CHAPTER IV
ROSEBUD
It is nearly midday, and the Indians round the blazing woods on thesouthern spur of the Black Hills are in full retreat. Another desperatebattle, such as crowd the unwritten history of the United States, has beenfought and won. The history of the frontiersman's life would fill a recordwhich any soldier might envy. It is to the devotion of such men thatcolonial empires owe their being, for without their aid, no military forcecould bring peace and prosperity to a land. The power of the sword mayconquer and hold, but there its mission ends. It is left to thefrontiersman to do the rest.
The battle-field is strewn with dead and dying; but there are no whitefaces staring blankly up at the heavens, only the painted, seared featuresof the red man. Their opponents are under cover. If they have any dead ordying they are with the living. These men fight in the manner of theIndian, but with a superior intelligence.
But though the white men have won the battle their end is defeated. Forthe blazing woods have swept across the homestead of "old man" Jason, foryears a landmark in the country, and now it is no more. A mere charredskeleton remains; smoking, smouldering, a witness to the white man'sdaring in a savage country.
The blazing woods are approachable only on the windward side, and evenhere the heat is blistering. It is still impossible to reach the ruins ofthe homestead, for the wake of the fire is like a superheated oven. And sothe men who came to succor have done the only thing left for them. Theyhave fought and driven off the horde of Indians, who first sacked theranch and then fired it. But the inmates; and amongst them four women.What of them? These rough plainsmen asked themselves this question as theyapproached the conflagration; then they shut their teeth hard and metedout a terrible chastisement before pushing their inquiries further. It wasthe only way.
A narrow river skirts the foot of the hills, cutting the homestead offfrom the plains. And along its bank, on the prairie side, is a scatteredbrush such as is to be found adjacent to most woods. The fire has left ituntouched except that the foliage is much scorched, and it is here thatthe victors of an unrecorded battle lie hidden in the cover. Though theenemy is in full retreat, and the rearmost horsemen are fast diminishingagainst the horizon, not a man has left his shelter. They are men welllearned in the craft of the Indians.
Dan Somers and Seth are sharing the same cover. The sheriff is watchingthe last of the braves as they desperately hasten out of range. At lasthe moves and starts to rise from his prone position. But Seth's stronghand checks him and pulls him down again.
"Not yet," he said.
"Why?"
But the sheriff yielded nevertheless. In spite of his fledgling twenty-twoyears, Seth was an experienced Indian fighter, and Dan Somers knew it; noone better. Seth's father and mother had paid the life penalty seventeenyears ago at the hands of the Cheyennes. It was jokingly said that Sethwas a white Indian. By which those who said it meant well but put itbadly. He certainly had remarkable native instincts.
"This heat is hellish!" Somers protested presently, as Seth remainedsilent, gazing hard at a rather large bluff on the river bank, some threehundred yards ahead. Then he added bitterly, "But it ain't no use. We'retoo late. The fire's finished everything. Maybe we'll find their bodies. Iguess their scalps are elsewhere."
Seth turned. He began to move out of his cover in Indian fashion,wriggling through the grass like some great lizard.
"I'll be back in a whiles," he said, as he went. "Stay right here."
He was back in a few minutes. No Indian could have been more silent in hismovements.
"Well?" questioned the sheriff.
Seth smiled in his own gradual manner. "We're going to draw 'em, I guess,"he said. "Fill up."
And the two men recharged the magazines of their Winchesters.
Presently Seth pointed silently at the big bluff on the river bank. Thenext moment he had fired into it, and his shot was followed at once by aperfect hail of lead from the rest of the hidden white men. The object ofhis recent going was demonstrated.
For nearly two minutes the fusilade continued, then Seth's words wereproved. There was a rush and scrambling and breaking of brush. Thirtymounted braves dashed out of the hiding and charged the white men's cover.It was only to face a decimating fire. Half the number were unhorsed, andthe riderless ponies fled in panic in the direction of those who had gonebefore.
But while others headed these howling, painted fiends Seth's rifleremained silent. He knew that this wild rush was part of a deliberateplan, and he waited for the further development. It came. His gun leapt tohis shoulder as a horse and rider darted out of the brush. The man madeeastward, attempting escape under cover of his staunch warriors' desperatefeint. Seth had him marked down. He was the man of all whom he had lookedfor. But the aim had to be careful, for he was carrying a something thatlooked like woman's clothes in his arms, and, besides, this man must notgo free. Seth was very deliberate at all times; now he was particularlyso. And when the puff of smoke passed from the muzzle of his rifle it wasto be seen that the would-be fugitive had fallen, and his horse had goneon riderless.
Now the few remaining braves broke and fled, but there was no escape forthem. They had defeated their own purpose by approaching too close. Notone was left to join the retreating band. It was a desperate slaughter.
The fight was done. Seth left his cover, and, followed by the sheriff,went across to where the former's victim had fallen.
"Good," exclaimed Somers, as they came up. "It is Big Wolf---- What?" Hebroke off and dropped to his knees.
But Seth was before him. The latter had dragged the body of the greatchief to one side, and revealed, to the sheriff's astonished eyes, thedainty clothing, and what looked like the dead form of a white girl child.They both held the same thought, but Somers was the first to put it intowords.
"Tain't Jason's. They're all grown up," he said.
Seth was looking down at the child's beautiful pale face. His eyes took inthe thick, fair ringlets of flowing hair all matted with blood. He notedeven the texture of the clothes. And, suddenly stooping, he gathered herinto his arms.
"She's mine now," he said. Then his thoughtful, dark eyes took on theirslow smile again. "And she ain't dead, though pretty nigh, I'm thinking."
"How'd you know?" asked Somers curiously.
"Can't say. I've jest a notion that aways."
The others came up, but not another word passed Seth's lips. He walked offin the direction of the track where the engine was standing at the head ofits trucks. And by the time he reached his destination he was quiteweighted down, for this prize of his was no infant but a girl of someyears. He laid her tenderly in the cab of the engine, and quicklydiscovered a nasty scalp wound on the back of her head. Just for a momenthe conceived it to be the result of his own shot, then he realized thatthe injury was not of such recent infliction. Nevertheless it was the workof a bullet; which discovery brought forth a flow of scathing invectiveupon the head of the author of the outrage.
With that care which was so characteristic of this thoughtful plainsman,he fetched water from the tank of the locomotive, tore off a large portionof his own flannel shirt, and proceeded to wash the wound as tenderly asmight any devoted mother. He was used to a rough treatment of wounds, and,by the time he had bandaged the pretty head, he found that his supply ofshirt was nearly exhausted. But this in no way disturbed him.
With great resource he went back to the prairie and tore out greathandfuls of the rank grass, and so contrived a comparatively luxuriouscouch for his foundling on the foot-plate of the engine.
By this time the men were returning from their search for the bodies atthe ruins of the ranch. The story was quickly told. The remains had beenfound, as might have been expected, charred cinders of bone.
There was no more to be done here, and Somers, on his return to the track,sounded the true note of their necessity.
"We must git back. Them durned Injuns 'll make tracks fer Beacon Crossing,or I'm a Dago."
Th
en he looked into the cab where the still form of the prairie waif layshaded by a piece of tarpaulin which Seth had found on the engine. Heobserved the bandage and the grass bed, and he looked at the figurebending to the task of firing.
"What are you goin' to do with her?" he asked.
Seth worked on steadily.
"Guess I'll hand her over to Ma Sampson," he said, without turning.
"Maybe she has folks. Maybe ther's the law."
Seth turned now.
"She's mine now," he cried over his shoulder. Then he viciously aimed ashovelful of coal at the open furnace door.
All his years of frontier life had failed to change a naturally tenderheart in Seth. Whatever he might do in the heat of swift-rising passion ithad no promptings in his real nature. The life of the plains was his inall its varying moods, but there was an unchanging love for his kind underit all. However, like all such men, he hated to be surprised into abetrayal of these innermost feelings, and this is what had happened.Somers had found the vulnerable point in his armor of reserve, but, likethe sensible man he was, he kept his own counsel.
At the saloon in Beacon Crossing the men were less careful. Theircuriosity found vent in questionable pleasantries, and they chaffed Sethin a rough, friendly way.
On their arrival Seth handed the still unconscious child over to the wifeof the hotel-keeper for an examination of her clothes. He did this at DanSomers' suggestion, as being the most legal course to pursue, and waitedwith the sheriff and several others in the bar for the result.
Good news had greeted the fighting party on their return. The troops werealready on the way to suppress the sudden and unaccountable Indian rising.Eight hundred of the hard-riding United States cavalry had left the forton receipt of the message from Beacon Crossing. The hotel-keeper impartedthe news with keen appreciation; he had no desire for troublesome times.Plainsmen had a knack of quitting his execrable drink when there wasfighting to be done--and Louis Roiheim was an Israelite.
A silence fell upon the bar-room on the appearance of Julie Roiheim. Shesaw Seth, and beckoned him over to her.
"There are initials on the little one's clothing. M. R.," she said. AndSeth nodded.
"Any name?" he asked.
The stout old woman shook her greasy head.
"But she's no ordinary child, Seth. Not by a lot. She belongs East, or myname's not Julie. That child is the girl of some millionaire in Noo York,or Philadelphy. She's got nothing on her but what is fine lawn and _real_lace!"
"Ah!" murmured the plainsman, without any responsive enthusiasm, while hisdark eyes watched the triumphant features of the woman to whom thesethings were of such consequence. "And has the Doc. got around?"
"He's fixin' her up," Julie Roiheim went on. "Oh, yes, you were right,she's alive, but he can't wake her up. He says if she's to be moved, ithad best be at once."
"Good." Just for one brief instant Seth's thoughtful face lit up. Heturned to old Louis. "Guess I'll borrow your buckboard," he went on. "I'llneed it to take the kiddie out."
The hotel-keeper nodded, and just then Nevil Steyne, who at that momenthad entered the bar, and had only gleaned part of the conversation, madehis way over to where Seth was standing.
"Who is she?" he asked, fixing his cold blue eyes eagerly on the face ofthe man he was addressing.
"Don't know," said Seth shortly. Then as an afterthought, "Clothes markedM. R."
The blue eyes lowered before the other's steady gaze.
"Ah," murmured Nevil. Then he, too, paused. "Is she alive?" he asked atlast. And there was something in his tone which suggested a dry throat.
"Yes, she is," replied Seth. "And," he said, with unusual expansiveness,"I guess she'll keep right on doing that same."
Seth had again betrayed himself.
Nevil seemed half inclined to say more. But Seth gave him no chance. Hehad no love for this man. He turned on his heel without excuse and leftthe hotel to attend to the preparation of the buckboard himself.
On his way home that afternoon, and all the next day, the Indians were inhis thoughts only so far as this waif he had picked up was concerned. Forthe most part he was thinking of the child herself, and those to whom hewas taking her. He pictured the delight with which his childlessfoster-parents would receive her. The bright-faced little woman whom heaffectionately called "Ma"; the massive old plainsman, Rube, with hisgurgling chuckle, gruff voice and kindly heart. And his thoughts stirredin him an emotion he never would have admitted. He thought of the terriblelot he had saved this child from, for he knew only too well why she hadbeen spared by the ruthless Big Wolf.
All through that long journey his watchfulness never relaxed. He looked tothe comfort of his patient although she was still unconscious. Heprotected her face from the sun, and kept cool cloths upon her forehead,and drove only at a pace which spared the inanimate body unnecessaryjolting. And it was all done with an eye upon the Reservations andhorizon; with a hearing always acute on the prairie, rendered doubly sonow, and with a loaded rifle across his knees.
It was dusk when he drove up to the farm. A certain relief came over himas he observed the peaceful cattle grazing adjacent to the corrals, thesmoke rising from the kitchen chimney, and the great figure of Rubesmoking reflectively in the kitchen doorway.
He did not stop to unhitch the horses, just hooking them to the corralfence. Then he lifted the child from the buckboard and bore her to thehouse.
Rube watched him curiously as he came with his burden. There was nogreeting between these two. Both were usually silent men, but fordifferent reasons. Conversation was a labor to Rube; a twinkling look ofhis deep-set eyes, and an expressive grunt generally contented him. Now heremoved his pipe from his lips and stared in open-mouthed astonishment atthe queer-looking bundle Seth was carrying.
"Gee!" he muttered. And made way for his foster son. Any questions thatmight have occurred to him were banished from his slow-moving thoughts.
Seth laid his charge upon the kitchen table, and Rube looked at thedeathlike face, so icy, yet so beautiful. A great broad smile, notuntouched with awe, spread over his bucolic features.
"Where's Ma?" asked Seth.
Rube indicated the ceiling with the stem of his pipe.
"Ma," cried Seth, through the doorway, up the narrow stairs which led tothe rooms above. "Come right down. Guess I've kind o' got a present foryou."
"That you, Seth?" called out a cheery voice from above.
"Guess so."
A moment later a little woman, with gray hair and a face that might havebelonged to a woman of thirty, bustled into the room.
"Ah, Seth," she cried affectionately, "you jest set to it to spoil yourold mother." Then her eyes fell on the figure on the kitchen table. "Lasakes, boy, what's--what's this?" Then as she bent over the unconsciouschild. "Oh, the pore--pore little beauty!"
Rube turned away with a chuckle. His practical little wife had beenastonished out of her wits. And the fact amused him immensely.
"It's a gal, Ma," said Seth. He too was smiling.
"Gracious, boy, guess I've got two eyes in my head!"
There was a long pause. Ma fingered the silken curls. Then she took one ofthe cold hands in hers and stroked it softly.
"Where--where did you git her?" she asked at last.
"The Injuns. I shot Big Wolf yesterday. They're on the war-path."
"Ah." The bright-eyed woman looked up at this tall foster son of hers.
"War-path--you shot Big Wolf?" cried Rube, now roused to unwonted speech."Then we'd best git busy."
"It's all right, father," Seth reassured him. "The troops are on thetrail."
There was another considerable pause while all eyes were turned on thechild. At last Mrs. Sampson looked up.
"Who is she?" she asked.
Seth shook his head.
"Don't know. Maybe she's yours--an' mine."
"Don't you know wher' she come from?"
Again Seth shook his head.
"An'--an' what's her name?"
"Can't say--leastways her initials are M. R. You see I got her from--therethat's it. I got her from the Rosebuds. That's her name. Rosebud!"
The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies Page 4
