How the last moments of that terrible final stand were passed, Seth could never have told. His long illness was telling on him. His weakness affected him sorely. All he was aware of were his companion’s mighty blows, and the fury that was driving him. That, and the necessity to defend him on his unprotected side. He fought as he could. No skill guided him. Now, at last, he had no cunning, and he was hazily conscious of his ineffectiveness.
Once he was forced to his knees by the blow of a hatchet, which, glancing down his clubbed rifle, took him in the neck with its flat. It was at that moment that his senses became aware of a distant bugle call. He scarcely recognized it, and, certainly, at the moment, it brought him no understanding.
Instinctively he struggled to his feet and fought on. Curiously enough, a moment later, his dulled senses made him aware of a shudder passing over his companion’s frame. He knew that Rube staggered, just as he was made aware that he recovered, and, with a sudden access of fury, renewed the fight. He knew that his friend had been badly hit, and was putting forth his last reserve of strength.
In the midst of this last struggle he heard the bugle again, but this time it was louder. Its note rose high above the noise of battle, the roar of the flames. But even so, he did not take its meaning until he heard a mighty cheer go up from his comrades within the defences.
He roused; a great joy thrilled him. His head suddenly became clear, and his weakness passed from him like the lifting of some depressing cloud. He found himself able to put forth a last exertion, and at this juncture he was somehow standing at Rube’s side, instead of at his back.
Of one accord, and without a word, they charged the howling mob. They smote with their heavy rifles in every direction, shouting as they went, driving all before them. A mighty triumph was in Seth’s heart; he had no room for anything else, no thought for anything else. Even he was blinded to the old man’s condition. It was not until he was joined by the rest of the defenders, and the Indians were wildly struggling over one another to escape through the still blazing gateway, and the old man fell like a log at his side in the midst of the pursuit, that he realized what had happened. Rube was bleeding from a gaping wound at the base of his neck.
Just for one instant he saw the gateway fill with uniformed horsemen, then Seth fell on his knees at his foster-father’s side.
There was no attempt to pursue the Indians. Weary and exhausted the little garrison gathered mutely round the fallen man. Ma was at Seth’s side. She had raised her husband’s head, and her old gray eyes were peering tenderly anxious into his. While she was still supporting him, some one pushed a way to her side. One bare white arm was thrust through hers, and a hand was gently laid on the old man’s rugged forehead. Ma turned inquiringly upon the intruder, and found herself staring into a pair of tearful, violet eyes.
“Rosebud!” she cried. And instantly the tears slowly rolled down her worn cheeks, the first tears, she had shed during that last terrible week.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXI
THE SENTENCE
The relief of the farm was really only the beginning of the campaign. It meant that following on its heels the great northern posts were pouring out their thousands of troops, and that a general advance was in progress. It meant that now, at last, but, alas! too late to avert the awful massacre of the white settlers, the force was adequate to the task of subjugating the savages.
The flying column that had ridden to the rescue was a small band of picked men, with a couple of light machine guns. It was composed of veteran Indian fighters, who, fully understanding the desperate chances of thus cutting themselves off from their supports, and riding into the very jaws of death, were yet ready to do it again and again.
The Indians, believing this initial attack of white troops to be the immediate advance guard of an overwhelming force, withdrew in something very like panic. But with morning light they realized they had been “bluffed” and at once returned to the attack.
For the defenders, however, all real anxiety was past. They knew that a sweeping movement was in progress throughout the whole disturbed area, and it was only a question of days before the Indians would be shepherded back to their Reservations.
The mischief, however, was done, the country was devastated. The prosperous farming region was laid waste, and the labor of years utterly destroyed. Of the survivors of the awful holocaust the majority found themselves utterly ruined; their homes destroyed; their possessions gone. Many were wounded, and all were homeless. Their plight was pitiable.
While others showered their praise and thanks and rough compliments upon the girl who had dared all to bring her friends the help they so sorely needed; while old men and young rivaled each other in their admiration of her reckless courage; while the women sought to minister to her, and wept over her, Seth held aloof, working and organizing for the general comfort and well-being with that everlasting thought for others which was so great a part of his nature.
It was not that he was indifferent; it was not that he had no thanks to tender. His heart was full, full to the brim with pride for this girl he loved. Hers, he felt, had been the great foresight, hers the great courage to carry out their only possible salvation. When his grave eyes had first fallen upon the slight blanketed figure of the little white squaw he recognized indeed the clever head which had done more than trust to rash courage. It would have been impossible for him to love her more.
Nevertheless his was the first greeting when she had been discovered in their midst. His had been the first hand to grip hers. But there was no effusion. Nothing but what, to strange ears, might have sounded cold and wanting.
“Thanks, little Rosie,” was all he had said, while his hand held hers. But, at that moment, the girl would rather have foregone life itself than the glance he bestowed upon her out of his grave, dark eyes.
It was many days before any freedom from the fortress farm could be enjoyed. But at last the time came round when the troops began to converge upon the Reservations, and the shepherding process swept the Indians to their homes, a dejected horde, hating but cowed for the moment. As before, as always, their fierce fires of savagery were alight; they were only burning low, for, as every plainsman knows, they are unquenchable.
It was late in the afternoon when the news of their freedom flew through the camp. None but those who have passed through a similar ordeal can realize the unutterable joy and thankfulness that filled each heart. Though possessions had gone and many were absolutely ruined, still liberty was theirs at last. Liberty with its boundless possibilities.
Seth was sitting alone, propped against the charred gate-post of the stockade. He was smoking and resting, and incidentally thinking deeply after a long day’s work. There was much to think about. Rube was slowly recovering under the careful hands of his devoted wife. Mrs. Rickards and Rosebud had relieved the farmwife of all her duties that she might be free to lavish her utmost care upon her staunch old friend and husband. The future prospects of the farm were less involved than the affairs of most of the farmers. The setback of the rebellion was tremendous, but years of thrift had left White River Farm independent of a single year’s crops. Besides the farmhouse and buildings were intact.
But none of these things was in his mind just now. There was something else which filled his heart with unutterable bitterness, which revealed itself in the hard, thoughtful stare of his dark eyes as he gazed out upon the wide encampment of soldiers spreading itself out in all directions.
Every now and then he shifted his gaze into a certain direction, only to turn away with apparent indifference and let his eyes wander over every chance object that attracted them. Once the Agent came to him and they spoke for some moments in a low tone. Then he was again left to his thoughts. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the twilight waned. He remained at his post. There could be no doubt now that he was waiting with some fixed purpose.
At last he turned decidedly in the direction in which he had been so frequently glancing, an
d this time his movement was anticipatory. A dark figure was approaching from among the tents. It was the scout, Jim Crow, who came up and squatted at the white man’s side. The two talked together for a long time, and at last the Indian rose to depart.
“So,” he said, in his pompous fashion, “I do these things. I, Jim Crow. Good.”
“You’ve done good work,” Seth responded casually. “And you’ve been paid for it, I guess. See you do this, sure.”
He watched the Indian while he solemnly spat upon the ground.
“I, Jim Crow, have said.” And with this vaunting claim to honesty the scout abruptly turned and moved away.
A moment later Seth made his way slowly to a small outhouse. He raised the latch of the door and passed within. There were two occupants. The Indian Agent was sitting at a little table smoking and reading, and Nevil Steyne was lying full length upon some outspread blankets upon the floor. This place was the temporary abode of the three men. The farmhouse had been given up to the women and children.
Seth took a seat. As he came in Parker closed his book and put it away. From his blankets Nevil glanced up quickly, and continued to watch the movements of both with expectant eyes. He was aware that permission had been given for every one to leave the farm. Nor did he delude himself. He knew that he was a prisoner.
Seth placed his chair so that he was in full view of the man on the blankets. And his first words were addressed to him.
“Guess you’re goin’ to quit this farm,” he said, calmly, but in a manner which compelled his prisoner’s attention. “I’ve thought a heap, an’ that’s how I’ve got figgerin’. You’re goin’ to quit this night. That is ef you’re so minded.”
He paused, but his grave eyes still surveyed the ungainly form, still stared coldly into the lean unshaven face, into the shifty pale eyes. Nevil made no response. He knew instinctively that this was only a prelude to more that was to follow.
Parker watched Seth. In a measure he was mystified, for the plainsman had never given him his full confidence with regard to Nevil. He suspected a lot, but that was all.
“Guess I don’t need to tell you a deal about yourself,” Seth went on presently. “I’ll just mention that Nevil Steyne ain’t your real name, an’ it wouldn’t take me guessin’ long to locate the other. That’s as mebbe. You’re a skunk,” he proceeded, without raising his voice. “You’re wuss’n a yaller dawg, but even a yaller dawg mostly has an option. That’s how it is wi’ you, seein’ you’re o’ that breed. I ain’t no feelin’ o’ mercy for you anyways, but I’ll give you a chance. Ef you stay right here ther’s the courts as ’ll hang you sure; ef you quit, ther’s the Injuns as you’ve lived by, an’ as you fooled to suit your own dirty schemes. I don’t see as ther’s a great choice for you. Your game’s played, an’ you’re goin’ to cash in, an’ it kind o’ seems to me you’ve got to pay anyways. Wal, you’ll choose right now.”
Nevil had sat up while the other was speaking. He gave no outward sign beyond that one movement. Now he slowly rose to his feet and looked down upon the set face of the arbiter of his fate a little uncertainly. He turned from him to the Agent, who was looking on in no little puzzlement. Then his eyes came back to the relentless face of Seth, and he seemed to be struggling to penetrate the sphinx-like expression he beheld.
He scented danger, he knew there was danger. But even so his mind was made up. He would not face the jury of his white brothers. He believed he understood the Indians, and saw chances in this direction. But there was the wonder why Seth had given him the chance. He had no time to debate the question. His answer was needed.
“I’ll go back to the Indians,” he said, with a hateful laugh, in which there was no semblance of mirth. “As you suggest, a yellow dog can always run for it.”
“Jest so. It ken allus run.”
Then the full bitterness of his position swept over the renegade, and a deep rage stirred the hatred he held for this man who had outwitted him at every turn, and now was in a position to pronounce sentence upon him. And his words came low with concentrated fury.
“Yes, blast you, you can sneer! But I tell you you’re making a mistake. I can twist the Indians around my finger. Bah, I care nothing for them! I shall get clear and save myself, and, as sure as there’s a hell for the damned, you shall pay!”
But the man he addressed remained undisturbed. His manner was imperturbable. He nodded gravely.
“Good,” he said. “Now git—git quick!”
And the man who posed as Nevil Steyne passed out of the hut and out of the fort, urged almost to precipitancy by the suggestion of Seth’s final command.
After his going silence reigned in the little corn shed. Parker had a hundred questions to ask, but none of them came readily to his lips in face of his companion’s silence. In the end it was Seth who spoke first.
“Wal,” he said, with a sigh, “that’s settled.” His words were an expression of relief.
“I don’t understand. You’ve let him go. You’ve given him a chance to get away in safety after——”
“Yes,” responded the other grimly, “a dawg’s chance.”
The answer silenced all further protest.
“Yes,” Seth went on reflectively, “I’ve done with him, I guess; we all have. Say, he’s Rosebud’s uncle.”
“Ah!” Parker was beginning to understand. But he was not yet satisfied, and his ejaculation was an invitation to the other.
Seth went on as though in soliloquy.
“Yes. He’s gone, an’ ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where he’ll finish. Ther’s a hell some’eres. Mebbe he ken twist ’em, the Injuns, around his finger, mebbe he can’t. I ’lows he goin’ to face ’em. They’ll deal out by him as they notion justice, I guess.”
“But he may escape them. He’s slippery.” Parker hated the thought of the man going scot-free.
Seth shook his head.
“No,” he said. “He’ll face ’em. I’ve seen to that, I guess. Jim Crow follers him wherever he goes. An’ Jim Crow hain’t no use for Stephen Raynor.”
“What do you think will happen?”
Parker looked up into the taller man’s face as they stood in the doorway of the hut.
Seth turned. His shoulders shrugged expressively as he moved out and walked toward the farmhouse.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXII
WANAHA THE INDIAN
The moon at its full shone down upon a scene of profound silence. Its silvery rays overpowered the milder starry sheen of the heavens. The woods upon the banks of the White River were tipped with a hard, cold burnish, but their black depths remained unyielding. All was still—so still.
Thousands of Indians are awaiting in silent, stubborn hatred the morrow’s sentence of their white shepherds. A deep passion of hatred and revenge lies heavy on their tempestuous hearts; and upon the heart of their warlike chieftain most of all.
The heart that beats within the Indian bosom is invincible. It is beyond the reach of sympathy, as it is beyond the reach of fear. It stands alone in its devotion to warlike brutality. Hatred is its supreme passion, just as fearlessness is its supreme virtue. And hatred and revenge are moving to-night—moving under the calm covering of apparent peace; moving now lest the morrow should put it beyond the power of the red man to mete out the full measure of his lust for native savagery. And so at last there comes a breaking of the perfect peace of night.
A dark figure moves out of the depths of the woods. It moves slowly toward the log hut of Nevil Steyne. It pauses at a distance and surveys the dim outline against the woodland backing.
Another figure moves out from the woods, and a moment later another and yet another; and each figure follows in the track of the foremost, and they stand talking in low murmurs. Thus twenty-five blanketed figures are gathered before the hut of the white renegade. They are Indians, hoary-headed patriarchs of their race, but glowing with the fierce spirit of youth in their sluggish hearts.
Presently they file away one
by one, and it becomes apparent that each old man is well armed. They spread out and form themselves into a wide circle, which slowly closes in upon the hut. Then each decrepit figure huddles itself down upon its haunches, like some bald-headed vulture settling with heavily flapping wings upon its prey.
Sleep has not visited the eyes of those within the hut. When things go awry with those who live by double-dealing, sleep does not come easily. Nevil Steyne is awake, and his faithful wife keeps him company.
The interior of the hut is dismantled. Bundles of furnishings lie scattered about on the floor. It is plain that this is to be the last night which these two intend to spend in the log hut which has sheltered them so long.
The squaw is lying fully dressed upon the bed, and the man is sitting beside her smoking. They are talking, discussing eagerly that which has held the man’s feverish interest the whole night.
There is no kindness in the man’s tone as he speaks to the woman. He is beset with a fear he cannot conceal. It is in his tone, it is in his eyes, it is in his very restlessness.
The woman is calm. She is an Indian, and in her veins runs the blood of generations of great chiefs. Fear has no place in her heart, but her devotion to her man makes her anxious for him. Her slow, labored use of his language is meant to encourage him, but he takes no comfort from it. His utter selfishness, his cowardice, place him beyond mere verbal encouragement.
“It still wants two hours to dawn,” Nevil exclaimed, referring to his watch for about the twentieth time in the last hour. “God, how the time hangs!”
The woman’s dark eyes were upon his nervous face. She noted the anxious straining of his shifty eyes. Their whites were bloodshot, and his brows were drawn together in the painful concentration of a mind fixed upon one thought.
“It will pass,” she said, with all the hopefulness she could express.
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