CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SON OF SILVER BELL
I
IT seemed only a little later when Mustard wakened Eunice by a sudden jump, and she saw three bars of light moving across her wall. The light came from the yard, and the person who carried it must have been going toward the barn.
“Well, I suppose it’s morning,” she thought. “They always milk early.” But when she looked out, the stars were still shining, and there was not a sound to be heard.
“I think I’ll go and see where that lantern went to,” she thought, and slipping on one of her own shoes, and one of Kenneth’s, which were all that she could find in the dark, she crept softly out through the hall to the back door. To her surprise, it was unlocked,and she picked her way carefully over the lettuce beds, holding up her long night-dress in one hand.
“It’s quite warm out,” she observed, from the top of a large red cabbage, which could not have told itself from a green cabbage at this time of night.
Something black sprang past her as she opened the gate, and leaped to the top of a shed, with a great scratching of claws; then she saw two little moons of fire watching her through the darkness.
“I suppose Andrew Banks, Jr., is hoping I’ll take him for a wildcat,” she thought, “but I shan’t.”
Suddenly she tripped and fell headlong over a wagon-tongue, scraping one little knee quite badly. But Eunice had always made it a point not to cry over anything unless it bled, and as it was too dark to see whether this bled or not, of course she could not cry. She went on, and into the cattle-barn, guided by the faint light of the moon, which showed herthe long rows of patient forms, lying in their stalls and chewing the cuds that probably served them as dreams. Some of them knelt, and then struggled to their feet as Eunice approached, tossing their heads in fright.
She went to the stall of Wild-Eyes, the bull, who shook his chains, and pointed his horns at her until she spoke to him, when he thrust out his head, with a long sigh of fragrant breath, to be petted. Grandmother was the only other person who dared to caress Wild-Eyes, for he had not a cordial disposition, and dreadful stories were told of his behavior in the past.
Eunice pushed open the door that led to the horses’ stalls, and there, in the great open space of the barn, sat Grandmother on a pile of straw, with the lantern beside her, and the head of a sick horse on her lap.
“Good gracious!” she said, with a jump, as Eunice appeared. “What are you doing out here?”
“I saw the light. Oh, Grandmother, is Chucklehead sick?”
“Colic,” said Grandmother, briefly.
“Has he got a hot-water bag?”
“No—one bag wouldn’t go far, when he has several square yards of pain.”
“Are you giving him peppermint out of that bottle?”
“Ginger-tea. Just as good.”
“Is he getting old, Grandmother? David said so.”
“Not a bit too old to enjoy company, and relish his meals. And that’s all that a horse that’s worked as well as he has, ought to have asked of him.”
“How did you know he was sick?”
“I woke up feeling that something was wrong at the barn. That’s happened before.”
“And do you always find there is?”
“No, sometimes it’s what I ate for supper. Come, we’ll go back to the house now. He’s feeling better.”
She made a pillow for the horse’s head inthe straw, covered him with an extra blanket, and took up her lantern.
“How did you find your way out here in the dark?” she asked, as they reached the garden.
“I don’t know,” Eunice answered. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“I never knew a Wood to be afraid of the dark,” said Grandmother, smiling.
They found Cousin David sitting in the kitchen with Kenneth on his lap.
“Well, here you are at last!” he said. “Kenny’s been scared to death about you. Poor little chap, he’s been crying!”
“Ain’t neither,” said Kenneth, kicking his leg.
“Well, let’s have some bread and butter,” said Grandmother, hanging up the lantern. “David, you get some milk from the pantry, and don’t disturb the cream pans.”
“Grandma,” said Eunice, as they sat eating in the candlelight, “What makes you love Chucklehead more than the other horses? He’s the homeliest.”
“Oh, that’s a long story,” said Grandmother, yawning. “I’m going to bed.”
“Can’t David tell it?” asked Kenneth.
“This is no time of night for stories,” said David, taking a drink of milk. “’Specially Injun stories.”
“Oh, is it an Indian story?” asked both children in delight.
“Hadn’t you better wait till morning?” said Grandmother, going to the door. “The trouble with you children is, that you slept all the afternoon.”
“Let us sit up fifteen minutes more, please, Grandma!” said Eunice, and Grandmother was too sleepy to refuse.
“Well,” began David, in a loud voice, “one reason Aunt Eunice likes Chucklehead, is that he’s the good-for-nothingest horse on the farm.”
“That’s not so!” called Grandmother from the other side of the door, and David laughed.
“No,” he continued, as her footsteps diedaway, “the real reason she likes Chucklehead, is that he’s the son of Silver Bell, the finest horse ever raised in this State.”
“Was she pretty?” Eunice asked.
“Pretty? She was a regular Christmas card! and as full of airs as any mistress of the White House. Why, her feet were so little you’d scarcely know she had ’em, and her mane was all crinkly and wavy like a lady’s hair.”
“What color was she?” asked Kenneth.
“Brown, with a bell-shaped mark of white on her forehead. And spirited? Why, she’d sling Swedes all over the prairie, even when she was an old horse. She didn’t take after her son.”
“Tell the story about her,” said Eunice.
“Well, she belonged to a young woman who came out here with her husband in Injun times, and, as they hadn’t many horses, this Silver Bell was a great pet. She’d come when you called her, and kind of snuff round. She was company for the young woman, too, when herhusband was off with the cattle, and there was nobody but her and the baby in the house.”
“Go on,” said Kenneth. “Did the Indians come?”
“Well, I just guess they did! One day she heard a shot, and saw smoke coming from a ranch four miles away. You know how sound carries in this air, and the smoke looked big, just as Eunice did the other night. So she just grabbed her baby, and put a bridle on Silver Bell, who came right up to the corral. If Silver Bell hadn’t come when she was called that day—”
“Well?” asked both children, breathlessly.
“Well—we mightn’t have been telling this story here to-night.”
“Oh, go on!” said Kenneth, impatiently. “Did the Injuns catch her?”
“No, but they would have, if it hadn’t been for Silver Bell. Once, when they were down in a hollow, the girl saw about a dozen Injuns riding towards her as hard as they could go, and she knew if she came out of that hollowthey’d see her for sure. But if she stayed in the hollow, of course they’d find her when they got there. So for a moment she couldn’t decide just what to do.”
“Shouldn’t think there was anything,” said Kenneth.
“Well, that’s just where you’re wrong. There was Silver Bell. You see she’d trained Silver Bell to do a lot of little tricks, and one of them was to pretend to be a dead horse; and as there was a real, dead horse a little way down the trail, it gave her an idea. So she made Silver Bell lie down across a little ditch at the bottom of the hollow, and crept in under her, so that she couldn’t be seen. Then she told her to ‛be a dead horse,’ and Silver Bell never moved a hair, even when the Injuns almost jumped over her in crossing the ditch.”
“Then didn’t anybody get scalped?” asked Kenneth, disappointed.
“Yes, lots of people; for this was the beginning of the great massacre at New Ulm. But the young woman got away safe andsound, and all because of a horse. She often said afterwards that if the baby had cried, or Silver Bell had wiggled so much as an ear, why—the Injuns might have guessed she wasn’t any dead horse.”
“But how does Chucklehead come into the story?”
“Chucklehead was Silver Bell’s last colt, and when everybody else laughed at him for being such a funny shape, and wanted him killed, Aunt Eunice kissed his mother on the forehead, and said, ‛You saved my baby once, and I’ll save yours!’”
“But it was the other woman’s baby that Silver Bell had saved,” said Eunice, puzzled.
“No, it wasn’t, kid. The young woman that the story is about was Grandmother, when she first came out here. And the little baby that she carried in her arms that day was—” David stopped a minute, and his voice grew softer, as he said, “was your own father, children. Now come to bed, for the fifteen minutes is more than up, and I want a nap before milking-time.”
He tossed Kenneth on his back, took Eunice in his arms, and tucked them both in their beds, with the caution not to think any more about “Injuns” that night.
Kenneth soon dropped asleep; but Eunice lay awake for some time, wondering how it would have seemed to be alive in Indian times, when red danger might come riding to meet one from over the peaceful prairie. And as she fell asleep, she seemed once more to hear David say, “And the little baby that she carried in her arms that day was—your own father.”
When she wakened, a sunbeam was creeping across her quilt, and she heard the shouts of the men at their work. She hurried into her clothes, and went out to breakfast with the back of her frock unfastened, as Kenneth, who usually helped her, was up and away. But Grandmother proved that she could pour coffee, button Eunice’s dress, and give orders to the men at one and the same time.
There was a rattle of harness in the yard,and David put his head in at the door, saying: “There’s a fellow just come out from town with a telegram.”
“Tell him to unhitch and come in,” said Grandmother. “Yes, dear, Kenny’s off with Peterson and the Norman colt. Will you have sugar on your mush?”
David came in, followed by the messenger, who said, “Yes, I guessed it might be important, and hustled for all I was worth. I’ve been on the road since four.”
He handed Grandmother the telegram, and she poured out his coffee before opening it.
“Anything serious, Aunt Eunice?” David asked.
“Not serious, but most important,” Grandmother said, and, turning to Eunice, she read:
Weejums has arrived. Will take her up to Mrs. Wood to-morrow.M. Teechout.
Weejums has arrived. Will take her up to Mrs. Wood to-morrow.
M. Teechout.