And then, without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the shack, slamming the door after him, and leaving his visitor in possession.
"I've got to show him, by staying right in these hills, that I am in earnest," Stuart decided, taking the seat his host had kicked aside, and stretching his feet out to the fire. "No use in arguing or pleading with him—there never was. But give him his own lead, and he will come around to the right point of view, though he may curse me up hill and down dale while he is doing it; a queer, queer fellow—God bless him! And how furious he was about that girl! Those two are a sort of David and Jonathan in their defense of each other, and yet never exchange words if they can help it—that's queer, too—it would be hard telling which of them is the more so. Little need to warn any man away from her, however; she is capable of taking very good care of herself."
There was certainly more than one woman at the ranch; but to hear the speech of those two men, one would have doubted it; for neither had thought it necessary even to mention her name.
"But you promised! Yes, you did, Mr. Stuart—didn't he, Mrs. Hardy? There, that settles it; so you see this is your evening to tell a story."
The protracted twilight, with its cool grays and purples, had finally faded away over the snow, long after the stars took up their watch for the night. The air was so still and so chill that the bugle-call at sunset had sounded clearly along the little valley from camp, and Fred thought the nearness of sound made a house seem so much more home-like. After the bugle notes and the long northern twilight, had come the grouping of the young folks about the fire, and Fred's reminder that this was to be a "story" night.
"But," declared Stuart, "I can think of none, except a very wonderful one of an old lady who lived in a shoe, and another of a house marvelously constructed by a gentleman called Jack—"
Here a clamor arose from the rebels in the audience, and from Fred the proposal that he should read or tell them of what he was working on at present, and gaining at last his consent.
"But I must bring down some notes in manuscript," he added, "as part of it is only mapped out, and my memory is treacherous."
"I will go and get them," offered Fred. "No, don't you go! I'm afraid to let you out of the room, lest you may remember some late business at camp and take French leave. Is the manuscript on the table in your room? I'll bring it."
And scarcely waiting either assent or remonstrance, she ran up the stairs, returning immediately with hands full of loose sheets and two rolls of manuscript.
"I confiscated all there was in reach," she laughed. "Here they are; you pay no money, and you take your choice."
She was such a petite, pretty little creature, her witchy face alight with the confidence of pleasure to come; and looking down at her, he remarked:
"You look so much a spirit of inspiration, Miss Fred, that you had better not make such a sweeping offer, lest I might be tempted to choose you."
"And have a civil war on your hands," warned Rachel, "with the whole camp in rebellion."
"Not much; they don't value me so highly," confessed Fred. "They would all be willing to give me away."
"A willingness only seconded by your own." This from the gallant Lieutenant on the settee. "My child, this is not leap-year, and in the absence of your parent I—"
"Yes, I know. But as Captain Holt commands in papa's absence, I don't see what extra responsibility rests on your shoulders. Now, Mr. Stuart, all quiet along the Kootenai; go ahead."
"Not an easy thing to do," he answered ruefully, trying to sort the jumbled lot of papers she had brought him, and beginning by laying the rolls of manuscript on the table back of him, as if disposing of them. "You have seized on several things that we could not possibly wade through in one evening, but here is the sketch I spoke of. It is of camp-life, by the way, and so open to criticism from you two veterans. It was suggested by a story I heard told at the Fort."
Just then a wild screech of terror sounded from the yard, and then an equally wild scramble across the porch. Everyone jumped to their feet, but Rachel reached the door first, just as Aunty Luce, almost gray from terror, floundered in.
"They's come!" she panted, in a sort of paralysis of fright and triumph of prophecy. "I done tole all you chillen! Injuns! right here—I seed 'em!"
Hardy reached for his gun, the others doing the same; but the girl at the door had darted out into the darkness.
"Rachel!" screamed Tillie, but no Rachel answered. Even Hardy's call was not heeded; and he followed her with something like an oath on his lips, and Stuart at his elbow.
Outside, it seemed very dark after the brightness within, and they stopped on the porch an instant to guide themselves by sound, if there was any movement.
There was—the least ominous of sounds—a laugh. The warlike attitude of all relaxed somewhat, for it was so high and clear that it reached even those within doors; and then, outlined against the background of snow, Stuart and Hardy could see two forms near the gate—a tall and a short one, and the shorter one was holding to the sleeve of the other and laughing.
"You and Aunty Luce are a fine pair of soldiers," she was saying; "both beat a retreat at the first glimpse of each other. And you can't leave after upsetting everyone like this; you must come in the house and reassure them. Come on!"
Some remonstrance was heard, and at the sound of the voice Hardy stepped out.
"Hello, Genesee!" he said, with a good deal of relief in his manner; "were you the scarecrow? Come in to the light, till we make sure we're not to be scalped."
After a few words with the girl that the others could not hear, he walked beside her to the porch.
"I'm mighty sorry, Hardy," he said as they met. "I was a little shaky about Mowitza to-day, and reckoned I'd better make an extra trip over; but I didn't count on kicking up a racket like this—didn't even spot the woman till she screeched and run."
"That's all right," said Hardy reassuringly. "I'm glad you came, whether intentionally or by accident. You know I told you the other day—"
"Yes—I know."
Rachel and Stuart had entered the house ahead of them, and all had dropped back into their chosen points of vantage for the evening when assurance was given that the Indians belonged to Aunty's imagination; but for those short seconds of indecision Tillie had realized, as never before, that they were really within the lines of the Indian country.
Aunty Luce settled herself sulkily in the corner, a grotesque figure, with an injured air, eyeing Genesee with a suspicion not a whit allayed when she recognized the man who had brought the first customs of war to them—taking nocturnal possession of the best room.
"No need tell me he's a friend o' you all!" she grunted. "Nice sort o' friend you's comin' to, I say—lives with Injuns; reckon I heard—umph!"
This was an aside to Tillie, who was trying to keep her quiet, and not succeeding very well, much to the amusement of the others within hearing, especially Fred.
Genesee had stopped in the outer room, speaking with Hardy; and, standing together on the hearth, in the light of the fire, it occurred to the group in the other room what a fine pair they made—each a piece of physical perfection in his way.
"A pair of typical frontiersmen," said Murray, and Miss Fred was pleased to agree, and add some praise on her own account.
"Why, that man Genesee is really handsome," she whispered; "he isn't scowling like sin, as he was when I saw him before. Ask him in here, Mrs. Tillie; I like to look at him."
Mrs. Tillie had already made a movement toward him. Perhaps the steady, questioning gaze of Rachel had impelled her to follow what was really her desire, only—why need the man be so flagrantly improper? Tillie had a great deal of charity for black sheep, but she believed in their having a corral to themselves, and not allowing them the chance of smutching the spotless flocks that have had good luck and escaped the mire. She was a good little woman, a warm-hearted one; and despite her cool condemnation of his wickedness when he was absent, she always found herself, in his presence, forgetting all but their comradeship of that autumn, and greeting him with the cordiality that belonged to it.
"I shall pinch myself for this in the morning," she prophesied, even while she held out her hand and reminded him that he had been a long time deciding about making them a visit.
Her greeting was much warmer than her farewell had been the morning he left—possibly because of the relief in finding it was not a "hostile" at their gate. And he seemed more at ease, less as if he need to put himself on the defensive—an attitude that had grown habitual to him, as it does to many who live against the rulings of the world.
She walked ahead of him into the other room, thus giving him no chance to object had he wanted to; and after a moment's hesitation he followed her, and noticed, without seeming to look at any of them, that Rachel stood back of Stuart's chair, and that Stuart was looking at him intently, as if for recognition. On the other side, he saw the Lieutenant quietly lay his hand on Miss Fred's wrist that was in shadow, just as she arose impulsively to offer her hand to the man whom she found was handsome when he had the aid of a razor. A beard of several weeks' growth had covered his face at their first meeting; now there was only a heavy mustache left. But she heeded that silent pressure of the wrist more than she would a spoken word, and instead of the proffered hand there was a little constrained smile of recognition, and a hope given that Aunty Luce had not upset his nerves with her war-cries.
He saw it all the moment he was inside the door—the refined face of Stuart, with the graciousness of manner so evidently acceptable to all, the sheets of manuscript still in his fingers, looking as he stood there like the ruling spirit of the cheery circle; and just outside that circle, though inside the door, he—Genesee—stood alone, the fact sharply accented by Miss Fred's significant movement; and with the remembrance of the fact came the quick, ever-ready spirit of bravado, and his head was held a trifle higher as he smiled down at her in apparent unconcern.
"If it is going to make Aunty Luce feel more comfortable to have company, I'm ready to own up that my hair raised the hat off my head at first sight of her—isn't quite settled into place yet;" and he ran his fingers through the mass of thick, dark hair. "How's that, Aunty?"
"Umph!" she grunted, crouching closer to the wall, and watching him distrustfully from the extreme corner of her eye.
"Have you ever been scared so badly you couldn't yell, Aunty?" he asked, with a bland disregard of the fact that she was just then in danger of roasting herself on the hearth for the purpose of evading him. "No? That's the way you fixed me a little while back, sure enough. I was scared too badly to run, or they never would have caught me."
The only intelligible answer heard from her was: "Go 'long, you!"
He did not "go 'long." On the contrary, he wheeled about in Tillie's chair, and settled himself as if that corner was especially attractive, and he intended spending the evening in it—a suggestion that was a decided surprise to all, even to Rachel, remembering his late conservatism.
Stuart was the only one who realized that it was perhaps a method of proving by practical demonstration the truth of his statement that he was a Pariah among the class who received the more refined character with every welcome. It was a queer thing for a man to court slights, but once inside the door, his total unconcern of that which had been a galling mortification to him was a pretty fair proof of Stuart's theory. He talked Indian wars to Hardy, and Indian love-songs to Hardy's wife. He coolly turned his attention to Lieutenant Murray, with whom his acquaintance was the slightest, and from the Lieutenant to Miss Fred, who was amused and interested in what was, to her, a new phase of a "squaw man;" and her delight was none the less keen because of the ineffectual attempts in any way to suppress this very irregular specimen, whose easy familiarity was as silencing as his gruff curtness had been the day they met him first.
Beyond an occasional remark, his notice was in no way directed to Rachel—in fact, he seemed to avoid looking at her. He was much more interested in the other two ladies, who by degrees dropped into a cordiality on a par with that of Aunty Luce; and he promptly took advantage of it by inviting Miss Fred to go riding with him in the morning.
The man's impudence and really handsome face gave Fred a wicked desire to accept, and horrify the Lieutenant and Tillie; but one glance at that little matron told her it would not do.
"I have an engagement to ride to-morrow," she said rather hurriedly, "else—"
"Else I should be your cavalier," he laughed. "Ah, well, there are more days coming. I can wait."
A dead silence followed, in which Rachel caught the glance Genesee turned on Stuart—a smile so mirthless and with so much of bitter irony in it that it told her plainly as words that the farce they had sat through was understood by those two men, if no others; and, puzzled and eager to break the awkward silence, she tried to end it by stepping into the breach.
"You have totally forgotten the story you were to tell us," she said, pointing to the sheets of manuscript in Stuart's hand; "if we are to have it to-night, why not begin?"
"Certainly; the story, by all means," echoed Fred. "We had it scared out of our heads, I guess, but our nerves are equal to it now. Are you fond of stories, Mr.—Mr. Genesee?"
"Uncommonly."
"Well, Mr. Stuart was about to read us one just as you came in: one he wrote since he came up in these wilds—at the Fort, didn't you say, Mr. Stuart? You know," she added, turning again to Genesee—"you know Mr. Stuart is a writer—a romancer."
"Yes," he answered slowly, looking at the subject of their discourse as if examining something rare and curious; "I should reckon—he—might be."
The contempt in the tone sent the hot blood to Stuart's face, his eyes glittering as ominously as Genesee's own would in anger. An instant their gaze met in challenge and retort, and then the sheets of paper were laid deliberately aside.
"I believe, after all, I will read you something else," he said, reaching for one of the rolls of manuscript on the table; "that is, with your permission. It is not a finished story, only the prologue. I wrote it in the South, and thought I might find material for the completion of it up here; perhaps I may."
"Let us have that, by all means," urged Tillie.
"What do you call it?"
"I had not thought of a title, as the story was scarcely written with the idea of publication. The theme, however, which is pretty fairly expressed in the quotation at the beginning, may suggest a title. I will leave that to my audience."
"And we will all put on our thinking-caps and study up a title while you tell the story, and when it is ended, see which has the best one to offer. It will be a new sort of game with which to test our imaginations. Go on. What is the quotation, to begin with?"
To the surprise of the listeners, he read that old command from Deuteronomy, written of brother to brother:
"Thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray; thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother."And with all lost things of thy brother's, which he hath lost and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise."In any case thou shalt deliver him the pledge again when the sun goeth down."
"Thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray; thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother.
"And with all lost things of thy brother's, which he hath lost and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise.
"In any case thou shalt deliver him the pledge again when the sun goeth down."
Stuart ceased after those lines, and looked for comment. He saw enough in the man's face opposite him.
"Oh, go on," said Rachel. "Never mind about the suggestions in that heading—it is full of them; give us the story."
"It is only the prologue to a story," he reminded her; and with no further comment began the manuscript.
Its opening was that saddest of all things to the living—a death-bed—and that most binding of all vows—a promise given to the dying.
There was drawn the picture of a fragile, fair little lady, holding in her chilling fingers the destiny of the lives she was about to leave behind—young lives—one a sobbing, wondering girl of ten, and two boys; the older perhaps eighteen, an uncouth, strong-faced youth, who clasped hands with another boy several years younger, but so fair that few would think them brothers, and only the more youthful would ever have been credited as the child of the little woman who looked so like a white lily.
The other was the elder son—an Esau, however, who was favorite with neither father nor mother; with no one, in fact, who had ever known the sunny face and nature of the more youthful—an impulsive, loving disposition that only shone the brighter by contrast with the darker-faced, undemonstrative one whom even his mother never understood.
And the shadow of that misunderstanding was with them even at the death-bed, where the Jacob sobbed out his grief in passionate protests against the power that would rob him, and the Esau stood like a statue to receive her commands. Back of them was the father, smothering his own grief and consoling his favorite, when he could, and the one witness to the seal that was set on the three young lives.
Her words were not many—she was so weak—but she motioned to the girl beside the bed. "I leave her to you," she said, looking at them both, but the eyes, true to the feeling back of them, wandered to the fairer face and rested there. "The old place will belong to you two ere many years—your father will perhaps come after me;" and she glanced lovingly toward the man whom all the world but herself had found cold and hard in nature. "I promised long ago—when her mother died—that she should always have a home, and now I have to leave the trust to you, my sons."
"We will keep it," said the steady voice of Esau, as he sat like an automaton watching her slowly drifting from them; while Jacob, on his knees, with his arms about her, was murmuring tenderly, as to a child, that all should be as she wished—her trust was to be theirs always.
"And if either of you should fail or forget, the other must take the care on his own shoulders. Promise me that too, because—"
The words died away in a whisper, but her eyes turned toward the Esau. He knew too bitterly what it meant. Though only a boy, he was a wild one—people said a bad one. His father had pronounced him the only one of their name who was not a gentleman. He gambled and he drank; his home seemed the stables, his companions, fast horses and their fast masters; and in the eyes of his mother he read, as never before, the effect that life had produced. His own mother did not dare trust the black sheep of the family, even though he promised at her death-bed.
A wild, half-murderous hate arose in him at the knowledge—a hate against his elegant, correctly mannered father, whose cold condemnation had long ago barred him out from his mother's sympathy, until even at her death-bed he felt himself a stranger—his little mother—and he had worshiped her as the faithful do their saints, and like them, afar off.
But even the hate for his father was driven back at the sight of the wistful face, and the look that comes to eyes but once.
"We promise—I promise that, so help me God!" he said earnestly, and then bent forward for the first time, his voice breaking as he spoke. "Mother! mother! say just once that you trust—that you believe in me!"
Her gaze was still on his face; it was growing difficult to move the eyes at will, and the very intensity of his own feelings may have held her there. Her eyes widened ever so little, as if at some revelation born to her by that magnetism, and then—"My boy, I trust—"
The words again died in a whisper; and raising his head with a long breath of relief, he saw his father drop on his knees by the younger son. Their arms were about each other and about her. A few broken, disjointed whispers; a last smile upward, beyond them, a soft, sighing little breath, after which there was no other, and then the voice of the boy, irrepressible in his grief, as his love, broke forth in passionate despair, and was soothed by his father, who led him sobbing and rebellious from the bedside—both in their sorrow forgetting that third member of the family who sat so stoically through it all, until the little girl, their joint trust, half-blind with her own tears, saw him there so still and as pathetically alone as the chilling clay beside him. Trying to say some comforting words, she spoke to him, but received no answer. She had always been rather afraid of this black sheep—he was so morose about the house, and made no one love him except the horses; but the scene just past drew her to him for once without dread.
"Brother," she whispered, calling him by the name his mother had left her; "dear brother, don't you sit there like that;" and a vague terror came to her as he made no sign. "You—you frighten me."
She slipped her hand about his neck with a child's caressing sympathy, and then a wild scream brought the people hurrying into the room.
"He is dead!" she cried, as she dropped beside him; "sitting there cold as stone, and we thought he didn't care! And he is dead—dead!"
But he was not dead—the physician soon assured them of that. It was only a cataleptic fit. The emotion that had melted the one brother to tears had frozen the other into the closest semblance to stone that life can reach, and still be life.
The silence was thrilling as Stuart's voice ceased, and he stooped for the other pages laid by his chair.
A feeling that the story on paper could never convey was brought to every listener by the something in his voice that was not tears, but suggested the emotion back of tears. They had always acknowledged the magnetism of the man, but felt that he was excelling himself in this instance. Tillie and Fred were silently crying. Rachel was staring very steadily ahead of her, too steadily to notice that the hand laid on Genesee's revolver at the commencement of the story had gradually relaxed and dropped listless beside him. All the strength in his body seemed to creep into his eyes as he watched Stuart, trusting as much to his eyes as his ears for the complete comprehension of the object in or back of that story. In the short pause the author, with one sweeping glance, read his advantage—that he was holding in the bonds of sympathy this man whom he could never conquer through an impersonal influence. The knowledge was a ten-fold inspiration—the point to be gained was so great to him; and with his voice thrilling them all with its intensity, he read on and on.
The story? Its finish was the beginning of this one; but it was told with a spirit that can not be transmitted by ink and paper, for the teller depended little on his written copy. He knew it by heart—knew all the tenderness of a love-story in it that was careless of the future as the butterflies that coquette on a summer's day, passing and repassing with a mere touch of wings, a challenge to a kiss, and then darting hither and yon in the chase that grows laughing and eager, until each flash of white wings in the sun bears them high above the heads of their comrades, as the divine passion raises all its votaries above the commonplace. Close and closer they are drawn by the spirit that lifts them into a new life; high and higher, until against the blue sky there is a final flash of white wings. It is the wedding by a kiss, and the coquettings are over—the sky closes in. They are a world of their own.
Such a love story of summer was told by him in the allegory of the butterflies; but the young heart throbbing through it was that of the woman-child who had wept while the two brothers had clasped hands and accepted her as the trust of the dying; and her joyous teacher of love had been the fair-haired, fine-faced boy whose grief had been so great and whose promises so fervent. It is a very old story, but an ever-pathetic one—that tragedy of life; and likewise this one, without thought of sin, with only a fatal fondness on her part, a fatal desire for being loved on his, and a season's farewell to be uttered, of which they could speak no word—the emotions that have led to more than one tragedy of soul. And one of the butterflies in this one flitted for many days through the flowers of her garden, shy, yet happy, whispering over and over, "His wife, his wife!" while traveling southward, the other felt a passion of remorse in his heart, and resolved on multitudinous plans for the following of a perfection of life in the future.
All this he told—too delicately to give offense, yet too unsparingly not to show that the evil wrought in a moment of idle pastime, of joyous carelessness, is as fatal in its results as the most deliberate act of preconceived wickedness.
And back of the lives and loves of those two, with their emotional impulses and joyous union of untutored hearts, there arose, unloved and seemingly unloving, the quiet, watchful figure of the Esau.
Looking at his life from a distance, and perhaps through eyes of remorse, the writer had idealized that one character, while he had only photographed the others; had studied out the deeds back of every decided action, and discovered, or thought he had, that it was the lack of sympathy in his home-life had made a sort of human porcupine of him, and none had guessed that, back of the keen darts, there beat a pulse hungry for words such as he begged from his mother at the last—and receiving, was ready to sacrifice every hope of his, present or future, that he might prove himself worthy of the trust she had granted him, though so late.
Something in the final ignoring of self and the taking on his own shoulders the responsibilities of those two whom his mother had loved—something in all that, made him appear a character of heroic proportions, viewed from Stuart's point of view. He walked through those pages as a live thing, the feeling in the author's voice testifying to his own earnestness in the portrayal—an earnestness that seemed to gain strength as he went along, and held his listeners with convincing power until the abrupt close of the scene between those two men in the old New Orleans house.
Everyone felt vaguely surprised and disturbed when he finished—it was all so totally unlike Stuart's stories with which he had entertained them before. They were unprepared for the emotions provoked; and there was in it, and in the reading, a suggestion of something beyond all that was told.
The silence was so long that Stuart himself was the first to lift his eyes to those opposite, and tried to say carelessly:
"Well?"
His face was pale, but not more so than that of Genesee, who, surprised in that intent gaze, tried to meet his eyes steadily, but failed, faltered, wavered, and finally turned to Rachel, as if seeking in some way his former assurance. And what he saw there was the reaching out of her hand until it touched Stuart's shoulder with a gesture of approving comradeship.
"Good!" she said tersely; "don't ever again talk of writing for pastime—the character of that one man is enough to be proud of."
"But there are two men," said Fred, finding her voice again, with a sense of relief; "which one do you mean?"
"No," contradicted Rachel, with sharp decision; "I can see only one—the Esau."
Stuart shrank a little under her hand, not even thanking her for the words of praise; and, to her surprise, it was Genesee who answered her, his eyes steady enough, except when looking at the author of the story.
"Don't be too quick about playing judge," he suggested; and the words took her back like a flash to that other time when he had given her the same curt advice. "May be that boy had some good points that are not put down there. Maybe he might have had plans about doing the square thing, and something upset them; or—or he might have got tangled up in a lariat he wasn't looking for. It's just natural bad luck some men have of getting tangled up like that; and may be he—this fellow—"
Fred broke out laughing at his reasoning for the defense.
"Why, Mr. Genesee," she said gleefully, "an audience of you would be an inspiration to an author or actor; you are talking about the man as if he was a flesh and blood specimen, instead of belonging to Mr. Stuart's imagination."
"Yes, I reckon you're right, Miss," he said, rising to his feet, with a queer, half-apologetic smile; "you see, I'm not used to hearing folks read—romances." But the insolent sarcasm with which he had spoken of the word at first was gone.
The others had all regained their tongues, or the use of them, and comment and praise were given the author—not much notice taken of Genesee's opinion and protest. His theories of the character might be natural ones; but his own likelihood for entanglements, to judge by his reputation, was apt to prejudice him, rendering him unduly charitable toward any other fellow who was unlucky.
"My only objection to it," said Tillie, "is that there is not enough of it. It seems unfinished."
"Well, he warned us in the beginning that it was only a prologue," reminded her husband; "but there is a good deal in it, too, for only a prologue—a good deal."
"For my part," remarked the Lieutenant, "I don't think I should want anything added to it. Just as it stands, it proves the characters of the two men. If it was carried further, it might gain nothing, and leave nothing for one's imagination."
"I had not thought of that," said Stuart; "in fact, it was only written to help myself in analyzing two characters I had in my head, and could not get rid of until I put them on paper. Authors are haunted by such ghosts sometimes. It is Miss Fred's fault that I resurrected this one to-night—she thrust on me the accidental remembrance."
"There are mighty few accidents in the world," was Genesee's concise statement, as he pulled on his heavy buckskin gloves. "I'm about to cut for camp. Going?" This to the Lieutenant.
After that laconic remark on accidents, no further word or notice was exchanged between Stuart and Genesee; but it was easily seen that the story read had smoothed out several wrinkles of threatened discord and discontent. It had at least tamed the spirit of the scout, and left him more the man Rachel knew in him. Her impatience at his manner early in the evening disappeared as he showed improvement; and just before they left, she crossed over to him, asking something of the snows on the Scot Mountain trail, his eyes warming at the directness of her speech and movement, showing to any who cared to notice that she spoke to him as to a friend; but his glance turned instinctively from her to Stuart. He remembered watching them that day as they rode from camp.
"But what of Davy?" she repeated; "have you heard any word of him?"
"No, and I'm ashamed to say it," he acknowledged; "I haven't been to see him at all since I got back. I've had a lot of things in my head to keep track of, and didn't even send. I'll do it, though, in a day or so—or else go myself."
"I'm afraid he may be sick. If the snow is not bad, it's a wonder he has not been down. I believe I will go."
"I don't like you to go over those trails alone," he said in a lower tone; "not just now, at any rate."
"Why not now?"
"Well, you know these Indian troubles may bring queer cattle into the country. The Kootenai tribe would rather take care of you than do you harm; but—well, I reckon you had better keep to the ranch."
"And you don't reckon you can trust me to tell me why?" she said in a challenging way.
"It mightn't do any good. I don't know, you see, that it is really dangerous, only I'd rather you'd keep on the safe side; and—and—don't say I can't trust you. I'd trust you with my life—yes, more than that, if I had it!"
His voice was not heard by the others, who were laughing and chatting, it was so low; but its intensity made her step back, looking up at him.
"Don't look as if I frighten you," he said quickly; "I didn't come in here for that. You shouldn't have made me come, anyway—I belong to the outside; coming in only helps me remember it."
"So that was what put you in such a humor. I thought it was Stuart."
"You did?"
"Yes; I know you don't like him—but, I think you are prejudiced."
"Oh, you do?" And she saw the same inscrutable smile on his face that she had noticed when he looked at Stuart.
"There—there," she laughed, throwing up her hand as if to check him, "don't tell me again that I am too anxious to judge people; but he is a good fellow."
"And you are a good girl," he said warmly, looking down at her with so much feeling in his face that Stuart, glancing toward them, was startled into strange conjectures at the revelation in it. It was the first time he had ever seen them talking together.
"And you're a plucky girl, too," added Genesee, "else you wouldn't stand here talking to me before everyone. I'll remember it always of you.Tillikum, good-night."
The next morning awoke with the balmy air of spring following the sunrise over the snow—a fair, soft day, with treachery back of its smiles; for along in the afternoon the sky gathered in gray drifts, and the weather-wise prophesied a big snow-fall.
All the morning Genesee wrote. One page after another was torn up, and it was the middle of the afternoon before he finally finished the work to his satisfaction, did it up in a flat, square package, and having sealed it securely, called Kalitan.
"You take this to the express office at the station," he said; "get a paper for it—receipt; then go to Holland's—to the bank store; give them this," and he handed a slip of written paper. "If they give you letter, keep it carefully—so," and he took from his shirt-pocket a rubber case the size of an ordinary envelope. Evidently Kalitan had carried it before, for he opened a rather intricate clasp and slipped the bit of paper into it.
"All good—not get wet," he said, picking up the larger package. "The Arrow fly down; come back how soon?"
"Send this," pointing to the package, "the first thing in the morning; then wait until night for the stage from Pacific that brings the mail—may be if road is bad it will not come till next morning."
"Kalitan wait?"
"Yes, wait till the stage comes, then ask for letter, and keep your eyes open; watch for bad whites.Klahowya!"
Watching Kalitan start off with that package, he drew a long breath of relief, like a man who had laid down some burden; and leaving the avenue and the camp behind, he struck out over the trail toward Hardy's, not even stopping to saddle a horse. He was going to have a "wau-wau" with Mowitza.
He had barely entered the stable door when Tillie came across the yard, with a shawl thrown over her head and looking disturbed.
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Genesee?" she said, with a little sigh of disappointment; "I thought it was Hen or one of the others come back. Did you meet them?"
"Yes; going up the west valley after stock."
"The west valley! Then they won't get back before dark, and I—I don't know what to do!" and the worried look reached utter despair as she spoke.
"What's up? I can ride after them if you say so."
"I don't know what to say. I should have told Hen at noon; but I knew it would put him out of patience with Rachel, and I trusted to her getting back all right; but now, if the snow sets in quickly, and it threatens to, she may get lost, and I—"
"Where is she?"
"Gone to Scot's Mountain."
An energetic expletive broke from his lips, unchecked even by the presence of the little woman who had seemed a sort of Madonna to him in the days a year old. The Madonna did not look much shocked. She had an idea that the occasion was a warrant for condemnation, and she felt rather guilty herself.
"One of the Kootenai tribe came here this morning, and after jabbering Chinook with him, she told me Davy MacDougall was sick, and she was going to ride up there. Hen was out, and she wouldn't listen to Miss Fred and me—just told us to keep quiet and not tell him where she was, and that she would get back for supper; so we haven't said a word; and now the snow is coming, she may get lost."
Tillie was almost in tears; it was easy to see she was terribly frightened, and very remorseful for keeping Rachel's command to say nothing to Hardy.
"Did that Indian go with her?"
"No; and she started him back first, up over that hill, to be sure he would not go over to the camp. I can't see what her idea was for that."
Genesee could—it was to prevent him from knowing she was going up into the hills despite his caution.
"There is not a man left on the place, except Jim," continued Tillie, "or I would send them after her. But Jim does not know the short-cut trail that I've heard Rachel speak of, and he might miss her in the hills; and—oh, dear! oh, dear!"
Genesee reached to the wooden peg where his saddle hung, and threw it across Mowitza's back.
In a moment Tillie understood what it meant, and felt that, capable as he might be, he was not the person she should send as guardian for a young girl. To be sure, he had once before filled that position, and brought her in safety; but that was before his real character was known.
Tillie thought of what the rest would say, of what Stuart would think for she had already bracketed Rachel and Stuart in her match-making calendar. She was between several fires of anxiety and indecision, as she noted the quick buckling of straps and the appropriation of two blankets from the hanging shelf above them.
"Are you—can you get someone to go for me—from the camp?" she asked hurriedly. He turned and looked at her with a smile in his eyes.
"I reckon so," he answered briefly; and then, seeing her face flushed and embarrassed, the smile died out as he felt what her thoughts were. "Who do you want?" he added, leading Mowitza out and standing beside her, ready to mount.
She did not even look up. She felt exactly as she had when she told Hen that she knew she was right, and yet felt ashamed of herself.
"I thought if you could spare Kalitan—" she hesitated. "She knows him, and he has been with her so often up there, no one else would know so well where to look for her—that is, if you could spare him," she added helplessly.
"The chances are that I can," he said in a business-like way; "and if I was you I'd just keep quiet about the trip, or else tell them she has an Indian guide—and she will have. Can you give me a bottle of brandy and some biscuits?"
She ran into the house, and came back with them at once. He was mounted and a-waiting her.
"Kalitan has left the camp—gone over that hill;" and he motioned rather vaguely toward the ridge across the valley. "I'll just ride over and start him from there, so he won't need to go back to camp for rations. Don't you worry; just keep quiet, and she'll come back all right with Kalitan."
He turned without further words, and rode away through the soft flakes of snow that were already beginning to fall. He did not even say a good-bye; and Tillie, hedged in by her convictions and her anxiety, let him go without even a word of thanks.
"I simply did not dare to say 'thank you' to him," she thought, as he disappeared. And then she went into the house and eased Fred's heart and her own conscience with the statement that Kalitan, the best guide Rachel could have, had gone to meet her. She made no mention of the objectionable character who had sent Kalitan.
By the time of sunset, Scot's Mountain was smothered in the white cloud that had closed over it so suddenly, and the snow was still falling straight down, and so steadily that one could not retrace steps and find tracks ten minutes after they were made. Through the banked-up masses a white-coated unrecognizable individual plowed his way to MacDougall's door, and without ceremony opened it and floundered in, carrying with him what looked enough snow to smother a man; but his eyes were clear of it, and a glance told him the cabin had but one occupant.
"When did she leave?" was the salutation MacDougall received, after a separation of six weeks.
"Why, Jack, my lad!"
"Yes, that's who it is, and little time to talk. Has she been here?"
"The lass—Rachel? She has that—a sight for sore eyes—and set all things neat and tidy for me in no time;" and he waved his hand toward the clean-swept hearth, and the table with clean dishes, and a basket with a loaf of new bread showing through. "But she did na stay long wi' me. The clouds were comin' up heavy, she said, and she must get home before the snow fell; an' it snows now?"
"Well, rather. Can't you see out?"
"I doubt na I've had a nap since she left;" and the Old man raised himself stiffly from the bunk. "I got none the night, for the sore pain o' my back, but the lass helped me. She's a rare helpful one."
"Which trail did she take?" asked Genesee impatiently.
He saw the old man was not able to help him look for her, and did not want to alarm him; but to stand listening to comments when every minute was deepening the snow, and the darkness—well, it was a test to the man waiting.
"I canna say for sure, but she spoke o' the trail through the Maples being the quickest way home; likely she took it."
Genesee turned to the door with a gesture of despair. He had come that way and seen no sign of her; but the trail wound above gulches where a misstep was fatal, and where a horse and rider could be buried in the depths that day and leave no trace.
At the door he stopped and glanced at Davy MacDougall, and then about the cabin.
"Are you fixed all right here in case of being snowed in?" he asked.
"I am that—for four weeks, if need be; but does it look like that out?"
"Pretty much. Good-bye, Davy;" and he walked back and held out his hand to the old man, who looked at him wonderingly. Though their friendship was earnest, they were never demonstrative, and Genesee usually left with a carelessklahowya!
"Why, lad—"
"I'm going to look for her, Davy. If I find her, you'll hear of it; if I don't, tell the cursed fools at the ranch that I—that I sent a guide who would give his life for her. Good-bye, old fellow—good-bye."
Down over the mountain he went, leading Mowitza, and breaking the path ahead of her—slow, slow work. At that rate of travel, it would be morning before he could reach the ranch; and he must find her first.
He found he could have made more speed with snow-shoes and without Mowitza—the snow was banking up so terribly. The valley was almost reached when a queer sound came to him through the thick veil of white that had turned gray with coming night.
Mowitza heard it, too, for she threw up her head and answered it with a long whinny, even before her master had decided what the noise was; but it came again, and then he had no doubt it was the call of a horse, and it was somewhere on the hill above him.
He fastened Mowitza to a tree, and started up over the way he had come, stopping now and then to call, but hearing no answer—not even from the horse, that suggested some phantom-like steed that had passed in the white storm.
Suddenly, close to him, he heard a sound much more human—a whistle; and in a moment he plunged in that direction, and almost stumbled over a form huddled against a fallen tree. He could not see her face. He did not need to. She was in his arms, and she was alive. That was enough. But she lay strangely still for a live woman, and he felt in his pocket for that whisky-flask; a little of the fiery liquor strangled her, but aroused her entirely.
"Jack?"
"Yes."
"I knew if I called long enough you would come; but I can only whisper now. You came just in time."
"How long have you been here?"
"Oh, hours, I think. I started for the gulch trail, and couldn't make it with snow on the ground. Then I tried for the other trail, but got lost in the snow—couldn't even find the cabin. Help me up, will you? I guess I'm all right now."
She was not, quite, for she staggered woefully; and he caught her quickly to him and held her with one arm, while he fumbled for some matches with the other.
"You're a healthy-looking specimen," was the rather depreciating verdict he gave at sight of the white, tired face. She smiled from the pillow of his shoulder, but did not open her eyes; then the match flickered and went out, and he could see her no more.
"Why didn't you stay at home, as I told you to?"
"Didn't want to."
"Don't you know I'm likely to catch my death of cold tramping here after you?"
"No," with an intonation that sounded rather heartless; "you never catch cold."
The fact that she had not lost her old spirit, if she had her voice, was a great point in her favor, and he had a full appreciation of it. She was tired out, and hoarse, but still had pluck enough to attempt the trip to the ranch.
"We've got to make it," she decided, when the subject was broached; "we can make it to-night as well as to-morrow, if you know the trail. Did you say you had some biscuits? Well, I'm hungry."
"You generally are," he remarked, with a dryness in no way related to the delight with which he got the biscuits for her and insisted on her swallowing some more of the whisky. "Are you cold?"
"No—not a bit; and that seems funny, too. If it hadn't been such a soft, warm snow, I should have been frozen."
He left her and went to find the mare, which he did without much trouble; and in leading her back over the little plateau he was struck with a sense of being on familiar ground. It was such a tiny little shelf jutting out from the mountain.
Swathed in snow as it was, and with the darkness above it, he felt so confident that he walked straight out to where the edge should be if he was right. Yes, there was the sudden shelving that left the little plot inaccessible from one side.
"Do you know where we are, my girl?" he asked as he rejoined her.
"Somewhere on Scot's Mountain," she hazarded; the possessive term used by him had a way of depriving her of decided opinions.
"You're just about the same place where you watched the sun come up once—may be you remember?"
"Yes."
He had helped her up. They stood there silent what seemed a long time; then he spoke:
"I've come here often since that time. It's been a sort of a church—one that no one likely ever set foot in but you and me." He paused as if in hesitation; then continued: "I've wished often I could see you here again in the same place, just because I got so fond of it; and I don't know what you think of it, but this little bit of the mountain has something witched in it for me. I felt in the dark when my feet touched it, and I have a fancy, after it's all over, to be brought up here and laid where we stood that morning."
"Jack," and her other hand was reached impulsively to his, "what's the matter—what makes you speak like that now?"
"I don't know. The idea came strong to me back there, and I felt as if you—you—were the only one I could tell it to, for you know nearly all now—all the bad in me, too; yet you've never been the girl to draw away or keep back your hand if you felt I needed it. Ah, my girl, you are one in a thousand!"
He was speaking in the calmest, most dispassionate way, as if it was quite a usual thing to indulge in dissertations of this sort, with the snow slowly covering them. Perhaps he was right in thinking the place witched.
"You've been a good friend to me," he continued, "whether I was near or far—MacDougall told me things that proved it; and if my time should come quick, as many a man's has in the Indian country, I believe you would see I was brought here, where I want to be."
"You may be sure of it," she said earnestly; "but I don't like to hear you talk like that—it isn't like you. You give me a queer, uncanny feeling. I can't see you, and I am not sure it is Jack—nika tillikum—I am talking to at all. If you keep it up, you will have me nervous."
He held her hand and drew it up to his throat, pressing his chin against the fingers with a movement that was as caressive as a kiss.
"Don't you be afraid," he said gently; "you are afraid of nothing else, and you must never be of me. Come, come, my girl, if we're to go, we'd better be getting a move on."
The prosaic suggestion seemed an interruption of his own tendencies, which were not prosaic. The girl slipped her fingers gently but decidedly from their resting-place so near his lips, and laid her one hand on his arm.
"Yes, we must be going, or"—and he knew she was smiling, though the darkness hid her—"or it will look as if there are two witched folks in our chapel—our white chapel—to-night. I'm glad we happened here, since the thought is any comfort to you; but I hope it will be many a day before you are brought here, instead of bringing yourself."
He took her hand, and through the white masses turned their faces down the mountain. The mare followed meekly after. The stimulant of bread and whisky—and more, the coming of this man, of whom she was so stubbornly confident—had acted as a tonic to Rachel, and she struggled through bravely, accepting little of help, and had not once asked how he came to be there instead of the ranchmen.
Perhaps it was because of their past association, and that one night together when he had carried her in his arms; but whatever he was to the other people, he had always seemed to her a sort of guardian of the hills and all lost things.
She did not think of his presence there nearly so much as she did of those ideas of his that seemed "uncanny." He, such a bulwark of physical strength, to speak like that of a grave-site! It added one more to the contradictions she had seen in him.
Several things were in her mind to say to him, and not all of them pleasant. She had heard a little of the ideas current as to his Indian sympathies, and the doubt with which he was regarded in camp; and, while she defended him, she many times felt vexed that he cared so little about defending himself. And with the memory of the night before, and feminine comments at the ranch after he had gone, she made an attempt to storm his stubbornness during a short breathing-spell when they rested against the great bole of a tree.
"Genesee, why don't you let the other folks at the ranch, or the camp, know you as I do?" was the first break, at which he laughed shortly.
"They may know me the best of the two."
"But they don't; I know they don't; you know they don't."
"Speak for yourself," he suggested; "I'm not sure either way, and when a man can't bet on himself, it isn't fair to expect his friends to. You've been the only one of them all to pin faith to me, with not a thing to prove that you had reason for it; it's just out-and-out faith, nothing else. What they think doesn't count, nor what I've been; but if ever I get where I can talk to you, you'll know, may be, how much a woman's faith can help a man when he's down. But don't you bother your head over what they think. If I'm any good, they'll know it sometime; if I'm not, you'll know that, too. That's enough said, isn't it? And we'd better break away from here; we're about the foot of the mountain, I reckon."
Then he took possession of her hand again, and led her on in the night; and she felt that her attempt had been a failure, except that it showed how closely he held her regard, and she was too human not to be moved by the knowledge. Yes, he was very improper, as much so as most men, only it had happened to be in a way that was shocking to tenderfeet lucky enough to have families and homes as safeguards against evil. He was very disreputable, and, socially, a great gulf would be marked between them by their friends. But in the hills, where the universe dwindled to earth, sky, and two souls, they were but man and woman; and all the puzzling things about him that were blameful things melted away, as the snow that fell on their faces. She felt his strong presence as a guard about her, and without doubt or hesitation she kept pace beside him.
Once in the valley, she mounted Betty, and letting Mowitza follow, he walked ahead himself, to break the trail—a slow, slavish task, and the journey seemed endless. Hour after hour went by in that slow march—scarcely a word spoken, save when rest was necessary; and the snow never ceased falling—a widely different journey from that other time when he had hunted and found her.
"You have your own time finding the trail for me when I get lost," she said once, as he lifted her to the saddle after a short rest.
"You did the same thing for me one day, a good while ago," he answered simply.
The night had reached its greatest darkness, in the hours that presage the dawn, when they crossed the last ridge, and knew that rest was at last within comparatively easy reach. Then for the first time, Genesee spoke of his self-imposed search.
"I reckon you know I'm an Indian?" he said by way of preface.
"I don't know anything of the sort."
"But I am—a regular adopted son in the Kootenai tribe, four years old; so if they ask you if an Indian guide brought you home, you can tell them yes. Do you see?"
"Yes, I see, but not the necessity. Why should I not tell them you brought me?"
"May be you know, and may be you don't, that I'm not supposed to range far from camp. Kalitan was to go for you. Kalitan had some other work, and sent a Kootenai friend of his. The friend's name is Lamonti. Can you mind that? It means 'the mountain.' I come by it honest—it's a present Grey Eagle made me. If they ask questions about your guide, just put them off some way—tell them you don't know where he's gone to; and you won't. Now, can you do that?"
"I can, of course; but I don't like to have you leave like this. You must be half-dead, and I—Jack, Jack, what would I have done without you!"
He was so close, in the darkness, that in throwing out her hand it touched his face, one of the trivial accidents that turn lives sometimes. He caught it, pressing it to his lips, his eyes, his cheek.
"Don't speak like that, unless you want to make a crazy man of me," he muttered. "I can't stand everything. God! girl, you'll never know, and I—can't tell you! For Christ sake, don't act as if you were afraid—the only one who has ever had faith in me! I think that would wake up all the devil you helped put asleep once. Here! give me your hand again, just once—just to show you trust me. I'll be worth it—I swear I will! I'll never come near you again!"
The bonds under which he had held himself so long had broken at the touch of her hand and the impulsive tenderness of her appeal. Through the half sob in his wild words had burst all the repressed emotions of desolate days and lonely nights, and the force of them thrilled the girl, half-stunned her, for she could not speak. A sort of terror of his broken, passionate speech had drawn her quickly back from him, and she seemed to live hours in that second of indecision. All her audacity and self-possession vanished as a bulwark of straws before a flood. Her hands trembled, and a great compassion filled her for this alien by whose side she would have to stand against the world. That certainty it must have been that decided her, as it has decided many another woman, and ennobled many a love that otherwise would have been commonplace. And though her hands trembled, they trembled out toward him, and fell softly as a benediction on his upturned face.
"I think you will come to me again," she said tremulously, as she leaned low from the saddle and felt tears as well as kisses on her hands, "and you are worth it now, I believe; worth more than I can give you."
A half-hour later Rachel entered the door of the ranch, and found several of its occupants sleepless and awaiting some tidings of her. In the soft snow they had not heard her arrival until she stepped on the porch.
"I've been all night getting here," she said, glancing at the clock that told an hour near dawn, "and I'm too tired to talk; so don't bother me. See how hoarse I am. No; Kalitan did not bring me. It was a Kootenai called Lamonti. I don't know where he has gone—wouldn't come in. Just keep quiet and let me get to bed, will you?"
An hour before dawn the wind came, hurtling down through the mountains and moaning along the valleys; before it drove the flying snow in great chilly sheets, as it was lifted from the high places and spread in every nook that would warrant its safe-keeping.
Through its fitful gusts Genesee walked into camp, his tracks filled by the eager flakes as he left them. There seemed a strange alertness about the place, for so early an hour—even through the commotion, blissful and despairing, in his own breast, he noticed it as the guard hailed him, and when he replied, he heard from that individual an excited exclamation of astonishment.
"By jolly, if it ain't Genesee!"
"I reckon it is," he answered, and passed on, too tired, yet elated by his night's work, to care whether or not his absence had been commented on.
The door of the shack had barely closed on him when one of the several lanterns that he had noticed floating like stars along the snow stopped at his door, then a knock, and the entrance of a very wide-awake looking corporal.
"You are to report to Captain Holt at once," was the message he brought.
"What's up?" and the boot that was half-way off was yanked on again.
"That's all the message I was given."
"The hell you say! Well, trot along."
His own frowning perplexity was no more decided than that of Captain Holt, as he looked up to notice the entrance of the scout—and there was little of friendliness in the look.
"You sent a man to say you wanted me."
"Yes, I sent a man about two hours ago to say I wanted you," was the ironical reply. "You were not to be found. Have you any report to make?"
"Not that I know of," he said curtly. A sort of quiet antagonism had always been felt between the chief of scouts and the new commander, but this was the first time any expression had been given it, and Genesee's intolerance quickly responded to the manner of the officer that had in it both dislike and distrust.
"Then you refuse to tell me where you spent the night?"
The light in Genesee's eyes flashed sudden defiance.
"Yes; if it comes to that, and that's the way you put it, I do."
"You had better think twice before you give that answer," advised Captain Holt, his face paling with anger at the insubordination; "and another question to be put to you is, Where is the half-breed, your runner?"
"I don't know as that concerns you, either," answered Genesee coolly. "He is my Indian, and neither of us belonging to the United States Army, we can leave camp when it suits us. But I don't mind telling you I sent him to Holland's yesterday."
"For what purpose?"
"My own business."
"The same thing that took you from camp at three yesterday and kept you out all night?"
"Just so."
"Then, since you refuse to answer a very necessary question, you may—until I have an opportunity of investigating an absence that is, to say the least, suspicious—you may consider yourself under arrest."
"What in—"
"For horse-stealing," finished the Captain calmly.
Genesee's hand dropped to his belt in a suggestive manner, and from the door two guards stepped forward. He turned to look at them, and the ridiculous idea of his arrest quelled the quick rage that had flashed up in his face.
"You needn't have troubled yourself with these protectors," he remarked, "for I reckon there isn't much I'd want to do that they would stop me from; and as for you—this is a piece of dirty work for some end. I'm ready to be put under arrest, just to see some fun when your commander gets back. And now may be you'll just tell me whose horse I stole?"
"It is not one horse, but one-half the stock belonging to the company, that was run off by your Kootenai friends last night," replied Captain Holt grimly; "and as your disappearance was likely helpful to them, and a matter of mystery to the command, you will be debarred from visiting them again until the matter is investigated. Even the explanation is more than your insolence deserves. You can go back to your quarters."
"It's an infernal lie!" burst out Genesee wrathfully. "No Kootenai touched your stock. It's been some thieving Blackfeet and their white friends; and if you interfere with the Kootenais, and try to put it on their shoulders, you'll get yourself in trouble—big trouble."
"When I want your advice, I will ask for it," was the natural reply to the contradiction and half threat. Genesee walked to the door with the guards, and turning, came back.
"Captain Holt," with more of appeal in manner than one would look for in him, "I'm ready to take my chances in this business, and I'm not trying to give advice, but I'm going to ask you, on the reputation you know I have in Indian matters, to be mighty careful what you do or what you let the men do toward the Kootenai people. They're only waiting the Major's return to send word to camp that their arms and fighting braves are willing to help the troops against the Blackfeet if they're needed. I know it. Their messenger is likely to come any day; and it will be a bad thing for our cause if their friendliness is broken by this suspicion."
"Your cause?"
"No, I haven't got any," he retorted. "I'm not talking for myself—I'm out of it; but I mean the cause of lives here in the valley—the lives on both sides—that would be lost in a useless fight. It's all useless."
"And you acknowledge, then, that you don't consider the cause of the whites as your own cause?" asked the Captain quietly.
"Yes!" he burst out emphatically, "I'll own up to you or anyone else; so make me a horse-thief on that, if you can! I'd work for the reds quicker than for you, if there was anything to be gained by fighting for them; but there isn't. They'd only kill, and be killed off in the end. If I've worked on your side, it's been to save lives, not to take them; and if I've got any sympathies in the matter, it's with the reds. They've been dogged to death by your damned 'cause.' Now you've got my ideas in a nut-shell."
"Yes," agreed the Captain sarcastically, "very plainly expressed. To establish entirely your sympathy with your red friends, it only remains for you to be equally frank and report your movements of last night."
"Go to hell and find out;" and with this climax of insubordination, the scout left the presence of the commanding officer and marched back to his shack, where he took possession of the bunk and was sound asleep in five minutes, and altogether undisturbed by the fact that a guard was stationed at the door of the impromptu prison with orders to shoot him if an attempt to escape was made.
Captain Holt's leniency with the scout, who simply ignored military rule and obedience in a place where it was the only law, was, for him, phenomenal.
The one thing in Genesee's favor was his voluntary return to camp; and until he learned what scheme was back of that, the Captain was obliged, with the thought of his superior officer in mind and the scout's importance, to grant him some amenities, ignore his insolence, and content himself with keeping him under guard.
The guard outside was not nearly so strong in its control of Genesee as the bonds of sleep that held him through the morning and well-nigh high noon. He had quickly summed up the case after his interview with Holt, and decided that in two days, at most, the Major would be back, and that the present commander would defer any decided movement toward the Kootenais until then. As for the horses, that was a bad business; but if they chose to put him under arrest, they plainly took from him the responsibility of hunting for stock. So he decided, and in the freedom from any further care, dropped asleep. Once a guard came in with some breakfast, which he ate drowsily, and turned again to his pillow.
"When that fool, the commanding officer, concludes to let up on this arrest, there's likely to be some work to do—I'll fortify myself while I have the chance;" and that determination, added to his exhaustion, served to make his rest a very deliberate affair, not to be disturbed by trifles.
Several things occurred during that winter's morning that were far from trifling; yet no sound of them came to him, not even when a shot on the ridge echoed across the valley, and ten minutes later was followed by several more, accompanied by yells, heard faintly, but clearly enough to tell that a skirmishing party was having a shooting-match with someone across the hills. In three minutes every horse left in camp was mounted and scurrying fast as their feet could carry them through the drifts, while the horseless ones, whose stock had been run off in the muffled silence of the snow-storm, remained unwillingly behind.
At the end of the avenue Lieutenant Murray caught sight of Stuart and Hardy, riding toward camp. There was a hallooed invitation to join, another of acceptance, and the civilians joined the irregular cavalcade and swept with them over the hill, where the sounds of shots were growing fainter—evidently a retreat and a chase—toward which they rode blindly.
Through all of it their chief of scouts slept unconcernedly; a solid ten hours of rest was taken possession of before he aroused himself to care whether it was daylight or darkness.
"Major come yet?" was the first query.
"No."
"Am I still under arrest?"
"Yes."
"Then bring me something to eat. Past chuck?"
On being informed that the midday meal had been ended two hours before, his next query was whether anyone from the ranch had been to camp; but the guard thought not—a reply most grateful to the prisoner.
"Suppose you tell me something about the horses being run off," he suggested. "Oh, yes, I reckon I'm supposed to know all about it," he added; "but, just to pass the time, suppose you tell me your side of it."
There was not much to tell. Hardy's men had been riding around after stray stock until late; had passed camp after ten o'clock. About one in the morning the snow was falling thick; a little racket was heard in the long shed where the horses were tied, and the sentry, thinking some of Hardy's stray stock had wandered in there, tramped around with a light to see what was wrong. He had barely reached the end of the corral when someone from behind struck him over the head. In falling, his gun was discharged; and when investigations were made, it was found that nearly half the horses, about forty head, had been quietly run off through the snow, and the exploded gun was all that saved the rest.
The trail was hot, and pursuit began, but the thieves evidently knew the country, while the troops did not; and every moment lost in consultation and conjecture was gained by the people ahead, until the wind rose and the trail was buried in the snow.
The followers had only returned to camp a few minutes before Genesee was reported back; but the man surmised that if the troops did not get the horses, they were taking their pay out of the hides of the red-skins.
"How's that?" demanded Genesee, with the quick, perplexed frown that was as much anxiety as displeasure.
"Well, a young cub of a Siwash came a-riding along to camp about noon, as large as life and independent as a hog on ice, and Denny Claflin—you know him, his horse was roped in by them last night—well, he called the buck to halt, as he'd a perfect right to do, and got no more notice than if the wind had whistled. Denny hates an Injun as the devil does holy water, and being naturally riled over last night, he called to halt, or he'd fire. Well, Mr. Siwash never turned his head, and Denny let him have it."