The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  A LAST ADVENTURE

  It was not without a guilty feeling that Rosebud rode out of the stockade.She knew that she was deceiving Seth. She knew that she had lied to himdeliberately. Worse, she had played upon his feelings with intent todeceive him. But her motive was good, and she tried to draw consolationfrom the knowledge.

  Her argument was worthy of her. It was impulsive, and would not stand thetest of logical inspection. She had thought long before putting her planinto execution; at least, long for her. She told herself that no deceitwas unpardonable which had an honest, sound motive. In fact it was notdeceit at all, only subterfuge.

  Her argument was something after this fashion. She had been the chiefsource of trouble. Therefore she owed something to the general welfare.Seth was harassed with his responsibilities, and the chances were terriblyagainst him and those under his charge. There was something she could do,something which might turn the tide in their favor, might save thesituation. What if to carry it out she must act a lie? Who would blame herif she were successful? If it failed it would not matter to her whoblamed.

  She was a child no longer, but a strong woman whose devotion to those sheloved rose boundless over every other feeling. It was this very devotionthat urged her and shut out every scruple, every qualm of conscience, atthe manner in which she had gained her ends.

  Thus she passed out into the dark, starlit world, with its strange glareof fire.

  Once clear of the farm she heaved a deep sigh. The tension had relaxed nowthat she felt herself to be doing at last. Cooped within the stockade, herplans still waiting to be set in motion, she had felt nigh to choking withnervousness. Her anxiety to be gone had been overwhelming. Perhaps noneknew better than she what the task of cajoling Seth meant, for he was notan easy man when duty was uppermost in his mind. But that was all donewith now; she was out at last.

  The freedom of her horse's gait felt good under her. There was confidence,exhilaration to be drawn from each springing stride. And, too, there was anew and delightful sense of responsibility in the heavy lolling of therevolver holsters upon her hips. But above all there was the supremefeeling that she was endeavoring to help those she had left behind.

  Her tears had dried before she mounted to the back of the animal to whichshe was now pinning her faith. The parting kiss she had imprinted upon theman's thin cheek had inspired her. Life meant nothing to her without him.Her fortune was nothing to her, no one was anything to her compared withhim. He stood out over everything else in her thoughts.

  She heard the rumbling of the wheels of Joe Smith's wagons, but gave noheed to them. Instead, she rode straight on to the south, purposelyavoiding the newcomers she was ostensibly going to meet. In a few minutesshe drew rein at Wanaha's log hut.

  She was not without some doubts when she saw that the place was indarkness. But her apprehensions were quickly dissipated. Her first summonsbrought the squaw to the door, where her tall, dark figure stood out inthe gentle starlight.

  As was her custom Rosebud handed the woman the reins to hook upon thewall. She was constrained to do without her usual greeting, for she knewthat, here too, she must deceive to gain her ends. It would be madness totell the half-tamed savage her real intentions. Wanaha's love for her wasgreat, but well she knew that blood is thicker than water, and a savage'sblood more particularly so than anybody's else.

  Once inside the hut Wanaha was the first to speak.

  "You come? On this night?" she questioned, choosing her English words withher usual care.

  The girl permitted no unnecessary delay in plunging into the object of hervisit.

  "Yes, yes, my Wana," she replied, drawing the tall woman to her, so that,in the dim starlight, they sat together on the edge of the bed. Her actionwas one of tender affection. Wanaha submitted, well pleased that herwhite friend had allowed nothing of the doings of her people to comebetween them. "Yes, I come to you for help. I come to you because I wantto remove the cause of all the trouble between your people and mine. Doyou know the source of the trouble? I'll tell you. I am!"

  Rosebud looked fixedly in the great dark eyes, so soft yet so radiant inthe starlight.

  "I know. It is--my brother. He want you. He fight for you. Kill, slay. Itmatter not so he have you."

  The woman nodded gravely. The girl's heart bounded, for she saw that hertask was to be an easy one.

  "Yes, so it is. I have thought much about this thing. I should never havecome back to the farm. It was bad."

  Again Wanaha nodded.

  "And that is why I come to you. I love my friends. There is some one Ilove, like you love your Nevil, and I want to save him. They will all bekilled if I stay, for your brother is mighty--a great warrior. So I amgoing away."

  Rosebud's allusion to the squaw's love for her husband was tactful. Shewas completely won. The girl, who was clasping one of Wanaha's hands, felta warm, responsive pressure of sympathy, and she knew.

  "Yes, now I want you to help me," she hurried on. "To go as I am now, awhite girl in white girl's clothing, would be madness. I know your people.I should never escape their all-seeing eyes. I must go like one of yourpeople."

  "You would be--a squaw?" A wonderful smile was in the great black eyes asWanaha put the question.

  "Yes."

  "Yes, I see. Wana sees." A rising excitement seemed to stir the squaw. Shecame closer to her white friend and spoke quickly, stumbling over herEnglish in a manner she would never have permitted in cooler moments. "An'in these way you mak' yourself go. You fly, you run; so my brother, thegreat chief, no more you find. Yes? Then him say, 'him gone.' We no moreuse him fight. We go by tepee quick. An' there is great peace. Is thathow?"

  "That is it," cried Rosebud, in her eagerness flinging her arms about thesquaw's neck. "We must be quick. Seth will miss me from the farm, and thenthere'll be a to-do, and he will come hunting for me. Lend me yourclothes, a blanket, and an Indian saddle. Quick, my Wana! you'll help me,won't you? Oh, make haste and say, and set my doubts at rest!"

  The tide of the girl's appeal had its effect. The squaw rose swiftly,silently. She moved off and presently came back with a bundle of beadedbuckskin clothing.

  "You wear these, they my own. I get him for you. See. You put on, I go getsaddle. The blanket here. So. Nevil, my Nevil, from home. Wana not knowwhere. But maybe he come quick an' find you an' then----"

  Wana did not finish expressing her fears. She seemed suddenly to rememberof whom she was speaking, and that there was disloyalty in what she wassaying.

  But Rosebud was paying little heed. She was already changing her clothes.She knew the value of time just then, and she had been forced to wastemuch already. While she was completing the transformation, the squaw wentout and changed her saddle and bridle for an Indian blanket and surcinglewith stirrups attached to it, and a plaited, gaudy rope bridle and spadebit.

  When she came back the white girl had completed her toilet, even to themoccasins and buckskin chapps. Even the undemonstrative Wanaha exclaimedat the metamorphosis.

  She saw before her in the dim starlight the most delightful picture of asquaw. Rosebud's wealth of golden hair was hidden beneath the folds of thecolored blanket, and only her fair white face with its dazzling eyes,bright now with excitement, shone out and destroyed the illusion.

  "You are much beautiful," the Indian declared in amazement. Then she stoodgazing until Rosebud's practical voice roused her.

  "Food, my Wana."

  "I give bread and meat. It in bags on the horse. So. Now you go?"

  "Yes, dear Wana. I must go."

  Rosebud reached her arms up to the tall woman's neck, and drawing her darkface down to her own, kissed her. Though she loved this dark princess sheknew that her kiss was the kiss of Judas. Then she passed out, and,mounting her horse, rode away.

  Within five minutes of her going, and while Wanaha was still standing inthe doorway looking after her, a party of warriors, headed by Little BlackFox himself, rode up to the house. The chief ha
d come in search of NevilSteyne. He angrily demanded the white man's whereabouts of the woman whowas his sister.

  The ensuing scene was one of ferocious rage on the part of the headstrongman, and fear, hidden under an exterior of calm debate, on the part ofWanaha. She knew her brother, and in her mind tried to account for herhusband's absence. After the warriors had departed she passed a night ofgloomy foreboding.

  All unconscious of her narrow escape, Rosebud headed away to thenortheast. She had no elaborate scheme of route. With the instinct of herprairie training she knew her direction. She would make her destination asthe crow flies, chancing everything, every danger, so that she could makethe best time; no personal considerations entered into her calculations.

  She could see the reflections of the camp-fires in the sky in everydirection, but, with a reckless courage, she cared nothing for this. Amore calculating mind might well have shrunk from the dangers theysuggested. To her they meant no more than obstacles which must beconfronted and overcome. She knew nothing of strategy in warfare; of coverthere was none in the direction she was taking.

  Like the line of great soldiers from whom she was descended she understoodriding straight only. Let the fences and pitfalls come, let them be whatthey might, she would not swerve. Whatever the emergency, she was preparedto confront it, and, like a thorough sportswoman but a bad general, totake her chance, relying only on her good horse and the darkness, and theproverbial luck of the reckless.

  Though this was her general idea she did all she could to help. Afeatherweight, she still strove to ride lighter. Then she had herfirearms, and she steeled her heart to their use. After all she came fromsplendid fighting stock.

  She allowed herself no thought of failure. She must not fail, she toldherself. They were waiting for help in the stockade behind her; patient,strong, a man of lion heart, who knew defeat only when the last shot wasfired, the last blow struck, and he was left helpless to defend himselfand those others, he was waiting. Her thoughts inspired her with thecourage of a brave woman whose lover is in grave peril, than which thereis no greater courage in the world.

  Now the moment of her peril drew near. Every raking stride of her willinghorse cut the brief seconds shorter and shorter. The lurid reflections ofthe camp-fires in the sky had given place to the starlike glow of thefires themselves, and every yard of the distance covered showed themlarger and plainer against the sky-line.

  She was riding straight for the middle course of the black space dividingtwo of the fires ahead. There was little to choose in any direction, socomplete was the circle around the farm, but she had been quick to seethat that little lay here.

  She measured the distance she had to go with her eye. It was not far, andinstinctively she reined her horse up to give him breathing for the greateffort to come; an effort which she knew was to be very real indeed.Approaching steadily she made her preparations. Freeing her right arm fromher blanket she drew one of her revolvers and saw that it was fullyloaded. Then she closely scrutinized the fires. She could make out thegeneral outline of two vast camps away to the right and left of her. Thefires were in the midst, and right to the limits of the lurid light, shecould see the dim outlines of innumerable tepees, and crowds of movingfigures. It was a sight to put fear into the heart of a daring man, thenhow much more so into the heart of a frail woman?

  The black stretch before her seemed devoid of tepees, but she was notsure. Of one thing she felt convinced, even if the camps were confined tothe fires there was no likelihood of these wide intervals being leftunguarded.

  Her horse refreshed, she put him into a strong gallop, and in a fewminutes had entered the danger zone. Almost on the instant her surmiseproved correct. The air directly ahead of her split with a fierce yell.She knew it. It was the Sioux war-cry. The supreme moment had come. Itmust be now or never. Clinching her moccasined heels into her horse'sbarrel she sent him racing headlong. And as he rushed forward she grippedher revolver ready for immediate use.

  An Indian mounted on a pony suddenly loomed ahead of her. Such was herpace that he seemed to rush out of the darkness upon her. Yet his pony hadnot moved. There was a clatter of speeding hoofs on either side, and sheknew that the alarm had been taken up, and the bloodthirsty warriors fromthe camps were in pursuit.

  The man ahead appeared only for an instant. Her revolver was covering him,the terrific speed of her horse helped her aim. She saw the sights of herweapon; she saw the man. The hammer fell. There was a cry, and the bitingreport of the revolver died away in the darkness. She had passed the spotwhere the man had been. Horse and rider had vanished. She had no thoughtfor anything now. She was conscious of only one thing, the din ofpursuit.

  Thrusting the revolver back into its holster she offered up a silentprayer to heaven. Then she leaned over her horse's neck to relieve him ofher weight, and, with the yelling horde hard upon her heels, gave herselfup to the race.