Elsie dreamed she was at the theatre. The opera was "Il Trovatore," and at the moment when the prison song—that worn yet ever-mournful cry—should have pulsed forth; but in its stead another strain came floating from afar, a short phrase equally sad, which sank slowly, as a fragment of cloud descends from sky to earth to become tears of dew on the roses. Over and over again it was repeated, so sad, so sweet, so elemental, it seemed that the pain of all love's vain regret was in it, longing and sorrow and despair, without relief, without hope, defiant of death.
Slowly the walls of the theatre faded. The gray light of morning crept into the dreamer's eyes, and she was aware of the walls of her tent and knew she had been dreaming. But the sorrowful song went on, with occasional slight deviations of time and tone, but always the same. Beginning on a high key, it fell by degrees, hesitating, momentarily swooping upward, yet ever falling, till at last it melted in with the solemn moan of the pines stirring above her head. Then she drowsed again, and seemed to be listening to the wailing song with some one whose hand she held. As she turned to ask whence the music came a little shudder seized her, for the eyes looking into hers were not those of Lawson. Curtis faced her, grave and sweet.
With this shock she wakened, but the song had ceased. She waited in silence, hoping to hear it again. When fully aroused to her surroundings, she was convinced that she had dreamed the music as well as the hand-clasp, and a flush ran over her. "Why should I dream in that way ofhim?"
She heard the soft lisp of moccasined feet outside the tent, and immediately after the sound of an axe. Presently the fire began to crackle, and the rising sun threw a flood of golden light against the canvas wall. Jennie lifted her arms and yawned, and at last sat up and listened. Catching Elsie's eye she said: "Good-morning, dear. How did you sleep?"
"Deliciously—but did you hear some one singing just before sunrise?"
"No—did you?"
"I thought I did; but perhaps I dreamed it."
"Where did it seem to come from?"
"Oh, from away off and high up—the saddest song—a phrase constantly repeated."
"Oh, I know. It was some young Tetong lover playing the flute. They often do that when the girls are going for water in the morning. Isn't it beautiful?"
"I never heard anything so sad."
"All their songs are sad. George says the primitive love-songs of all races are the same. But Two Horns has the fire going, and I must get up and superintend breakfast. You need not rise till I call."
Mrs. Parker began to stir. "Jerome! What time is it?"
The girls laughed as Jerome, in the other tent, replied, sweetly:
"Time to arise, Honey Plum."
Mrs. Parker started up and stared around, her eyes still misty with slumber. "I slept the whole night through," she finally remarked, as if in answer to a question, and her voice expressed profound astonishment.
"Didn't hear the wolves, did you, pet?" called Parker.
"Wolves! No. Did they howl?"
"Howl is no name for it. They tied themselves into double bow-knots of noise."
"I don't believe it."
Elsie replied: "I didn't hear anything but the music. Did you hear the singing?"
Lawson spoke. "You people have the most active imaginations. All I heard was the wind in the pines, and an occasional moose walking by."
"Moose!" cried Mrs. Parker. "Why, they're enormous creatures."
Jennie began to laugh. "You people will need to hurry to be ready for breakfast. I'm going to put the coffee on." She slipped outside. "Oh, girls! Get up at once, it's glorious out here on the lake!"
Curtis was busy about the camp-fire. "Good-morning, sis. Here are some trout for breakfast."
"Trout!" shouted Lawson, from the tent.
"Trout!" echoed Parker. "We'll be there," and the tent bulged and flapped with his hasty efforts at dressing.
In gay spirits they gathered round their rude table, Parker and Jennie particularly jocular. Curtis was puzzled by some subtle change in Elsie. Her gaze was not quite so frank, and her color seemed a little more fitful; but she was as merry as a child, and enjoyed every makeshift as though it were done for the first time and for her own amusement.
"What's the programme for to-day?" asked Parker.
"After I inspect the saw-mill we will hook up and move over the divide to the head-waters of the Willow and camp with Red Wolf's band."
Parker coughed. "Well, now—of course, Captain, we are depending on you."
Curtis smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to go back to the agency?"
"No, sirree, bob! I'm sticking right to your coat-tails till we're out o' the woods."
Lawson interposed. "You wouldn't infer that Parker had ever had a Parisian education, would you?"
Parker was not abashed. "I know what you mean. Those are all expressions my father used. They stick to me like fly-paper."
"I've tried and tried to break him of his plebeian phrases, but I cannot," Mrs. Parker said, with sad emphasis.
"I wouldn't try," replied Jennie. "I like them."
"Thank you, lady, thank you," Parker fervently made answer.
Curtis hurried away to look at the saw-mill. Lawson and Parker went fishing, and Elsie got out her paint-box and started another sketch. The morning was glorious, the air invigorating, and she painted joyously with firm, plashing strokes. Never had she been so sure of her brush. Life and art were very much worth while—only now and then a disturbing wish intruded—it was only a vague and timid longing; but it grew a little in power each time. Once she looked steadily and soberly at the ring whose jewel sparkled like a drop of dew on the third finger of her left hand.
A half-hour later Curtis came back, walking rapidly. Seeing her at work he deflected from the straight trail and drew near.
"I think that is wonderful," he said, as he looked at her sketch. "I don't see how you do so much with so few strokes."
"That always puzzles the layman," she replied. "But it's really very simple."
"When you know how. I hope you're enjoying your trip with us?"
She flashed a smile that was almost coquettish upon him. "It is glorious. I am so happy I'm afraid it won't last."
"We always feel that way about any keen pleasure," he replied, soberly. "Now I can't keep the thought of your going out of my mind. Every hour or two I find myself saying, 'It'll be lonesome business when these artists leave us.'"
"You mustn't speak of anything sorrowful this week. Let's be as happy as we can."
He pondered a fitting reply, but at last gave it up and said: "If you are satisfied with your sketch, we'll start. I see the teams are ready."
"Oh yes, I'm ready to go. I just wanted to make a record of the values—they are changing so fast now," and she began to wipe her brushes and put away her panel. "I don't care where we go so we keep in the pines and have the mountains somewhere in sight."
It must have been in remorse of her neglect of Lawson the preceding day that Elsie insisted on sitting beside him in the back seat, while Mrs. Parker took her place with the driver. The keen pang of disappointment which crossed his heart warned Curtis that his loyalty to his friend was in danger of being a burden, and the drive was robbed of all the blithe intercourse of the day before. Parker and Jennie fought clamorously on a variety of subjects in the middle distance, but Curtis was hardly more than courteous to Mrs. Parker—so absorbed was he in some inner controversy.
Retracing their course to the valley the two wagons crossed the stream and crawled slowly up the divide between the Elk and the Willow, and at one o'clock came down upon a sparse village of huts and tepees situated on the bank of a clear little stream—just where it fell away from a narrow pond which was wedged among the foot-hills like an artificial reservoir. The year was still fresh and green here, and the air was like May.
Dogs were barking and snarling round the teams, as a couple of old men left the doors of their tepees and came forward. One of them was gray-haired, but tall and broad-shouldered. This was Many Coups, a famous warrior and one of the historians of his tribe. He greeted the agent soberly, expressing neither fear nor love, asking: "Who are these with you? I have not seen them before."
To this Curtis replied: "They are my friends. They make pictures of the hills and the lakes and of chieftains like Many Coups."
Many Coups looked keenly at Elsie. "My eyes are old and poor," he slowly said. "But now I remember. This young woman was at the agency last year," and he put up his hand, which was small and graceful even yet—the hand of an artist. "I make pictures also," he said.
When this was translated, Elsie said: "You shall make a picture of me and I will make one of you."
At this the old man smilingly answered: "It shall be so."
"Where is Red Wolf?" asked Curtis.
"He is away with Tailfeathers to keep the cowboys from our land. We are growing afraid, Little Father."
"We will talk more of that by-and-by—we must now camp. Call your people together and at mid-afternoon we will council," replied Curtis.
Driving a little above the village, Curtis found a sheltered spot behind some low-growing pines and not far from the lake, and there they hastened to camp. The news flew from camp to camp that the Little Father was come, but no one crowded unseasonably to look at him. "We will council," Many Coups announced, and began to array himself for the ceremony. Horsemen galloped away to call Red Wolf and others who lived down the valley. Never before had an agent visited them in their homes, and they were disposed to make the most of it.
By the time the white people had eaten their lunch all the red women were in their best dresses. The pappooses were shining with the scrubbing they had suffered and each small warrior wore a cunning buckskin coat elaborate with beads and quills. A semicircular wall of canvas was being erected to shield the old men from the mountain wind, and a detail of cooks had started in upon the task of preparing the feast which would end the council.
Said Curtis: "You will find in this camp the Tetong comparatively unchanged. Red Wolf's band is the most primitive encampment I know." A few minutes later he added, "Here comes Many Coups and his son in official garb."
The two chieftains greeted their visitors as if they had not hitherto been seen—with all the dignity of ambassadors to a foreign court.
"Please treat them with the same formality," warned Curtis. "It will pay you for the glimpse of the old-time ceremony."
The younger man was unpainted, save for some small blue figures on his forehead. On his head he wore a wide Mexican hat which vastly became him. His face was one of the handsomest and most typical of his race.
"This young man is the son of Many Coups, and is called Blue Fox, or 'The Southern Traveller,' because he has been down where the Mexicans are. His hat he got there, and he is very proud of it," explained Curtis.
Jennie gave each of them a cup of coffee and a biscuit, of which they partook without haste, discussing meanwhile the coming council.
"We did not know you were coming; some of our people will not get here in time," said Many Coups.
"To-night, after the council, we wish to dance," said Blue Fox, meaning it as a request.
"It is forbidden in Washington to dance in the old way."
"We have heard of that, but we will dance for your wives. They will be glad to see it."
"Very well, you may dance, but not too long. No war-dance—only the visitors' dance."
"Ay, we understand," said Many Coups as he rose and drew his blanket about him. "In one hour we will come to council. Red Wolf will be there, and Hump Shoulder and his son. It may be others will return in time."
The women were delighted at the promise of both a council and a dance, and Lawson unlimbered his camera in order to take some views of both functions, though he expressed some dissatisfaction.
"The noble redman is thin and crooked in the legs," he said to Curtis. "Why is this?"
"All the plains Indians, who ride the horse almost from their babyhood, are bow-legged. They never walk, and they are seldom symmetrically developed."
"They are significant, but not beautiful," said Lawson.
As they walked about the camp Elsie exclaimed: "This is the way all redmen should live," and, indeed, the scene was very beautiful. They were far above the agency, and the long valleys could be seen descending like folds in a vast robe reaching to the plain. The ridges were dark with pines for a space, but grew smooth and green at lower levels, and at last melted into haze. The camp was a summer camp, and all about, in pleasant places among the pines, stood the tepees, swarming with happy children and puppies. Under low lodges of canvas or bowers of pine branches the women were at work boiling meat or cooking a rude sort of cruller. They were very shy, and mostly hung their heads as their visitors passed, though they soon yielded to Jennie, who could speak a few words to them.
"There's nothing in them for sculpture," said Parker, critically. "At least not for beauty. They might be treated as Raffaelle paints—for character."
"They grow heavy early," Jennie added, "but the little girls are beautiful—see that little one!"
The crier, a tall old man, toothless and wrinkled and gray, began to cry in a hollow, monotonous voice, "Come to the council place," and Curtis led his flock to their places in the midst of the circle.
The council began with all the old-time forms, with gravity and decorum. Red Wolf was in the centre, with Many Coups at his left. The pipe of peace went round, and those whose minds were not yet prepared for speech drew deep inspirations of the fragrant smoke in the hope that their thoughts might be clarified, and when they lifted their eyes they seemed not to perceive their visitors or those who passed to and fro among the tepees. The sun, westering, fell with untempered light on their heads, but they faced it with the calm unconcern of eagles.
To please his guests, Curtis allowed the utmost formality, and did not hasten, interrupt, or excise. The speeches were translated into English by Lawson, and at each telling point or period in Red Wolf's speech the women looked at each other in surprise.
"Did he really say that?" asked Elsie. "Didn't you make it up?"
"Rather good for a ragamuffin, don't you think?" said Lawson, as the old man took his seat.
Many Coups spoke slowly, sadly, as though half communing with himself, with nothing of the bombast the visitors had expected, and he grew in dignity and power as his thought began to make itself felt through his interpreter.
"He is speaking for his race," remarked Lawson to Elsie.
"By Jove! the old fellow is a good lawyer!" cried Parker. "I don't see any answer to his indictment."
Curtis sat listening as though each point the old man made were new—and this attitude pleased the chieftains very much.
The speech, in its general tenor, was similar to many others he had heard from thoughtful redmen. Briefly he described the time when the redmen were happy in a land filled with deer and buffalo, before the white man was. "We lived as the Great Spirit made us. Then the white man came—and now we are bewildered with his commands. Our eyes are blinded, we know not where to go. We know not whom to believe or trust. I am old, I am going to my grave troubled over the fate of my children. Agents come and go. The good ones go too soon—the bad ones stay too long, but they all go. There is no one in whose care to leave my children. It is better to die here in the hills than to live the slave of the white man, ragged and spiritless, slinking about like a dog without a friend. We do not want to make war any more—we ask only to live as our fathers lived, and die here in the hills."
As he spoke these final tragic words his voice grew deep and trembled, and Elsie felt some strong force gripping at her throat, and burning tears filled her eyes. In the city it was easy to say, "The way of civilization lies over the graves of the primitive races," but here, under the sun, among the trees, when one of those about to die looked over and beyond her to the hills as though choosing his grave—the utterance of the pitiless phrase was difficult in any tone—impossible in the boasting shout of the white promoter. She rose suddenly and walked away—being ashamed of her tears, a painful constriction in her throat.
The speakers who followed spoke in much the same way—all but Blue Fox, who sharply insisted that the government should help them. "You have put us here on barren land where we can only live by raising stock. You should help us fence the reservation, and get us cattle to start with. Then by-and-by we can build good houses and have plenty to eat. This is right, for you have destroyed our game—and you will not let us go to the mountains to hunt. You must do something besides furnish us ploughs in a land where the rain does not come."
In answer to all this, Curtis replied, using the sign language. He admitted that Red Wolf was right. "The Tetongs have been cheated, but good days are coming. I am going to help you. I am going to stay with you till you are safely on the white man's road. We intend to buy out the settlers, and take the water in the streams so that you may raise potatoes for your children, and you will then be glad because your gardens will bear many things good to eat. Do not despair, the white people are coming to understand the situation now. You have many friends who will help."
As Many Coups rose and shook hands with the agent he was smiling again, and he said, "Your words are good."
The old crier went forth again calling: "Come to the dance-hall. The white people desire to see you dance. Come clothed in your best garments."
Then the drum began to utter its spasmodic signal, and the herald's voice sounded faint and far off as he descended the path to the second group of tepees.
"Shall we go now?" asked Mrs. Parker.
"Oh no, it will be two hours before they begin. The young men must go and dress. We have time to sup and smoke a pipe."
"Oh! I'm so glad we're going to see a real Indian dance. I didn't suppose it could be seen now—not the real thing."
Lawson smiled. "You'll think this is the real thing before you get inside the door. I've known tenderfeet to weaken at the last moment."
Parker pretended to be a little nervous. "Suppose they should get hold of some liquor."
"This band is too far away from the white man to have his vices," replied Curtis with a slight smile. He had wondered at Elsie's going, but concluded she had grown weary of the old chief's speech.
"There is great charm in this life," said Lawson, as they all gathered before their tent and sat overlooking the village and the lake. "I sometimes wonder whether we have not complicated life without adding to the sum of human happiness."
"I'm thinking of this in winter," said Elsie. "O-o-o! It must be terrible! No furnace, no bath-tubs."
The others laughed heartily at the sincerity of her shudder, and Curtis said:
"Well, now, you'd be surprised to know how comfortable they keep in their tepees. In the old skin tepee they were quite warm even on the coldest days. They always camp in sheltered places out of the wind, and where fuel is plenty."
"At the same time I prefer my own way of living to theirs—when winter comes."
"I know something of your logic," replied Curtis. "But I think I understand the reluctance of these people when asked to give up the old things. I love their life—their daily actions—this man coiling a lariat—that child's outline against the tepee—the smell of their fresh bread—the smoke of their little fires. I can understand a Tetong when he says: 'All this is as sweet to me as your own life—why should I give it up?' Feeling as I do, I never insist on their giving up anything which is not an impediment. I argue with them, and show that some of their ways are evil or a hinderance in the struggle for life under new conditions, and they always meet me half-way."
"Supper is ready," called Jennie, and his audience rose.
While still at meat, the drum, which had been sounding at intervals, suddenly took on a wilder energy, followed immediately by a high, shrill, yelping call, which was instantly augmented by a half-dozen others, all as savage and startling as the sudden burst of howling from a pack of wolves. This clamor fell away into a deep, throbbing chant, only to rise again to the yelping, whimpering cries with which it began.
Every woman stiffened with terror, with wide eyes questioning Curtis. "What is all that?"
"The opening chorus," he explained, much amused. "A song of the chase."
The dusk was beginning to fall, and the tepees, with their small, sparkling fires close beside, and the shadowy, blanketed forms assembling slowly, silently, gave a wonderful remoteness and wildness to the scene. To Curtis it was quite like the old-time village. The husky voice of the aged crier seemed like a call from out of the years primeval before the white race with its devastating energy and its killing problems had appeared in the east. The artist in Elsie, now fully awake, dominated the daughter of wealth. "Oh, this is beautiful! I never expected to see anything so primitive."
Knowing that his guests were eager to view it all, Curtis led the way towards the dance-lodge. Elsie was moved to take her place beside him, but checked herself and turned to Lawson, leaving Mrs. Parker to walk at the Captain's elbow.
To the ears of the city dwellers the uproar was appalling—full of murder and sudden death. As they approached the lodge the frenzied booming of the drum, the wild, yelping howls, the shrill whooping, brought up in their minds all the stories of dreadful deeds they had ever read, and Parker said to Jennie:
"Do you really think the Captain will be able to control them?"
Jennie laughed. "I'm used to this clamor; it's only their way of singing."
Elsie said: "They must be flourishing bloody scalping-knives in there; it is direful."
"Wait and see," said Lawson.
The dance-house was a large octagonal hut built of pine logs, partly roofed with grass and soil. It was lighted by a leaping fire in the centre, and by four lanterns on the walls, and as Curtis and his party entered, the clamor (in their honor) redoubled. In a first swift glance Elsie apprehended only a confused, jingling, fluttering mass of color—a chaos of leaping, half-naked forms and a small circle of singers fiercely assaulting a drum which sat on the floor at the right of the door.
Then Red Wolf, calm, stately, courtly, came before them carrying his wand of office and conducted them to seats at the left of the fire, and the girl's heart ceased to pound so fiercely. Looking back she saw Jennie shaking hands with one of the fiercest of the painted and beplumed dancers, and recognized him as Blue Fox. Turning, she fixed her eyes on a middle-aged man who was dancing as sedately as Washington might have led the minuet, his handsome face calm of line and the clip of his lips genial and placid. Plainly the ferocity did not extend to the dancers; the singers alone seemed to express hate and lust and war.
The music suddenly ceased, and in an instant the girl's mind cleared. She perceived that the singers were laughing as they rolled their cigarettes, and that the savage warrior dancers were gossiping together as they rested, while all about her sat plump young girls in gay dresses, very conscious of the eyes of the young men. In her early life Elsie had attended a country dance, and her changed impressions of this mad, blood-thirsty revel was indicated in her tone as she said:
"Why, it's just an old-fashioned country hoe-down."
Curtis laughed. "I congratulate you on your penetration," he mockingly said.
The old men came up to shake hands with the agent, and on being presented to Elsie smiled reassuringly. Their manners were very good, indeed. Several of them gravely made a swift sign which caused Curtis to color and look confused, and when his answering sign caused them all to look at Lawson, Elsie demanded to know what it was all about.
"Do you think you'd better know?" he asked.
"Certainly, I insist on knowing," she added, as he hesitated again.
He looked at her, but a little unsteadily. "They asked if you were my bride, and I replied no, that you came with Lawson."
It was her turn to look confused. "The impudent things!" was all she could find to say at the moment.
Red Wolf called out a few imperative words, the song began with its imitation of the wolves at war as before, then settled into a pounding chant—deep, resonant, and inspiriting. The dancers sprang forth—not all, but a part of them—as though their names had been called, while a curious little bent and withered old man crept in like a gnome and built up the fire till it blazed brightly. As they danced the younger men re-enacted with abrupt, swift, violent, yet graceful gestures the drama of wild life. They trailed game, rescued lost warriors, and defeated enemies.
"You see it proceeds with decorum," said Curtis to Elsie and Mrs. Parker, as the dancers returned to their seats. "They enjoy it just as white people enjoy a cotillion, and, barring the noise of the singers, it is quite as formal and harmless."
A little boy in full dancing costume now came on with the rest, and the visitors exclaimed in delight of his grace and dignity. He could not have been more than six years of age. His companion, an old man of seventy, was a good deal of a wag, and danced in comic-wise to make the on-lookers laugh.
Parker was fairly hooking his chin over Curtis's shoulder to hear every word uttered and to see all that went on, and Curtis was in the midst of an explanation of the significance of the drama of the dance, when a short, sturdy, bow-legged Tetong, dressed in a policeman's uniform, pushed his way in at the door and thrust a letter at his agent's hand.
Instantly every eye was fixed on Curtis's bent head as he opened the letter. The dancers took their seats, whispering and muttering, the drum ceased, and the singers, turned into bronze figures, stared solemnly. A nervous chill ran though Elsie's blood and Parker turned pale and cold.
"What's up—what's up?" he asked, hurriedly. "This is a creepy pause."
Lawson laid a hand on his arm and shut down on it like a vice.
Red Wolf brought a lantern and held it at the Captain's shoulder.
Jennie, leaning over, caught the words, "There's been a row over on the Willow—"
Curtis calmly folded the paper, nodded and smiled his thanks to Red Wolf, and then lifting his hand he signed to the policeman, in full view of all the dancers:
"Go back and tell Wilson to issue just the same amount of flour this week that he did last, and that Red Wolf wants a new mowing-machine for his people. You need not return till morning." Then, turning to Red Wolf, he said: "Go on with the dance; my friends are much pleased."
The tension instantly gave way, every one being deceived but Jennie, who understood the situation and tried to help on the deception, but her round face was plainly anxious.
Elsie, as she ceased to wonder concerning the forms and regulations of the dance, grew absorbed in the swirling forms, the harsh clashing of colors, the short, shrill cries, the gleam of round and polished limbs, the haughty fling of tall head-dresses, and the lightness of the small and beautifully modelled feet drumming upon the ground; but most of all she was moved by the aloofness of expression on the faces of many of the dancers. For the most part they seemed to dream—to revisit the past—especially the old men. Their lips were sad, their eyes pensive—singularly so—and mentally the girl said: "I must paint my next portrait of this quality—an old man dreaming of the olden time. I wonder if they really were happy in those days—happier than our civilization can make them?" and thoughts came to her which shook her confidence in the city and the mart. For the first time in her life she doubted the sanctity of the steam-engine and the ore-crusher.
As they took their seats from time to time the older men smoked their long pipes; only the young men rolled their cigarettes. To them the past was a child's recollection, not the irrevocable dream of age. They were the links between the old and the new.
As the time came to go, Curtis rose and addressed his people in signs. "We are glad to be here," he said. "All my friends are pleased. My heart is joyous when you dance. I do not forbid it. Sometimes Washington tells me to do something, and I must obey. They say you must not dance the war-dance any more, and so I must forbid it. This dance was pleasant—it is not bad. My heart is made warm to be with you. I am visiting all my people, and I must go to-morrow. Do not quarrel with the white man. Be patient, and Washington will do you good."
Each promise was greeted by the old men with cries of: "Ay! Ay!" and the drummers thumped the drums most furiously in applause. And so the agent said, "Good-night," and withdrew.
As they walked back to their camp Jennie took her brother's arm:
"What is it, George?"
"I must return to the agency."
"That means we must all go?"
"I suppose so. The settlers seemed determined to make trouble. They have had another row with Gray Man's band, and shots have been fired. Fortunately no one was hurt. We must leave here early. Say nothing to any of our guests till we are safely on the way home."
Elsie, walking with Lawson, was very pensive. "I begin to understand why Captain Curtis is made Indian agent. He understands these people, sympathizes with them."
"No one better, and if the department can retain him six years he will have the Tetongs comfortably housed and on the road to independence and self-respect."
"Why shouldn't he be retained?"
"Well, your father may secure re-election to the Senate next winter."
"I know," she softly answered, "he dislikes Captain Curtis."
"More than that—in order to be elected, he must pledge himself to have Curtis put out o' the way."
"That sounds like murder," she said.
"Oh no; it's only politics—politics and business. But let's not talk of that—let us absorb the beauty of the night. Did you enjoy the dance?"
"Very much. I am hopeless of ever painting it though—it is so full of big, significant shadows. I wish I knew more about it."
"You are less confident than you were last year." He looked at her slyly.
"I see more."
"And feel more?" he asked.
"Yes—I'm afraid I'm getting Captain Curtis's point of view. These people aren't the mendicants they once seemed. The expression of some of those faces to-night was wonderful. They are something more than tramps when they discard their rags."
"I wish you'd come to my point of view," he said, a little irrelevantly.
"About what?"
"About our momentous day. Suppose we say Wednesday of Thanksgiving week?"
"I thought you were going to wait for me to speak," she replied.
He caught his breath a little. "So I will—only you won't forget my gray hairs, will you?"
"I don't think I will—not with your broad daily hints to remind me. But you promised to be patient and—just friendly."
He ignored her sarcasm. "It would be rather curious if Ishouldbecome increasingly impatient, wouldn't it? I made that promise in entire good faith, but—I seem to be changing."
"That's what troubles me," she said. "You are trying to hurry me."
At this moment they came close to the Parkers and she did not continue. He had given her another disturbing thought to sleep on, and that was, "Would it hurt him much if I should now return his ring?"
Mrs. Parker was disposed to discuss the dance, but Jennie said:
"We must all go to sleep. George says we are to move early to-morrow."
The walls of the tent could hardly be seen when the sound of the crackling flames again told that faithful Two Horns was feeding the camp-fire. Crane's Voice could be heard bringing in the horses, and in a few moments Curtis called out in a low, incisive voice:
"Everybody turn out; we must make an early start across the range."
The morning was gray, the peaks hidden in clouds, and the wind chill as the women came from their beds. Two Horns had stretched some blankets to keep off the blast, but still Elsie shivered, and Curtis roundly apologized. "I'm sorry to get you up so early. It spoils all the fun of camping if you're obliged to rise before the sun. An hour from now and all will be genial. Please wait for my explanation."
Breakfast was eaten in discomfort and comparative silence, though Parker, with intent to enliven the scene, cut a few capers as awkward as the antics of a sand-hill crane. Almost before the smoke of the tepee fires began to climb the trees the agent and his party started back over the divide towards the mill, no one in holiday mood. There was a certain pathos in this loss of good cheer.
Once out of sight of the camp, Curtis turned and said: "Friends, I'm sorry to announce it, but I must return to the agency to-night and I must take you all with me. Wilson has asked me to hasten home, and of course he would not do so without good reason."
"What is the matter?" asked Elsie.
"The same old trouble. The cattlemen are throwing their stock on the reservation and the Tetongs are resenting it."
"No danger, I hope," said Parker, pop-eyed this time with genuine apprehension.
"Oh no—not if I am on hand to keep the races apart. Now I'm going to drive hard, and you must all hang on. I want to pull into the agency before dark."
The wagon lurched and rattled down the divide as Curtis urged the horses steadily forward. With his foot in the brake, he descended in a single hour the road which had consumed three long hours to climb. Conversation under these conditions was difficult and at times impossible.
Jennie, intrepid driver herself, clutched her brother's arm at times, as the vehicle lurched, but Curtis made it all a joke by shouting, "It is always easy to slide into Hades—the worst is soon over."
Once in the valley of the Elk the road grew better, and Curtis asked Elsie if she wished to drive. She, being very self-conscious for some reason, shook her head, "No, thank you," and rode for the most part in silence, though Lawson made a brave effort to keep up a conversation.
By eleven o'clock not even Curtis and Lawson together could make the ride a joke. The women were hungry and tired, and distinctly saddened by this sudden ending of their joyous outing.
"I wish these rampant cowboys could have waited till we had our holiday," Jennie grumbled, as she stretched her tired arms.
"Probably they were informed of the Captain's plans and seized the opportunity," suggested Parker.
"I wonder if Cal is a traitor?" mused Jennie.
Two Horns and Crane's Voice came rattling along soon after Curtis stopped for noon at their first camping-place, and in a few minutes lunch was ready. Conversation still lagged in spite of inspiriting coffee, and the women lay out on their rugs and blankets, resting their aching bones, while the men smoked and speculated on the outcome of the whole Indian question.
The teams were put to the wagons as soon as their oats were eaten and the homeward drive begun, brisk and business-like, and for some mysterious reason Curtis recovered his usual cheerful tone.
It was mid-afternoon when the agency was sighted, and the five-o'clock bell had just rung as they drove slowly and with no appearance of haste into the yard.
Wilson came out to meet them. "How-de-do? You made a short trip."
"How are things?" inquired Curtis.
"Nothing doing—all quiet," replied the clerk, but Curtis detected something yet untold in the quiver of his clerk's eyelid.
"Well, I'm glad we got in."
Supper was eaten with little ceremony and very languid conversation, and the artists at once sought their rooms to rest. The Parkers were too tired to be nervous, and Curtis was absorbed with some private problem.
As Lawson and Elsie walked across the square in the twilight he announced, meditatively:
"I'm going to be more and more impatient—that is now certain."
"Osborne, don't! Please don't take that tone; I don't like it."
"Why not, dear?" he asked, tenderly.
"Because—because—" She turned in a swift, overmastering impulse. "Because if you do, I must give you back your ring." She wrung it from her finger. "I think I must, anyhow."
As she crowded the gem into his lax hand he said: "Why, what does this mean, Elsie Bee Bee?" His voice expressed pain and bewilderment.
"I don't knowwhatit means yet, only I feel that it isn't right now to wear it. I told you when you put it on that it implied no promise on my part."
"I know it, and it doesn't imply any now."
"Yes, it does. Your whole attitude towards me implies an absolute engagement, and I can't rest under that. Take back your ring till I can receive it as other girls do—as a binding promise. Youmustdo this or I will hate you!" she added, with a sudden fury.
"Why, certainly, dearest—only I don't see what has produced this change in you."
"I have not changed—you have changed."
He laughed at this. "The woman's last word! Well, I admit it. I have come to love you as a man loves the woman he wishes to make his wife. I'm going to care a great deal, Elsie Bee Bee, if you do not come to me some time."
"Don't say that!" she cried, and there was an imploring accent in her voice. "Don't you see I must not wear your ring till I promise all you ask?"
They walked on in silence to the door. As they stood there he said: "I feel as though I were about to say good-bye to you forever, and it makes my heart ache."
She put both hands on his shoulders, then, swift as a bird, turned and was gone. He felt that she had thought to kiss him, but he divined it would have been a farewell kiss, and he was glad that she had turned away. There was still hope for him in that indecision.
As for Elsie, life seemed suddenly less simple and less orderly. She pitied Osborne, she was angry and dissatisfied with herself, and in doubt about Curtis. "I'm not in love with him—it is impossible, absurd; but my summer is spoiled. I shall go home at once. It is foolish for me to be here when I could be at the sea-shore."
After a moment she thought: "Why am I here? I guess the girls were right. Iama crank—an irresponsible. Why should I want to paint these malodorous tepee dwellers? Just to be different from any one else."
As she sat at her open window she heard again the Tetong lover's flute wailing from the hill-side across the stream, and the sound struck straight in upon her heart and filled her with a mysterious longing—a pain which she dared not analyze. Her mind was active to the point of confusion—seething with doubts and the wreckage of her opinions. Lawson's action had deeply disturbed her.
They had never pretended to sentiment in their relationship; indeed, she had settled into a conviction that love was a silly passion, possible only to girls in their teens. This belief she had attained by passing through what seemed to her a fiery furnace of suffering at eighteen, and when that self-effacing passion had burned itself out she had renounced love and marriage and "devoted herself to art," healing herself with work. For some years thereafter she posed as a man-hater.
The objective cause of all this tumult and flame and renunciation seemed ridiculously inadequate in the eyes of others. He was the private secretary of Senator Stollwaert at the time, a smug, discreet, pretty man, of slender attainment and no great ambition. Happily, he had afterwards removed to New York, or Washington would have been an impossible place of residence for Elsie. She had met him once since her return—he had had the courage to call upon her—and the familiar pose of his small head and the mincing stride of his slender legs had given her a feeling of nausea. "Is it possible that I once agonized over this trig little man?" she asked herself.
To be just to him, Mr. Garretson did not presume in the least on his previous intimacy; on the contrary, he seemed timid and ill at ease in the presence of the woman whose beauty had by no means been foreshadowed in her girlhood. He was not stupid; the splendor of her surroundings awed him, but above all else there was a look on her face which too plainly expressed contempt for her ancient folly. Her shame was as perceptible to him as though expressed in spoken words, and his visit was never repeated.
Of this affair Elsie had spoken quite freely to Lawson. "It only shows what an unmitigated idiot a girl is. She is bound to love some one. I knew quantities of nice boys, and why I should have selected poor Sammy as the centre of all my hopes and affections I don't know. I dimly recall thinking he had nice ears and hands, but even they do not now seem a reasonable basis for wild passion, do they?"
Lawson had been amused. "Love at that age isn't a creature of reason."
"Evidently not, if mine was a sample."
"Ours now is so reasonable as to seem insecure and dangerous."
Her intimacy with Lawson, therefore, had begun on the plane of good-fellowship while they were in Paris together, and for two years he seemed quite satisfied. Of late he had been less contained.
After her outburst of anger at her father's ejectment of Curtis, she met Lawson with a certain reserve not common to her. At the moment, she more than half resolved that the time had come to leave her father's house for Lawson's flat, and yet her will wavered. She said as little as possible to him concerning that last disgraceful scene, as much on her own account as to spare Curtis, but her restlessness was apparent to Lawson and puzzled him. Two or three times during the summer he had openly, though jocularly, alluded to their marriage, but she had put him off with a keen word. Now that her father seemed intolerable, she listened to him with a new interest. He became a definite possibility—a refuge.
Encouraged by this slight change in her attitude towards him, Lawson took a ring from his pocket one night and said, "I wish you'd wear this, Elsie Bee Bee."
She drew back. "I can't do that. I'm not ready to promise anything yet."
"It needn't bind you," he pleaded. "It needn't mean any more than you care to have it mean. But I think our understanding justifies a ring."
"That's just it," she answered, quickly. "I don't like you to be so solemn about our 'understanding.' You promised to let me think it all out in my own way and in my own time."
"I know I did—and I mean to do so. Only"—he smiled with a wistful look at her—"I would have you observe that I have developed three gray hairs over my ears."
She took the ring slowly, and as she put the tip of her finger into it a slight premonitory shudder passed over her.
"You are sure you understand—this is no binding promise on my part?"
"It will leave you as free as before."
"Then I will wear it," she said, and slipped it to its place. "It is a beautiful ring."
He bent and kissed her fingers. "And a beautiful hand, Elsie Bee Bee."
Now, lying alone in the soundless deep of the night, she went over that scene, and the one through which she had just passed. "He's a dear, good fellow, and I love him—but not like that." And the thought that it was all over between them, and the decision irrevocably made, was at once a pain and a pleasure. The promise, slight as it was, had been a burden. "Now I am absolutely free," she said, in swift, exultant rebound.
The next day was cloudless, with a south wind, and the little, crawling brook which watered the agency seemed about to seethe. The lower foot-hills were already sere as autumn, and the ponies came down to their drinking-places unnaturally thirsty; and the cattle, wallowing in the creek-bed, seemed at times to almost stop its flow. The timid trees which Curtis had planted around the school-house and office were plainly suffering for lack of moisture, and the little gardens which the Indians had once more been induced to plant were in sore distress.
The torrid sun beat down into the valley from the unclouded sky so fiercely that the idle young men of the reservation postponed their horse-racing till after sunset. Curtis felt the heat and dust very keenly on his guests' account, and was irritated over the assaults of the cattlemen. "If they had but kept the peace we would still be in the cool, sweet hills," he said to Lawson.
"This will not last," Lawson replied. "We'll get a mountain wind to-night. The girls are wisely keeping within doors and are not yet aware of the extreme heat."
"I hope you are a true prophet. But at this moment it seems as if no cool wind could arise out of this sun-baked land."
"Any news from the Willow?"
"The trouble was in the West Fort. Some cowboys raided a camp of Tetongs. No one was injured, and so it must pass for a joke."
"Some of those jokes will set something afire some of these hot days."
"But you know how hard it is to apprehend the ruffians; they come and go in the night like wolves. They spoiled our outing, but I hope we may get away again next week."
In the days which followed, Curtis saw little of Elsie, and when they met she seemed cold and preoccupied. In conversation she seemed listening to another voice, appeared to be pondering some abstract subject, and Curtis was puzzled and vaguely saddened. Jennie took a far less serious view of the estrangement. "It's just a mood. We've set her thinking; she's 'under conviction,' as the revivalists used to say. Don't bother her and she'll 'come through.'"
Curtis was at lunch on Wednesday when Wilson came to the door and said, "Major, Streeter and a man named Jenks are here and want to see you."
"More stolen cattle to be charged up to the Indians, I suppose."
"I reckon some such complaint—they didn't say."
"Well, tell them to wait—or no—ask them to come over and lunch with me."
Wilson soon returned. "They are very glum, and say they'll wait at the office till you come."
"As they prefer. I will have finished in a few moments."
He concluded not to hasten, however, and the ranchers had plenty of time to become impatient. They met him darkly.
"We want a word in private, Major," said Jenks, a tall, long-bearded man of most portentous gravity.
Curtis led the way to an inner office and offered them seats, which they took in the same oppressive silence.
The agent briskly opened the hearing. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"
Jenks looked at Streeter—Streeter nodded. "Go ahead, Hank."
Jenks leaned over aggressively. "Your damned Injuns have murdered one o' my herders."
Curtis hardened. "What makes you think so?" he sharply asked.
"He disappeared more than a week ago, and no one has heard of him since. I know he has been killed, and your Injuns done it. No one—"
"Wait a moment," interrupted Curtis. "Who was he?"
"His name is Cole—he was herdin' my sheep."
"Are you a sheep-man?"
"I am."
"Where do you live?"
"My sheep ranch is over on Horned Toad Creek."
"Where was this man when he disappeared?"
Jenks grew a little uneasy. "He was camped by the Mud Spring."
Curtis rose and called Wilson in. "Wilson, where is the Mud Spring?"
"Just inside our south line, about four miles from the school."
"I thought so," replied Curtis. "Your sheep were on the reservation. Are you sure this man was murdered?"
"Him and the dog disappeared together, and hain't neither of 'em been seen since."
"How long ago was this?"
"Just a week to-morrow."
"Have you made a search for him? Have you studied the ground closely?"
Streeter interposed. "We've done all that could be done in that line. Iknowhe's killed. He told Cal about two weeks ago that he had been shot at twice and expected to get wiped out before the summer was over. There isn't a particle of doubt in my mind about it. The thing for you to do is to make a demand—"
"I am not in need of instructions as to my duty," interrupted Curtis. "Wilson, who is over from the Willow Creek?"
"Old Elk himself."
"Send him in. I shall take all means to help you find this herder," Curtis said to the ranchers, "but I cannot allow you to charge my people with his death without greater reason than at present. We must move calmly and without heat in this matter. Murder is a serious charge to make without ample proof."
The Elk, smiling and serene, entered the door and stood for a moment searching the countenances of the white men. His face grew grave as the swift signs of his agent filled his mind with the story of the disappearance of the herder.
"I am sorry; it is bad business," he said.
"Now, Crawling Elk, I want you to call together five or six of your best trailers and go with these men to the place where the herder was last seen and see if you can find any trace of him;" then, turning to Streeter, he said: "You know Crawling Elk; he is the one chief against whom you have no enmity. If Cole was murdered, his body will be found. Until you have more proof of his death I must ask you to give my people the benefit of the doubt. Good-day, gentlemen."
As they turned to go, two young reds were seen leaving the window. They had watched Curtis as he signed the story to Crawling Elk. As the white men emerged these young fellows were leaning lazily on the fence, betraying no interest and very little animation, but a few minutes later they were mounted and riding up the valley at full gallop, heavy with news of the herder's death and Streeter's threats.
"Now, Elk," signed Curtis, "say nothing to any one but your young men and the captain of police, whom I will send with you to bring me word."
After they had all ridden away, Curtis turned to Wilson and said, "I didn't suppose I should live to see a sheep-man and a cattleman riding side by side in this amicable fashion."
"Oh, they'll get together against the Indian, all right. They're mighty glad of a chance to make any kind of common cause. That lazy herder has jumped the country. He told me he was sick of his job."
"But the dog?"
"Oh, he killed the dog to keep him from being traced. There isn't a thing in it, Major."
"I'm inclined to think you're right, but we must make careful investigation; the people are very censorious of my policy."
Next morning Crawling Elk brought word that no trace of the man could be found. "The grass is very dry," he explained, "and the trail is old. We discovered nothing except some horses' hoof-marks."
"Keep searching till every foot of land is covered," commanded Curtis. "Otherwise the white man will complain."
On Friday, just after the bell had called the people to resume work at one o'clock, Crow, the police captain, rode into the yard on a pony covered with ridges of dried sweat. His face was impassive, but his eyes glittered as he lifted his hand and signed:
"The white man's body is found!"
"Where?" asked Curtis from the door-way.
"On the high ground near the spring. He has three bullet-holes in him. Three cartridge-shells were found where the horses' hoof-marks were. The ones who shot dismounted there and fired over a little knoll. There are many white men over there now; they are very angry. They are coming here—"
"Be silent! Come in here!" Once within the office, Curtis drew from Crow Wing all he knew. He was just in the midst of giving his orders when Wilson opened the door and said, quietly, though his voice had a tremulous intensity:
"Major, step here a moment."
Curtis went to the door. He could not restrain a smile, even while a cold chill went to his heart. Nothing could exceed the suddenness of the change which had swept over the agency. As he had stood in the office door ten minutes before, his ears had been filled with the clink-clank of the blacksmiths' hammers, the shouts of drivers, and the low laughter of young women on their way to the store. Crane's Voice was hitching up his team, while Lost Legs and Turkey Tail were climbing to the roof of the warehouse with pots of red paint. Peter Wolf was mending a mowing-machine, and his brother Robert was cutting wood behind the agency kitchen. All about he had observed groups of white-blanketed Indians smoking cigarettes in the shade of the buildings, while a crowd of nearly twenty others stood watching a game of duck-on-the-rock before the agency store.
Now as he looked over the yards not a redman could be seen at his work. On every side the people, without apparent haste, but surely, steadily, and swiftly, were scattering. The anvil no longer cried out, the teamsters were silent, all laughter had ceased, the pots of paint sat scorching in the sun. There was something fiercely ominous as well as uncanny in this sudden, silent dispersion of a busy, merry throng, and Curtis, skilled in Indian signs, appreciated to the full the distrust of the white man here expressed. He understood this panic. The settlers had long threatened war. Now the pretext had come, and the sound of guns was about to begin.
"Wilson," said Curtis, calmly, "if the settlers fire a shot they will regret it. See Crane's Voice, if you can find him, and send him to me." He turned to Crow and signed: "Go tell your people I will not let the cowboys hurt them. Hurry! Call them all back. Tell them to go to work. I will call the soldiers, if necessary, to keep the white man away. There is no danger."
Crow was a brave and loyal man, and, weary as he was, hastened to carry out his orders. The call for "assembly" was rung on the signal-bell, and a few of the red employés responded. To them Curtis spoke reassuringly, but his words were belied by Thomas Big Voice, the official interpreter, who was so scared his knees shook.
Curtis sent Wilson to quiet the teachers and hurried immediately to the studio, where Elsie was at work painting a portrait of old Chief Black Bull. The old man sprang to his feet the instant he caught sight of his agent's face.
"Friend, what is the matter?" he asked.
To Elsie, Curtis said: "Do not be alarmed."
"There is no danger," he signed to Black Bull. "The white man's body has been found near the spring. He was shot by two men with horses. The white men are coming to see me about it, but there is no need of alarm. Tell your people to go quietly to their camps. I will protect them."
The old chief's face grew sterner as he flung his blanket over his arm. "I go to see," he said. "The white men are very angry."
"Wait!" called Curtis. "Keep your people quiet right where they are. You must help me. I depend on you. You must not alarm them."
"I will do as you command," Bull replied, as he went away, but it was plain he apprehended violence.
"What is the matter?" inquired Elsie.
"The settlers have discovered the body of the herder who was killed, and Crow brings word they are angry. I don't think there is any danger, but I wish you and Jennie were at the fort for a few days. I don't like to have you disturbed by these things."
It was their first meeting alone since their return from the camping-trip, but Elsie was too much concerned with the serious expression of his face to feel any embarrassment.
"You don't think there will be trouble?"
"No, only a distracting wrangle, which may prevent your getting models. The Indians are nervous, and are even now getting out for the hills. But I hope you will not be alarmed."
"I'm not a nervous person."
"I know you're not—that is the reason I dared to come and tell you what was going on. I deeply regret—"
Wilson rapped on the door. "Major, you are needed. Bow-legs reports two bodies of armed men riding up the valley; the dust of their horses' hoofs can be seen. There are at least twenty men in the two squads," Wilson continued; "one came across from the West Fork, the other came from the south. It looks like a prearranged invasion."
"Very well, Wilson, I'll be at the office in time to meet them."
Curtis turned on Elsie a look which went to her heart. His voice was low as he said: "Let me take you over to Jennie. I presume these men are coming to make a demand on me for the murderers. They may or may not know who the guilty ones are, but their coming in force by prearrangement has alarmed the people."
As she laid down her brushes and took up her hat she said, gleefully: "Father won't be able to ask me what I know about war—will he? Will they begin shooting at once?"
"I don't think they are likely to do anything as a body, but some reckless cowboy may do violence to some Tetong, which will rouse the tribe to retaliation. The settlers have too much sense to incite an outbreak." At the door he said: "I wish you would go to Jennie. Tell her not to get excited. I will let you know what it is all about as soon as I find out myself. It may be all a mistake."
As he was crossing the road Lawson joined him, and when they reached the gate before the office, several of the invaders had dismounted and were waiting the agent's coming. There were eleven of them; all were deeply excited, and two or three of the younger men were observably drunk and reckless. Streeter, stepping forward, introduced a short, sullen-faced man as "Sheriff Winters, of Pinon County."
"What name?" said Curtis, as he shook hands pleasantly.
"Sheriff Winters," repeated Streeter.
"What is the meaning of all this?" queried Curtis.
"We have come for the man that killed Ed Cole. We are a committee appointed by a convention of three hundred citizens who are holding an inquest over the body," said Winters. "We have come for the murderer."
"Do you know who committed the murder?"
"No, but we know it was an Injun."
"How do you know it?" They hesitated. "Do you come as an officer of the law? Have you a warrant?"
"No, I have not, but we are determined—"
"Then I deny your right to be here. Your coming is an armed invasion of federal territory," said Curtis, and his voice rang like steel.
"Here comes the other fellers," called some one in the crowd. Turning his head, Curtis saw another squad of men filing down over the hill from the north. He counted them and made out fifteen. Turning sharply to the sheriff, he asked: "Who are those men?"
"I don't know."
"Are you responsible for their coming?"
"No, sir, I am not!" the sheriff replied, plainly on the defence.
As the second squad came galloping up, the sheriff's party greeted them with nods and low words. Curtis heard one man ask: "Where's Charley? I thought he was coming," and became perfectly certain that this meeting had been prearranged. The new-comers mingled with the sheriff's party quite indistinguishably and made no further explanation of their presence.
The young officer burned hot with indignation. "Sheriff Winters, order these men to retire at once. They have no business here!"
A mutter of rage ran over the mob and several hands dropped ostentatiously upon pistols.
One loud-voiced young whelp called out an insulting word. "You go to ——! We'll retire when we get an Injun, not before!"
"Shut up, you fool!" called the sheriff, and, turning to Jenks, began to mutter in consultation. Curtis advanced a step, and raising his voice addressed the entire mob.
"As commander of this reservation, I order you to withdraw. Your presence here is unlawful and menacing. Retire to the boundary of the reservation, and I will use every effort to discover the murderer. If he is in the tribe I will find him and deliver him to the county authorities."
At this one of the same young ruffians who had challenged him before spurred his horse close to Curtis, and with his pistol in his hand shouted: "Not by a d—— sight. We come to take it out o' these thieves, and we're goin' to do it. Go ahead, Winters—say the word and well clean out the whole tribe."
Curtis looked the youth in the eye. "My boy, I advise you to make war slowly, even with your mouth."
Calvin Streeter, with his teeth clinched, crowded his horse forward and struck the insolent hoodlum in the face with his hat. "Shut up, or I'll pinch your neck off! Think you're sheriff?" The belligerent retired, snarling wild curses.
Curtis addressed himself again to Winters, assuming a tone of respect and confidence which he did not feel. "Mr. Winters, you are here as a representative of the courts of Pinon County. I call upon you, as sheriff, to disperse all these men, who are here without warrant of law!"
The sheriff hesitated, for the cattlemen were now furious and eager to display their valor. Many of them were of the roughest types of cowboys, the profane and reckless renegades of older communities, and being burdened with ammunition, and foolhardy with drink, they were in no mood to turn tail and ride away. They savagely blustered, flourishing their revolvers recklessly.
The sheriff attempted to silence them, and said, petulantly, to Curtis: "If I hadn't come you'd 'a' had a mob of two hundred armed men instead of twenty. I had hard work to keep 'em back. I swore in these ten men as my deputies. This second crowd I don't know anything about. They just happen to be here."
Curtis knew this to be a lie, but proceeded to cajole the sheriff by recognizing him and his authority.
"In that case I shall act." Addressing the leader of the second party, he said: "Sheriff Winters is the legal representative of the county; you are an unlawful mob, and I once more command you to leave the reservation, which is federal territory, under my command."
"No, you don't! We stay right here!" shouted several.
"We'll see whether the people of this State have any rights or not," said Jenks, deeply excited. "We won't allow you to shield your murdering redskins under such a plea; we'll be judge and jury in this case."
Curtis turned sharply to the sheriff: "Officer, do your duty! Dispose of this mob!" His tone was magnificently commanding. "I shall hold you responsible for further trouble," said Curtis, turning a long look on Winters, which stung.
The sheriff angrily addressed the crowd. "Get out o' this, boys. You're twisting me all up and doing no good. Vamoose now! I've got all the help I need. I'm just as much obliged, but you'd better clear out." Then to his deputies, "Round 'em up, boys, and send 'em away."
Calvin's face wore a smile of wicked glee as he called out:
"Now you fellers git!" and spurring his horse into their midst he hustled them. "Hunt your holes! You're more bother than you are worth. Git out o' here!"
While the sheriff and his deputies alternately pleaded and commanded the mob to withdraw, Lawson touched Curtis on the arm and pointed to the crests of the hills to the west. On every smooth peak a mounted sentinel stood, silent and motionless as a figure on a monument—watching the struggle going on before the agency gate.
"Behind every hill young warriors are riding," said Lawson. "By sundown every man and boy will be armed and ready for battle. If these noble citizens knew what you have saved them from they would bless you."
The mob of cattlemen retreated slowly, with many fierce oaths and a jangle of loud debate which Curtis feared each moment might break into a crackle of pistol shots.
"That was a good stroke," said Lawson. "It sets up division, and so weakens them. You will be able to handle the sheriff now."