The Squaw Man

"Thank you," Diana answered. "I am a bit shaken, but I'm glad I stayed."

Bill was still holding her hand as he drew a chair towards her. "You're tremblin', lady. Nick" – he turned to the bar – "ain't you got nothin' in the way of a ladies' drink?"

"Right off the bat." Nick took a bottle from the pyramid behind the bar. "Here's a bottle of Rhine wine as has been an ornament here for fifteen years." As he spoke he dusted the slender-throated flagon. "It's unsalable. I never tasted it but once, and I hardly knowed I had had a drink. It was just like weak tea; but it's a regulation ladies' drink, and if the lady will honor me, it's sure on the house."

Diana had sunk into the chair – she was too dazed to know what to do. Sir John was near her.

"That's very kind of you, I'm sure," Diana said. She took the glass from Bill's hand. "I feel better already."

"It 'ain't got no real substance to it, lady, but it's the best Nick's got, and we'd like to have you accept it, jest to show that you know that all Western men ain't bad men and all cow-boys ain't loafers."

As he spoke, Bill bowed low. Like a gallant of old, he trailed his sombrero on the ground. Some of the men began to feel sentimental – they were like weather-cocks, responding readily with their susceptible natures to the swaying influence of the moment.

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Diana sprang to her feet. Jim would not look towards her – well, then, she must send him some message. "I think I understand," she said to Bill. "If you will let me, I would like to propose a toast – will you let me?"

The room echoed the assent of the men. They were all cavaliers – all sombreros were off and all bowed low before Diana. The cow-boy has much of the player in him. Hardly able to steady her sweet, tremulous voice, Diana turned directly to Jim and moved nearer to him, while she lifted her glass high in the air.

"To the Queen's champion, Mr. – " She paused, her eyes were blinded, her brain clouded. What was the name he had called himself? "Mr. – " she again repeated.

Bill's voice answered, "Jim Carston's his name, lady."

Higher she held the glass. Jim had turned in amazement. Her eyes met his.

"Mr. Jim Carston." Her voice rang clear and vibrant this time.

"And every son of a gun in this hole drinks to that, or we'll know the reason why – eh, boys?" Bill jubilantly cried. Their boss had brought glory to them that day.

"Jim Carston! Jim Carston!" The name rang through the place, and the toast was drunk with enthusiasm. In the midst of it all the centre door was thrown open and the conductor's big voice bawled:

"All passengers for the Overland Limited – all aboard!"

CHAPTER XVII

The tooting and whistling of the train began. The men filed outside. In the crush Cash Hawkins, who had been drinking steadily until he was now in a decided state of inebriation, slunk down to the other end of the platform. Henry and Sir John assisted Diana to the car. The cow-boys swarmed along the platform – Jim alone stood in the deserted saloon.

Before he was aware of what was happening – that the train was about to carry away this tie of his former life – he heard Diana's voice call "Jim." She slipped from the lower step on which she stood and ran towards him.

"Diana!" He seized her out-stretched hands – he must say something to her, but she would not let him speak.

"I shall always thank God for this day, Jim, I couldn't believe you were – I never have. Now I know the sacrifices you have made for me – now I know I have the right to ask God to bless you and keep you and make you happy." Her voice broke; tears were falling on his hand.

Lady Elizabeth or Henry would never discuss the cause of Jim's departure. She had always persistently defended him to the world, and to-day her intuition had told her that for her sake Jim had shielded his cousin – her husband! How could she accept it?

"And you, Diana – tell me you are happy."

"Happy?" Her eyes told him that it was only possible for her to be happy now that she knew the truth. "I sha'n't mind the future now so terribly, because I can respect somebody."

Dan passed the open door. "All aboard, lady," he briskly called.

"Good-bye, Jim. God bless you!" She felt herself being helped aboard by Dan; she tried to wave her hand to Jim. The car moved, the whistling and ringing of the bell told of their departure.

It was Henry who led her to a chair and left her there. That day he paid in full for his life's misdeeds.

Jim never attempted to see the receding car; he could hear the noise of the departing train and the cries of the boys as they hooted their good-byes.

"Kiss the baby for me." It was big Bill's voice.

"What a baby Bill is himself!" Jim found himself saying.

"Tell Sadie to write," called Shorty.

"Und say – say for me too, you bet." The voice of the German was drowned in the roar from the rest of the boys. Only Grouchy, in silence, looked on contemptuously.

From down the platform came the yells of the men. Even Nick had deserted his bar. Still, Jim did not move. He could hear it all; he knew what was happening – that the train was steaming away. He found himself watching flies settle on a beer-glass. Then he fell into a chair, let his head slip on to his arms that lay across the table, his back to the big entrance and to the smaller one at the other side of the room. There was no movement from him that told of the agonies he was enduring. The flies buzzed at will about the place.

The door at the side swung silently open and Nat-u-ritch slipped into the room. In her soft moccasins her steps made no sound. She crept towards Jim, amazed to see him lying thus. She shook her head – she could not understand this mystery. She was about to move closer to Jim when she heard some one coming.

Through the door at the back she could see the crowds returning from the departed train, while from the other direction came Cash Hawkins – she could see him clearly. Closer came his steps. Quickly she slid behind the door, and from without peered into the saloon. Cash, aflame with passion and liquor, entered and saw that Jim was alone.

He drew both his guns. With an evil smile he advanced upon Jim. "Damn you, I've got you!" he hissed; but before he could pull the trigger there was a flash, a report, and Cash's hands were thrown up in a convulsive movement while he pitched forward on his face. Dazed, bewildered, Jim got to his feet and mechanically pulled his gun; then, before he was aware of what had happened, he was bending over the body of Hawkins.

The report was followed by an excitable rush of the crowd into the saloon. The gamblers and cattlemen were headed by Bud Hardy, the County Sheriff. Big Bill, Andy, Grouchy, and Shorty went at once to Jim, who still stood close to the prostrate figure cf Cash Hawkins. Pete quickly knelt beside the body, and turned Cash over to examine him. Bud Hardy stood in the centre of the room.

"Hold on there! Nobody leaves without my permission." Then to Pete, "How is he?"

"He's cashed in, Sheriff. Plumb through the heart. Don't think I ever see neater work." He laid the body on its back and crossed the arms over the breast.

Hardy walked direct to Jim. "Jim Carston, hand over your gun."

"And who are you?" Jim asked, as he looked at the tall, bulky figure of Bud Hardy. He had forgotten that Bill, earlier in the afternoon, had pointed out this man to him, and warned him of his friendship with Cash Hawkins.

Gathered about Bud were Hawkins's faction, who resented the Englishman's presence among them, and with them several who, only a few hours ago, had been cheering Jim. Bud Hardy answered his question with tolerant amusement.

"The County Sheriff," he said.

To the surprise of all, Jim advanced and handed his gun to Bud.

"Come on, you're my prisoner." Even Bud felt that this was extremely difficult. No resistance from the prisoner – no denial! It was unusual. But as he stepped towards Jim he was stopped by Bill.

"Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?"

Bill's heart beat fast, but he gave no sign of the fear that filled him. He knew what this might mean for the boss. The faces of the other men of Jim's ranch grew gray – they too realized, far more than Jim did, that it was not the justice of the law that was to be his, but – well, the crowds grew blood-thirsty sometimes in Maverick. They had seen sights that the boss had not – an ugly swinging vision passed before their eyes, but no hint was given of this by the men. Each one knew that it would be the most unwise move they could make for the boss's sake.

Bill's big, slow voice was heard again in its careless drawl. "Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious hurry. Where you goin' to take him to?"

"County jail, of course, at Jansen," was Hardy's answer.

Bill then asked, as he surveyed Hawkins's gang, who were whispering together with several of the hangers-on of the place, "How do you know the friends of the deceased won't take him away from you and hang him to the nearest telegraph-pole, eh?"

It was lightly said, and as he said it Bill laid his big hand on Bud's shoulder. He must conciliate the Sheriff, gain time – anything.

But Bud shook Bill off. "Are you goin' to interfere with me in the discharge of my duty?" he blustered.

"Not a bit, Bud, not a bit," Bill said; then, with sudden resolve – it would mean his life, and the lives of others against them, perhaps, but he meant to fight if necessary – he added: "But we're goin' to see that you do it. We ain't afraid of a trial and a jury." He took the crowd into his confidence. "There isn't a jury in the State that wouldn't present the prisoner with a vote of thanks and a silver service for gettin' rid of Cash Hawkins."

He turned to Bud with his men about him. "Who's goin' to help you take him seventy-five miles to jail?" he demanded. "Will you swear us in?"

But Bud only answered, "You can't intimidate me, Bill."

"As defunct has a gun in each hand it's a plain case of self-defence, anyway." Bill pointed to the two revolvers still clutched in the dead man's stiffening hands.

"I don't stand for this," thundered Bud. "Clear the room."

He had been rather a friend of Big Bill's – most of them were in Maverick – so he had listened to him longer than he would have to any of the other men, but now he was through with his arguments, he must assert his authority.

"Clear the room; this prisoner goes with me."

There was a movement from the crowd. Bill looked appealingly at Jim. Why would not the boss speak? Just as the crowds had reached the doors Jim said to Bud, who was advancing to formally arrest him:

"Wait a minute. Take the trouble to examine my gun."

Bud lifted Jim's gun and looked at it closely. "Well?" he asked.

"You see it hasn't been discharged."

Bud quickly verified the fact that the gun was completely loaded. He paused a moment irresolute. Then, with a sudden suspicion, he said:

"You've had time to reload it."

The men were eagerly watching the scene between the two men.

"Smell it," Jim said, quietly. "I haven't had time to clean it."

"Ah!" Bill breathed. It was like Jim to play the trump card.

Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose. It was as clean and fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel. There could be no doubt that it had not been used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove it. It would be useless to try to make a case of this. Bud knew when he was beaten. He took the revolver and handed it to Jim.

"Well, who did it, then?" He glanced at Jim's men. "Would you's all oblige me by giving me a sniff of your guns?"

The relief was so great that the men hysterically crowded Bud, and almost as one man they thrust their revolvers into Bud's face.

"Here's my smoke," said one.

Bud drew back. "One at a time – one at a time," he gasped – "if you please."

Then one by one the men filed past him as each held his revolver to Bud's nose.

"Here's my smoke-machine," Bill said. It was passed by Bud without a word.

"Und mine," said Andy.

Grouchy jerked his into Bud's face with the words, "Here's mine, and not a notch on it." And Bud could not deny the truth of the assertion.

All that Shorty nervously demanded was, "How's that?" as he jerked the revolver into Bud's face.

In Maverick this was evidence enough for Bud – evidence that so far all were free to go.

"Why didn't you's all say so before?" he growled, annoyed at the turn affairs had taken. Then he saw the expression on their faces, laughter and glee as they crowded around Jim; when they looked at him, tolerant amusement. The smelling of the smoke-machines they regarded as a fine new move on their part.

"Damn it," Bud thundered. "You've been astringin' me while the guilty man's escaped; but I'll git him – I'll git him yet."

Jim saved! It was all that the boys wanted. With a whoop-la, they tore after Bud. Down the platform they fled, all in excitement with the new sensation of the moment – the hunt with Bud for the guilty man.

Near the table lay a gray glove. Jim stooped and picked it up, and put it quietly to his lips. Bill, who had lingered near the door, suddenly turned and came back to Jim and put his arm about him.

"You just escaped lynchin', Jim." And Jim knew that Bill spoke the truth.

He held the glove folded close in his hand as he answered, "Yes, I'm almost sorry."

Bill's face became grave. What did the boss mean? Was the game too hard for him? Was he afraid he would lose on the ranch deal? He patted him tenderly, almost like a mother humoring a wayward child, without saying a word. Jim sank into a chair. Bill understood – the boss would like to be alone, so he sauntered up to the back and joined Nick. In his heart there was but one thought: Jim should see how well they would all serve him. He swore a mighty oath that he would see the others did so, too.

Left alone, Jim sat staring straight ahead of him. Suddenly he realized that the body of Cash Hawkins was still lying there. He shuddered at the cruel forgetfulness of the men. He leaned forward and spoke his thoughts aloud:

"Who killed Cash Hawkins?"

He felt a sudden touch on his hand; he turned; there, kneeling at his feet, was Nat-u-ritch, who had entered unobserved and crept beside him. As he looked at her she drew herself up nearer to him, and, leaning her chin on her hand, said:

"Me kill um."

Jim's only answer was to place his hand over her face while he hurriedly looked about the saloon. No one could have heard her. He drew her to her feet and motioned her to go, saying that he would follow shortly.

That night Jim learned the truth, and his friendship with Nat-u-ritch began.

CHAPTER XVIII

After this Jim often met Nat-u-ritch. On his trail across the country he would see her on her little pony galloping after him. Sometimes she would join him and silently accompany him on his search for the cattle that had strayed beyond the range.

Nat-u-ritch's life with her father, Tabywana, was passed in days of uneventful placidness. Since the death of Cash Hawkins the Chief had given her no cause for anxiety. Concerning the murder, neither she nor her father spoke. Tabywana admired Jim Carston; he seemed to realize instinctively what Jim had saved him from that day at the saloon, and his unspoken devotion, sincere and steadfast, often caused him to serve Jim without any one's knowledge.

Sometimes when Nat-u-ritch returned from a long day's ride her father would scrutinize her, and as he read in her the call of her nature for the Englishman, a curious smile would light up his face in sympathy with her. He saw the unmoved impassiveness that she showed to all the young bucks that sought her, and without protest let her go her way, and her trail always led towards Carston's ranch.

Winter came with its treacherous winds, and Carston's ranch was more desolate. Of Nat-u-ritch's unspoken devotion to him there was no doubt in Jim's mind, and the temptation to take her proffered companionship into his lonely life rose strong within him. After Cash Hawkins's death, Jim, had he cared for the life, might have been a leader in the Long Horn saloon, but a bar-room hero was not the role that he wished to play. His own men – Grouchy, Andy, and Shorty – openly expressed their disappointment to Big Bill at the boss's indifference to the position he might exert as a power in Maverick, and even Big Bill only vaguely understood Jim's unappreciative attitude. He often watched Jim smoking his pipe and peering into the heart of the embers that glowed on the hearth, and as he saw the careworn face Bill's great heart ached with sympathy for him. But Jim, as he realized the difficulties of the fight in which he was involved, only clinched his fists the tighter and accomplished the work of three men in his day's toil.

At these times the physical drain on him was so great that there was no opportunity left in which to realize the biting ache of his loneliness. So one bleak day succeeded another, with the slim, mute figure of the Indian girl ever crossing his path.

The early spring brought with it a sudden melting of the snow-capped hills and the ice-covered pools. The cattle grew more troublesome. They seemed harder to control, or else the boys were more indifferent to their disappearance. Big Bill had gone away on a deal for new cattle, so Jim's energies were redoubled.

One day as he rode across the plains searching for a lost herd that had wandered towards Jackson's Hole, the longing that the awakening spring had brought with it grew more insistent. Life surely held for him possibilities greater than this, he told himself. He resolved, on Bill's return, to arrange with him to sell the place. He could not conquer the craving for the old haunts of civilization that took possession of him. He closed his eyes to shut out the endless stretch of prairie. Lost in his dream to escape from his lonely life and to take part again in the affairs of men of his own class, he failed to notice the small pony that followed him carrying Nat-u-ritch.

On he went, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice how close he was to Jackson's Hole. Big Bill long ago had warned him of the treacherous ridge that lay near the gulley, but Jim had forgotten Bill's words. Unconscious of the danger ahead, he galloped towards the edge of the broken precipice. In the distance he espied the marks of a herd of cattle that had passed around to the other side of the ridge. Jim urged his horse forward and started to jump the small, deceptive span that covered the hole. A sharp cry came from Nat-u-ritch, who had quickly gained ground on him as she saw his intention. But Jim, unheeding, gave a sharp command to his horse and urged him over. There was a sudden breaking of ground; then a whirling, dazed moment through which flashed an eternity of thought, and Nat-u-ritch stood alone, clinging to her pony as she peered over into the dark pool of broken ice around which stretched chasms of impenetrable blackness.

Two weeks later Jim opened his eyes to consciousness in Nat-u-ritch's wickyup. No man of those summoned by Nat-u-ritch to help had dared venture into the dreaded abyss, so Jim had been abandoned as dead. But the depth of her love gave the Indian girl the strength to accomplish his rescue. Jealous of her treasure, she dragged the unconscious body to her own village, which was nearer than Jim's ranch.

Then followed an illness from the long exposure in the gulley. Big Bill returned, only to find the ranch without its master, while Jim lay in the squaw's wickyup, with the Indian girl fighting to save his life, her love and loyalty making her his abject slave.

Weeks followed, and one day Big Bill and the boys brought the boss home. Then came a relapse, and again Nat-u-ritch's devotion and courage gave him back his life. This time Bill watched a double fight: the fight on the part of the woman to save the man so that she might win him for herself, and on Jim's part an effort to resist the mute surrender of the woman.

Without the boss's supervision the ranch had deteriorated, and Jim's affairs had become so involved that he recovered only to find that all thought of abandoning the place was now impossible. His dream of escape was now a hope of the past. And so life began afresh for him on the plains.

Jim stood outside of the window of an adobe hut. From within he could hear the low moans of a woman and now and then the wail of a child. He was alone, save for the missionary who had married him a few months before to Nat-u-ritch, and who was now inside helping the sick woman. Big Bill had gone to fetch an old squaw who had promised to come to the ranch. As Jim leaned against the post of the porch he was stirred by a multitude of emotions. The wails from within grew louder and more fretful. As he watched the heavens, ablaze with a thousand eyes, he wondered why the old woman had failed to come in time. He hardly realized what the past hour had meant to him. A child had been given to him! Something of the wonder of the eternal mystery was numbing his spirit. The sick woman's moans grew fainter, only the cry of the babe persistently reached him.

At last the missionary came to him: Nat-u-ritch was asleep; he would go, he explained, and hurry along the Indian woman who was coming with Big Bill to the ranch. The cry of the child seemed to become more pitiful. Jim tiptoed to the door of the inner room. On the cot lay Nat-u-ritch. He softly crossed to the small bundle of life rolled in the blanket and lifted it in his arms. The warm, appealing little body lay limp against him. He began swaying to and fro until the cry grew fainter. Soon the babe slept; but Jim still stood rocking his son in his strong arms.

CHAPTER XIX

One year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of Jim's son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill. The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they held the ranchmen – absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often further augmented the disaster of Jim's ventures. Without repining he fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and confidence to help him through the wearing time.

Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature's imitation of asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week. The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to civilization.

Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and was the pet of all the men and his father's constant companion.

Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye. Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the entire ranch.

As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him.

"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big fellow.

"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head. "This is going to be for you, and there ain't any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."

While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.