When he awoke, a bar of sunshine which at first he mistook for an outcropping of Spanish gold, glowed against the granite wall of his mountain-top retreat. He rose in leisurely fashion—henceforth there would be plenty of time, years of it, running to waste with useless days. After eating and partaking sparingly of the brackish water of the keg, he nailed together two long sideboards of the dismembered wagon; and having secured these end to end, he fastened in parallel strips to the surface short sticks as steps to his ladder. This finished, he made a rope-ladder. The ladder of boards was for use in leaving the cave; the rope-ladder, which he meant to hide under some boulder near the crevice, could be used in making the descent.
The formless mass of inchoate debris, the result of his toilsome journeys of the night before, was left as it had fallen—there would be time enough to sort all that, a hundred times. At present, he would venture forth with the sole object of examining his surroundings. "This suits me exactly," he muttered, with a good-humored chuckle; "just doing one thing at a time, and being everlasting slow about doing that."
Fastening the rope-ladder about his waist, he scaled the boards, and on reaching the top, cast them down. First, he looked all about, but no living creature was in sight. "This is just to my hand," he said aloud, seeking a suitable hiding-place for the rope-ladder; "I always did despise company."
Stowing away the rope-ladder in a secure fissure between two giant blocks of granite, each the size of a large two-story house, he crossed to the first ridge, and looked out over the prairie, to triumph over the vacant spot where the covered wagon had stood fifteen hours before. "No telling what a man can do," he exclaimed admiringly, "that is to say, if his name is Brick Willock."
His eyes wandered to the mound of stones built over the woman's grave. His prayer recurred to his mind. "Well, God," he said, looking up at the cloudless sky, "I guess you're doing it!" After this expression of faith, he turned about and set forth to traverse the mountain range. Passing the ridge which he already looked upon as home, he crossed other ridges of varying height, and at the end of a mile reached the southern limit of the mountain. Like the northern side the southern elevation was nearly four hundred feet, as if the granite sea had dashed upward in fiercest waves, in a last futile attempt to inundate the plain. The southern wall was precipitous, and Willock, looking down the cedar-studded declivity, could gaze directly on the verdant levels that came to the very foot.
He stood at the center of an enormous horseshoe formed on the southwest by the range curving farther toward the south, and on his left hand, by the same range sweeping in a quarter-circle toward the southeast. The mouth of this granite half-circle was opened to the south, at least a quarter-mile in width; but on his left, a jutting spur almost at right angles to the main range, and some hundreds of yards closer to his position, shot across the space within the horseshoe bend, in such fashion that an observer, standing on the plain, would have half his view of the inner concave expanse shut off, except that part of the high north wall that towered above the spur.
Nor was this all. Behind the perpendicular arm, or spur, that ran out into the sea of mesquit, rose a low hill that was itself in the nature of an inner spur although, since it failed to reach the mountain, it might be regarded as a long flat island, surrounded by the calm green tide. This innermost arm, or island, was so near the mountain, that the entrance to it opened into a curved inner world of green, was narrow and strongly protected. The cove thus formed presented a level floor of ten or twelve acres, and it was directly down into this cove that Willock gazed. It looked so peaceful and secure, and its openness to the sunshine was so alluring, that Willock resolved to descend the steep wall. To do so at that point was impractical, but the ridge was unequal and not far to the right, sank to a low divide, while to the left, a deep gully thickly set with cedars, elms, scrub-oaks and thorn trees invited him with its steep but not difficult channel, to the ground.
"Here's a choice," observed Willock, as he turned toward the divide; "guess I'll go by the front, and save the back stairs for an emergency." The gully was his back stairs. He was beginning to feel himself rich in architectural possibilities. When he reached the plain he was outside of a line of hummocks that effectually hid the cove from sight, more effectually because of a dense grove of pecans that stood on either side of the grass-grown dunes. Instead of crossing the barrier, he started due south for the outer prairie, and when at last he stood midway between the wide jaws of the mountain horseshoe, he turned and looked intently toward the cove.
It was invisible, and his highest hopes were realized. From this extended mouth he could clearly see where the first spur shot out into the sand, and beyond that, he could see how, at a distance, the sheer wall of granite rose to the sky; but there was nothing to suggest that behind that scarred arm another projection parallel to it might be discovered. He walked toward the spur, always watching for a possible glimpse of the cove. When he stood on the inner side, his spirits rose higher. The long flat island that he had discerned from the mountain-top was here not to be defined because, on account of its lowness and of the abrupt wall beyond, it was mingled indistinguishably with the perspective of the range. Concealment was made easier from the fact that the ground of the cove was lower than all the surrounding land.
Willock now advanced on the cove and found himself presently in a snug retreat that would have filled with delight the heart of the most desperate highwayman, or the most timid settler. On the north was, of course, the towering mountain-wall, broken by the gully in the protection of whose trees one might creep up or down without detection. On the east, the same mountain-wall curved in high protection. In front was the wide irregular island, low, indeed, but happily high enough to shut out a view of the outside world. At the end of this barricade there was a gap, no wider than a wagon-road, along the side of which ran the dry channel of a mountain stream—the continuation of the gully that cut the mountain-wall from top to base—but even this gap was high enough to prevent observation from the plain.
No horsemen could enter the cove save by means of that low trench, cut as by the hand of man in the granite hill, and as Indian horsemen were the only enemies to be dreaded, his watchfulness need be concentrated only on that one point. "Nothing like variety," observed Willock cheerfully.
"This will do capital for my summer home! I'm going to live like a lord—while I'm living."
He examined the ground and found that it was rich and could be penetrated easily, even to the very foot of the mountain. "I'll just get my spade," he remarked, "as I ain't got nothing else to do." In deliberate slowness he returned up the divide, and got the spade from his retreat, then brought it to the cove. Selecting a spot near the channel of the dried-up torrent, he began to dig, relieved to find that he did not strike rock.
"I guess," he said, stopping to lean on his spade as he stared at the mountain, "the earth just got too full of granite and biled over, but was keerful to spew it upwards, so's to save as much ground as it could, while relieving its feelings."
Presently the earth on his blade began to cling from dampness. "When I digs a well," he remarked boastingly, "what I want is water, and that's what I gets. As soon as it's deep enough I'll wall her up with rocks and take the longest drink that man ever pulled off, that is to say, when it was nothing but common water. They ain't nothing about water to incite you to keep swallowing when you have enough. Of a sudden you just naturally leggo and could drown in it without wanting another drop. That's because it's nature. Art is different. I reckon a nice clean drinking-joint and a full-stocked bar is about the highest art that can stimulate a man. But in nature, you know when you've got enough."
After further digging he added, "And I got about enough of THIS! I mean the mountains and the plains and the sand and the wind and the cave and the cove—" he wiped away the dripping sweat and looked at the sun. "Yes, and of you, too!" He dropped the spade, and sat down on the heap of dirt. "Oh, Lord, but I'm lonesome! I got plenty to say, but nobody to listen at me."
He clasped his great hands about his knee, and stared sullenly at the surrounding ramparts of red and brown granite, dully noting the fantastic layers, the huge round stones that for ages had been about to roll down into the valley but had never started, and others cut in odd shapes placed one upon another in columns along the perpendicular wall. The sun beat on the long matted hair of his bared head, but the ceaseless wind brought relief from its pelting rays. He, however, was conscious neither of the heat nor of the refreshing touch.
At last he rose slowly to his towering legs and picked up the spade. "You're a fool, Brick Willock," he said harshly. "Ain't you got that well to dig? And then can't you go for your kaig and bring it here, and carry it back full of fresh water? Dinged if there ain't enough doings in your world to furnish out a daily newspaper!" He began to dig, adding in an altered tone: "And Brick, HE says—'Nothing ain't come to the worst, as long as you're living,' says Brick!"
He was proud of the well when it was completed; the water was cold and soft as it oozed up through clean sand, and the walls of mud-mortised rocks promised permanency. One did not have to penetrate far into the bottom-lands of that cove to find water which for unnumbered years had rushed down the mountainside in time of rain-storms to lie, a vast underground reservoir, for the coming of man. Willock could reach the surface of the well by lying on his stomach and scooping with his long arm. He duly carried out his program, and when the keg was filled with fresh water, it was time for dinner.
After a cold luncheon of sliced boiled ham and baker's bread, he returned to the cove, where he idled away the afternoon under the shade of tall cedar trees whose branches came down to the ground, forming impenetrable pyramids of green.
Stretched out on the short buffalo-grass he watched the white flecks follow one another across the sky; he observed the shadows lengthening from the base of the western arm of the horseshoe till they threatened to swallow up him and his bright speck of world; he looked languidly after the flights of birds, and grinned as he saw the hawks dart into round holes in the granite wall not much larger than their bodies—those mysterious holes perforating the precipice, seemingly bored there by a giant auger.
"Go to bed, pards," he called to the hawks. "I reckon it's time for me, too!" He got up—the sun had disappeared behind the mountain. He stretched himself, lifting his arms high above his head and slowly drawing his fists to his shoulder, his elbows luxuriously crooked. "One thing I got," he observed, "is room, plenty! Well—" he started toward the divide for his upward climb, "I've lived a reasonable long life; I am forty-five; but I do think that since I laid down under that tree, I have thought of everything I ever done or said since I was a kid. Guess I'll save the future for another afternoon—and after that, the Lord knows what I'm going to do with my brain, it's that busy."
The next day he began assorting the contents of his granite home, moving to the task with conscientious slowness, stopping a dozen times to make excursions into the outside world. By diligent economy of his working moments, he succeeded in covering almost two weeks in the labor of putting his house into order. His bedroom was next to the barricade that separated the long stone excavation from the bottomless abyss. Divided from the bedroom by an imaginary line, was the store-room of provisions. The cans and boxes were arranged along the floor with methodical exactitude. Different varieties of fruit and preserves were interspersed in such fashion that none was repeated until every variety had been passed.
"I begins with this can of peaches," said Willock, laying his finger upon the beginning of the row—"then comes apples, pears, plums; then peaches, apples, pears, plums; then peaches, apples, pears, plums; then peaches—blest if I don't feel myself getting sick of 'em already.... And now my meats: bacon, ham. My breadstuffs: loaves, crackers. My fillers: sardines, more sardines, more sardines, likewise canned tomatoes. Let me see—is it too much to say that I eats a can of preserves in two days? Maybe three. That is, till I sickens. I begins with peach-day. This is Monday. Say Thursday begins my apple-days. I judge I can worm myself down through the list by this time next month. One thing I am sot on: not to save nothing if I can bring my stomach to carry the burden with a willing hand. I'll eat mild and calm, but steadfast. Brick Willock he says, 'Better starve all at once, when there's nothing left, than starve a little every day,' says Brick. 'When it's a matter of agony,' says he, 'take the short cut.'"
In arranging his retreat, he had left undisturbed the wagon-tongue, since removing it from the end of the floor for a more secure barricade; it had stood with several of the sideboards against the wall, as if Brick meditated using them for a special purpose. Such was indeed his plan, and it added some zest to his present employment to think of what he meant to do next; this was nothing less than to make a dugout in the cove.
To this enterprise he was prompted not only by a desire to vary his monotonous days, but to insure safety from possible foes. Should a skulking savage, or, what would be worse, a stray member of the robber band catch sight of him among the hills, the spy would spread the news among his fellows. A relentless search would be instituted, and even if Willock succeeded in escaping, the band would not rest till it had discovered his hiding-place. If they came on the dugout, their search would terminate, and his home in the crevice would escape investigation; but if there was no dugout to satisfy curiosity, the crevice would most probably be explored.
"Two homes ain't too many for a character like me, nohow," remarked Brick, as he set the wagon-tongue and long boards on end to be drawn up through the crevice. "Cold weather will be coming on in due time—say three or four months—and what's that to me? a mere handful of time! Well, I don't never expect to make a fire in my cave, I'll set my smoke out in the open where it can be traced without danger to my pantry shelves."
He was even slower about building the dugout than he had been in arranging the miscellaneous objects in the cavern on top of the mountain. Transporting the timbers across a mile of ridges and granite troughs was no light work; and when his tools and material were in the cove, the digging of the dugout was protracted because of the closeness of water to the surface. At last he succeeded in excavating the cellar at a spot within a few yards of the mountain, without penetrating moistened sand. He leveled down the walls till he had a chamber about twelve feet square. Over this he placed the wagon-tongue, converting it into the ridge-pole, which he set upon forks cut from the near-by cedars. Having trimmed branches of the trees in the grove, he laid them as close together as possible, slanting from the ridge-pole to the ground, and over these laid the bushy cedar branches. This substantial roof he next covered with dirt, heaping it up till no glimpse of wood was visible tinder the hard-packed dome. The end of the dugout was closed up in the same way except for a hole near the top fitted closely to the stovepipe and packed with mud.
Of the sideboards he fashioned a rude frame, then a door to stand in it, fitted into grooves that it might be pushed and held into place without hinges. "Of course I got to take down my door every time I comes in or out," remarked Willock, regarding his structure with much complacency, "but they's nothing else to do, and I got to be occupied."
When he had transported the stove to the cove, he set it up with a tingle of expectant pleasure. It was to be his day of housewarming, not because the weather had grown cold, but that he might celebrate.
"This here," he said, "is to be a red-letter day, a day plumb up in X, Y and Z. I got to take my gun and forage for some game; then I'll dress my fresh meat and have a cooking. I'll bring over some grub to keep it company. Let's see—this is plum-day, ain't it?" He stood meditating, stroking his wild whiskers with a grimy hand. "Oh, Lord, yes, I believe it IS plum-day! 'Well, they ain't nothing the way you would have made it yourself,' says Brick, 'not even though it's you as made it.' This here is plum-day, and that there can of plums will shore be opened. And having my first fire gives me a chance to open up my sack of flour; won't I hold carnival! What I feels sorry about myself is knowing how I'm going to feel after I've et all them victuals. I believe I'll take a bath, too, in that pool over yonder in the grove. Ain't I ever going to use that there soap?... But I don't say as I will. Don't seem wuth while. They ain't nobody to see me, and I feels clean insides. As I takes it, you do your washing for them as neighbors with you. If I had a neighbor!—just a dog, a little yaller dog—or some chickens to crow and cackle—"
He broke off, to lean despondently on his gun. He remained thus motionless for a long time, his earth-stained garments, unkempt hair, hard dark hands and gloomy eye marking him as the only object in the bright sunshine standing forth unresponsive to nature's smile.
He started into life with a shrug of his powerful shoulders. "It's just like you, Brick, to spoil a festibul-day with your low idees! Why don't you keep them idees for a rainy day? Just lay up them regrets and hankerings for the first rainy day, and then be of a piece with the heavens and earth. 'If you can't stay cheerful while the sun's shining,' says Brick, 'God's wasting a mighty nice big sun on YOU!'"
Thus admonishing himself, and striving desperately for contentment, he strode forth from the only exit of the cove, and skirted the southern wall of the range, looking for game. It was late in the afternoon when he returned with the best portions of a deer swung over his shoulder. By this time he was desperately hungry, and the prospect of the first venison since his exile stirred his pulses, and gave to the bright scene a cheerful beauty it had not before worn to his homesick heart. He trudged up to the narrow door of the dugout which was closed, just as he had left it, and having carried a noble haunch of venison to the pool to be washed, he descended the dirt steps and set the door to one side. Without at first understanding why, he became instantly aware that some one had been there during his absence.
Of course, as soon as his eyes could penetrate the semi-gloom sufficiently to distinguish small objects, he saw the proof; but even before that, the air seemed tingling with some strange personality. He stood like a statue, gazing fixedly. His alert eyes, always on guard, had assured him that the cove was deserted—there was no use to look behind him. Whoever had been there must have scaled the mountain, and had either crossed to the plain on the north, or was hiding behind the rocks. What held his eyes to the stove was a heap of tobacco, and a clay pipe beside it. Among the stores removed from the wagon, tobacco had been found in generous quantity, but during the month now elapsed, bad been sadly reduced. Willock, however, was not pleased to find the new supply; on the contrary his emotions were confused and alarmed. Had the tobacco been ten times as much, it could not have solaced him for the knowledge that the dugout had been visited.
After a few minutes of immobility, he entered, placed the meat on a box, and departed softly, closing the door behind him. Casting apprehensive glances along the mountainside, he stole toward it, and made his way up the gully, completely hidden by the straggling line of trees and underbrush, till he stood on the summit. He approached each ridge with extreme caution, as if about to storm the barricade of an enemy; thus he traveled over the range without coming on the traces of his mysterious visitor. Not pausing at the crevice, he went on to the outer northern ridge of the range, and lying flat among some high rocks, looked down.
He counted seventeen men near the spot from which he had removed the wagon. Fifteen were on horseback and two riderless horses explained the presence of the two on foot. All of them had drawn up in a circle about the heap of stones that covered the woman's burial-place. Of the seventeen, sixteen were Indians, painted and adorned for the war-path. The remaining man, he who stood at the heap of stones beside the chief, was a white man, and at the first glance, Willock recognized him; he was the dead woman's husband, Henry Gledware.
Brick's mind was perplexed with vain questionings: Was it Gledware who had visited his dugout, or the Indians? Did the pipe and tobacco indicate a peace-offering? What was the relationship between Gledware and these Indians? Was he their prisoner, and were they about to burn him upon the heap of stones? He did not seem alarmed. Had he made friends with the chief by promising to conduct him to the deserted wagon? If so, what would they think in regard to the wagon's disappearance? Had the dugout persuaded them that there was no other retreat in the mountains?
While Brick watched in agitated suspense, several Indians leaped to the ground at a signal from the chief and advanced toward the white man. The chief turned his back upon the company, and started toward the mountain, his face turned toward Brick's place of observation. He began climbing upward, the red feather in his hair gleaming against the green of the cedars. Brick had but to remain where he was, to reach forth his hand presently and seize the warrior—but in that case, those on the plain would come swarming up the ascent for vengeance.
Brick darted from his post, swept like a dipping swallow across the ravine, and snatching up the rope-ladder from its nook under the boulder, scurried down into the granite chamber. Having removed the ladder, he crept to the extremity of the excavation, and with his back against the wall and his gun held in readiness, awaited the coming of the chief. After the lapse of many minutes he grew reassured; the Indian, thinking the dugout his only home, had passed the crevice without the slightest suspicion.
However, lest in thrusting forth his head, he call attention to his home in the rock, he kept in retreat the rest of that day, nor did he venture forth that night. After all, the housewarming did not take place. The stove remained cold, the tobacco and pipe upon it were undisturbed, and the evening meal consisted notably of plums.
One bright warm afternoon in October two years later, Brick Willock sat smoking his pipe before the open door of his dugout, taking advantage of the mountain-shadow that had just reached that spot. In repose, he always sat, when in the cove, with his face toward the natural roadway leading over the flat hill-island into the farther reach of the horseshoe. It was thus he hoped to prevent surprise from inimical horsemen, and it was thus that, on this particular afternoon, he detected a shadow creeping over the reddish-brown stone passage before its producing cause rode suddenly against the background of the blue sky.
At first glimpse of that shadow of a feathered head, Willock flung himself down the dirt steps leading to the open door; now, lying flat, he directed the barrel of his gun over the edge of the level ground, covering an approaching horseman. As only one Indian came into view, and as this Indian was armed in a manner as astounding as it was irresistible, Willock rose to his height of six-foot-three, lowered his weapon, and advanced to meet him.
When he was near, the Indian—the same chief from whom Willock had fled on the day of his intended housewarming—this Indian sprang lightly to the ground, and lifted from the horse that defense which he had borne in front of him on penetrating the cove; it was the child for whose sake Willock had separated himself from his kind.
At first, Willock thought he was dreaming one of those dreams that had solaced his half-waking hours, for he had often imagined how it would be if that child were in the mountains to bear him company. But however doubtful he might he regarding her, he took no chances about the Indian, but kept his alert gaze fixed on him to forestall any design of treachery.
The Indian made a sign to the little girl to remain with the horse; then he glided forward, holding somewhat ostentatiously, a filled pipe in his extended hand. He had evidently come to knit his soul to that of his white brother while the smoke from their pipes mingled on the quiet air, forming a frail and uncertain monument to the spirit of peace.
"Was it you that left a pipe and tobacco on my stove two years ago?" Willock asked abruptly.
"Yes. You got it? We will smoke." He seated himself gravely on the ground.
Willock went into the cabin, and brought out the clay pipe. They smoked. Willock cast covert glances toward the girl. She stood slim and straight, her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the horse whose halter she held. Her limbs were bare and a blanket that descended to her knees seemed her only garment. The face of the sleeping child of five was the same, however, as this of the seven-year-old maid, except that it had grown more beautiful; the wealth of glowing brown hair made amends for all poverty of attire.
Willock was wonderfully moved; so much so that his manner was harsh, his voice gruff in the extreme. "What are you going to do with that girl?" he demanded.
"You take her?" inquired the chief passively.
"Yes—I take her."
"Good!" The Indian smoked serenely.
"Where'd you find her?"
"Not been lost. Her safe all time. Sometime in one village—here, then there, two, three—move her about. Safe all time. I never forget. There she is. You take her?"
"I said so, didn't I? Where's her daddy?"
The Indian said nothing, only smoked, his eyes fixed on space.
Willock raised his voice. "Must I ask HER where he is?"
"Her not know. Her not seen him one, two year. She say him dead."
"Oh, he's dead, is he?"
"Him safe, too." He looked at the sun. "Long trail before me. Then I leave her. I go, now."
"Not much you don't go! Not THIS minute. Where is that girl's daddy?"
No answer.
"If he's safe, why hasn't she been with him all this time?"
"Me big chief."
"Oh, yes, I judge you are. But that's nothing to me. I'm big chief, too. I own this corner of the universe—and I want to know about that girl's daddy."
"Him great man."
"Well—go ahead; tell the rest of it."
"Him settle among my tribe; him never leave our country. 'Big country, fat country, very rich. Him change name—everything; him one of us. Marry my daughter. THAT girl not his daughter—daughter of dead woman. Keep her away from him all time, so him never see white man, white woman, white child, forget white people, be good Indian. The girl make him think of dead woman. When a man marry again, not good to remember dead woman. Him think girl dead, but no care, no worry, no sad. SHE never his daughter—dead woman's daughter. All his path is white, no more blue. Him very glad, every day—my daughter his wife. She keep scalp-knife from his head. My braves capture—they dance about fire, she say 'No.' She marry him. Their path is white; the sky over them is white."
He rose, straight as an arrow, and turned his grim face toward the horse.
"I see. And you don't want to tell me where he is, because you want him to forget he is a white man?"
"Him always live with my people; him marry my daughter."
"Tell me this; is he far away?"
"Very far. Many days. You never find him. You stay here, keep girl, and me and my people your friends. You come after him—not your friends!"
"Why, bless your heart, I never want to see that man again; your daughter is welcome to him, but I'm afraid she's got a bad bargain. This girl's just as I'd have her—unencumbered. I'm AWFUL glad you come, pardner! Whenever you happen to be down in this part of Texas, drop in and make us a visit!"
With every passing moment, Willock was realizing more keenly what this amazing sequel to the past meant to him. He would not only have company in his dreary solitude, but, of all company, the very one he yearned for to comfort his heart. "Give us your paw, old man—shake. You bet I'll take her!"
He strode forward and addressed the girl: "Are you willing to stay with me, little one?"
She shrank back from the wild figure. During his two years of hiding in the mountains, Willock had cared nothing for his personal appearance. His garments, on disintegrating had been replaced by skins, thus giving an aspect of assorted colors and materials rather remarkable. Only when driven by necessity had he ventured on long journeys to the nearest food-station, carrying the skins obtained by trapping, and bringing back fresh stores of provisions and tobacco on the pony purchased by the Spanish gold.
Willock was greatly disconcerted by her attitude. He said regretfully, "I guess I've been so much with myself that I ain't noticed my outside as a man ought. Won't you make your home with me, child?" He held out his rough hand appealingly.
She retreated farther, saying with disapproval, "Much hair!"
Willock laid his hand on his breast, returning, "Much heart!"
"Him white," said the Indian, swinging himself upon his horse. "Him save your life. Sometime me come visit, come eat, come stay with you."
As he wheeled about, she held out her arms toward him, crying wildly, "Don't go! Don't leave me! Him much hair!"
The Indian dashed away without turning his head.
"Good lord, honey," exclaimed Willock, at his wits' ends, "don't cry! I can't do nothing if you CRY. Won't you come look at your new home?" He waved eagerly toward the dugout.
"Hole in the ground!" cried the girl desperately. "I want my tepee. Am I a prairie-dog?"
"No, honey, you ain't. You and me is both white, and we ought to live together; it ain't right for you to live with red people that kills and burns your own kith and kin."
She looked at him repellently through her streaming tears. "Big hair!" she cried. "Big hair!"
"And must I cut it off? I'll make my head as smooth as yonder bald-headed mountain-peak if it'll keep you from crying. Course you ain't seen nobody with whiskers amongst them Indians, but THEY ain't your people. Your people is white, they are like me, they grows hair. But I'll shave and paint myself red, and hunt for feathers, if that's what you want."
Her sobbing grew less violent. Despite his ferocious aspect, no fear could remain in her heart at sight of that distressed countenance, at sound of those conciliatory tones. Willock, observing that the tempest was abating, continued in his most appealing manner:
"I'm going to do whatever you say, honey, and you're going to be the queen of the cove. Ain't you never been lonesome amongst all them red devils? Ain't you missed your poor mammy as died crossing the plains? It was me that buried her. Ain't you never knowed how it felt to want to lay your head on somebody's shoulder and slip your little arms about his neck, and go to sleep like an angel whatever was happening around? I guess SO! Well, that's me, too. Here I've been for two long year, never seeing nothing but wild animals or prowling savages till the last few months when a settler comes to them mountains seven mile to the southwest. Looked like I'd die, sometimes, just having myself to entertain."
"You lonesome, too?" said the girl, looking up incredulously. She drew a step nearer, a wistful light in her dark eyes.
The man stretched out his arms and dropped them to his side, heavily. "Like that," he cried—"just emptiness!"
"I stay," she said simply. "All time, want my own people; all time, Red Feather say some day take me to white people—want to go, all time. But Red Feather never tell me 'BIG HAIR.' Didn't know what it was I was looking for—never thought it would be something like you."
"But you ain't afraid now, are you, little one?"
She shook her head, and drawing nearer, seated herself on the ground before the dugout. "You LOOK Big Hair," she explained sedately, "but your speech is talk of weak squaw."
Somewhat disconcerted by these words, Willock sat down opposite her, and resumed his pipe as if to assert his sex. "I seem weak to you," he explained, "because I love you, child, and want to make friends with you. But let me meet a big man—well, you'd see, then!" He looked so ferocious as he uttered these words, that she started up like a frightened quail, grasping her blanket about her.
"No, no, honey," he cooed abjectly, "I wouldn't hurt a fly. Me, I was always a byword amongst my pards. They'd say, 'There goes Brick Willock, what never harmed nobody.' When they kept me in at school I never clumb out the window, and it was me got all the prize cards at Sunday-school. How comes it, honey, that you ain't forgot to talk like civilized beings?"
"Red Feather, him always put me with squaw that know English—that been to school on the reservation. Never let me learn talk like the Indians. Him always say some day take me to my own people. But never said 'BIG HAIR.'"
"Did he tell you your mother died two years ago?"
"Yes—father, him dead, too. Both died in the plains. Father was shot by robbers. Mother was left in big wagon—you bury her near this mountain."
"Oh, ho! So your father was killed at the same time your mother was, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well—all right. And now you got nobody but me to look after you—but you don't need no more; as long as I'm able to be up and about, nothing is going to hurt you. Just you tell me what you want, and it'll be did."
"Want to be ALL like white people; want to be just like mother."
"Well, I'll teach you as fur up as I've been myself. Your style of talk ain't correct, but it was the best Red Feather could do by you. Him and you lay down your words like stepping-stones for your thoughts to step over; but just listen at me, how smooth and fine-textured my language is, with no breaks or crevices from the beginning of my periods to where my voice steps down to start on a lower ledge. That's the way white people talks, not that they got more to say than Injuns, but they fills in, and embodies everything, like filling up cabin-walls with mud. I'll take you by the hand right from where Red Feather left you, and carry you up the heights."
She examined him dubiously: "You know how?"
"I ain't no bell-wether in the paths of learning, honey, but Red Feather is some miles behind me. What's your name?"
"Lahoma."
"Born that way, or Injunized?"
"Father before he died, him all time want to go settle in the Oklahoma country—settle on a claim with mother. They go there two times—three—but soldiers all time make them go back to Kansas. So me, I was born and they named me Oklahoma—but all time they call me Lahoma. That I must be called, Lahoma because that father and mother all time call me. Lahoma, that my name." She inquired anxiously, "You call me Lahoma?" She leaned forward, hands upon knees, in breathless anxiety.
"You bet your life I will, Lahoma!"
"Then me stay all time with you—all time. And you teach me talk right, and dress right, and be like mother and my white people? You teach me all that?"
"That's the program. I'm going to civilize you—that means to make you like white folks. It's going to take time, but the mountains is full of time."
"You 'civilize' me right now?— You begin today?" She started up and stood erect with arms folded, evidently waiting for treatment.
"The process will be going on all the while you're associating with me, honey. That chief, Red Feather—he has a daughter, hasn't he?"
"No; him say no girl, no boy." She spoke with confidence.
"I see. And your father's dead too, eh?" Evidently Red Feather had thoroughly convinced her of the truth of these pretenses.
"Both—mother, father. Nobody but me." She knelt down at his side, her face troubled. "If I had just one!"
"Can you remember either of them?"
"Oh, yes, yes—and Red Feather, him talk about them, talk, talk, always say me be white with the white people some day. This is the day. You make me like mother was. You civilize me—begin!" She regarded him with dignified attention, her little hands locked about her blanket where it lay folded below her knees. The cloud had vanished from her face and her eyes sparkled with expectancy.
"I ain't got the tools yet, honey. They's no breaking up and enriching land that ain't never bore nothing but buffalo-grass, without I have picks and spades and plows and harrers. I got to get my tools, to begin."
She stiffened herself. "You needn't be afraid I'll cry. I WANT you to hurt me, if that the way."
"It ain't like a pain in the stomach, Lahoma. All I gets for you will be some books. Them is the tools I'm going to operate with."
"Books? What are books?"
"Books?" Willock rubbed his bushy head in desperation. "Books? Why, they is just thoughts that somebody has ketched and put in a cage where they can't get away. You go and look at them thoughts somebody capable has give rise to, and when you finds them as has never ranged in your own brain, you captures 'em, puts your brand on 'em, and serves 'em out in your own herd. You see, Lahoma, what you think in your own brain ain't of no service, for YOU don't know nothing. If you want to be civilized, you got to lasso other people's thoughts—people as has went to and fro and has learned life—and you got to dehorn them ideas, and tame 'em."
Lahoma examined him with new interest. "Are YOU civilized?" Her countenance fell.
"Not to no wide extent, but I can ford toler'ble deep streams that would drown you, honey. Just put confidence in me, and when I get over my head, I'll holler for help. I judge I can put five good years' work on you without exhausting my stores. I can read amongst the small words pretty peart—the young calves, so to say—and lots of them big steers in three or four syllables,—I can sort o' guess at their road-brands from the company I've saw 'em traveling with, in times past. And I can write my own name, and yours too, I reckon.—Lahoma Gledware—yes, I'm toler'ble well versed on a capital 'G'—you just make a gap with a flying tail to it."
"My name NOT Lahoma Gledware," she interposed in some severity. "My name, Lahoma Willock. Beautiful name—lovely, like flower—Willock; call me Lahoma Willock—like song of little stream. Gledware, hard—rough."
Brick Willock stared at her in amazement. "Where'd you get that from?"
"My name Lahoma Willock—Red Feather tell me."
He smoked in silence, puffing rapidly. Then—"My name is Brick Willock. How came you to be named Lahoma Willock?"
Lahoma suggested thoughtfully—"All white people named Willock?"
"There's a few," Willock shook his head, "with less agreeable names. But after all, I'm glad you have my name. Yes—the more I think on it, the more pleased I get. I reckon we're sort of kinfolks, anyhow. Well, honey, this is enough talk about being civilized; now let's make the first move on the way. You want to see your mother's grave, and lay some of these wild flowers on it. That's a part of being civilized, caring for graves is. It's just savages as forgets the past and consequently never learns nothing. Come along. Them moccasins will do famous until I can get you shoes from the settlements. It's seventy mile to Vernon, Texas, and none too easy miles. But I got a pony the first time I ventured to Doan's store, and it'll carry you, if I have to walk at your side. We'll make a festibul march of that journey, and lay in clothes as a girl should wear, and books to last through the winter."
Willock rose and explained that they must cross the mountain. As they traversed it, he reminded her that she had not gathered any of the flowers that were scattered under sheltering boulders.
"Why?" asked Lahoma, showing that her neglect to do so was intentional.
"Well, honey, don't you love and honor that mother that bore so much pain and trouble for you, traveling with you in her arms to the Oklahoma country, trying to make a home for you up there in the wilderness, and at last dying from the hardships of the plains. Ain't she worth a few flowers."
"She dead. She not see flowers, not smell flowers, not know."
Willock said nothing, but the next time they came to a clump of blossoms he made a nosegay. Lahoma watched him with a face as calm and unemotional as that of Red Feather, himself. She held her back with the erect grace and moved her limbs with the swift ease of those among whom she had passed the last two years. In delightful harmony with this air of wildness was the rich and delicate beauty of her sun-browned face, and the golden glow of her silken brown hair. Willock's heart yearned toward her as only the heart of one destined to profound loneliness can yearn toward the exquisite grace and unconscious charm of a child; but to the degree that he felt this attraction, he held himself firmly aloof, knowing that wild animals are frightened when kindness beams without its veil.
"What you do with that?" She pointed at the flowers in his rough hand.
"I'm going to put 'em on your mother's grave."
"She not know. Not see, not smell. She dead, mother dead."
"Lahoma, do you know anything about God?"
"Yes—Great Spirit. God make my path white."
"Well, I want God to know that somebody remembers your mother. It's God that smells the flowers on the graves of the dead."
They walked on. Pretty soon Lahoma began looking about for flowers, but they had reached the last barren ledge, and no more came in sight.
"Take these, Lahoma."
"No. Couldn't fool God." They began the last descent. Willock suddenly discovered that tears were slipping down the girl's face. He said nothing; he did not fear, now, for he thought the tears promised a brighter dawning.
Suddenly Lahoma cried joyfully, "Oh, look, Brick, look!" And she darted toward the spot at the foot of a tall cedar, where purple and white blossoms showed in profusion. She gathered an armful, and they went down to the plain.
"Her head's toward the west," he said, as they stood beside the pile of stones. Lahoma placed the flowers at the Western margin of the pyramid. Willock laid his at the foot of the grave. The sun had set and the warmth of the heated sand was tempered by a fragrant breeze. Though late in October, he felt as if spring were just dawning. He took Lahoma's hand, and his heart throbbed to find that she showed no disposition to draw away.
He looked up with a great sigh of thanksgiving. "Well, God," he said softly, "here she is—You sure done it!"