent.
The echoing war-whoop sounds the final advance, and the revolvers of thosetwo desperate defenders crack and crack again. The woman's ammunition isdone. The man's is nearly so. He turns, and she turns to meet him. Thereis one swift embrace.
"Now!" she says in a low, soft voice.
There is an ominous crack of a revolver, but it is not fired in thedirection of the Indians whom the man sees are within a few yards of him.He sees the woman fall, and turns swiftly to the tent door. The childinstinctively turns and runs inside. The man's gun is raised withinexorable purpose. His shot rings out. The child screams; and the mancrashes to the earth with his head cleft by a hatchet from behind.
The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies Page 2
