The Squaw Man

"She thinks I'm going, too," he said, and hastened to explain away her anxiety.

"No, Nat-u-ritch – Jim stay here always with you." Something of her agony was relieved and she loosed her hold on him. "Always with you," Jim repeated tenderly, looking into the tragic eyes as she eagerly followed every word. "Only little Hal."

As Nat-u-ritch fully grasped the meaning of the words, there broke from her lips the one English word "No!" which rang out on the evening air with a wild, dry sob of protest. It was the anguished cry of universal motherhood. The Indian woman sank on her knees, with her arms about the boy, her face buried on his breast. The crouching figure betrayed the old savage instinct of the female covering her young from the ruthless hand that would snatch it from her.

This time both men turned away. A purple gray light fell over the yard, the last traces of the sun's glory disappeared, and the air grew chilly.

Jim was the first to speak. Kindly, but as a master who must have obedience, he said; "Nat-u-ritch, I have taken counsel. My heart is good. My word is wise. I have spoken. Go." He gently disengaged the boy from her grasp. Nat-u-ritch looked long into Jim's eyes, and as she met his immovable determination, without a struggle, and with a calmness terrible to see, she released the child.

Jim lifted her to her feet. With her big, stricken eyes still fastened on him, she stood silent for a moment; then the bent, half-stumbling figure slunk past him. Jim dared not watch Nat-u-ritch, though he could hear her heavy breathing and the flapping of her beaded robe against the ground as she crossed to the stable. Once Petrie saw her sway, but she had steadied herself before he could reach her. As she reached the corral she stopped, and, turning, flung out her arms in appeal to Jim; but his back was towards her, the child hidden in his embrace. Then he heard the quick patter of her feet as she fled out into the night – away from these aliens, back to the hills to abandon herself to her grief.

As Jim rose he resolved that when the boy had gone he would try to make her understand that this sacrifice was forced upon them, that for the child's sake they must both bear it, and in the future she should receive even greater care and comfort from him.

"This is harder on her than on me, Petrie," he said, as he lifted Hal up on the bench and knelt beside him.

"Where is she going?" Petrie asked, as he walked towards the corral behind which she had disappeared.

"Out into the hills to fight it out alone. Mr. Petrie, this is going to be hard on the boy, too. He is a shy little prairie bird and has been a great pet."

He was thinking that perhaps he could arrange to let Nat-u-ritch have the boy a little longer and keep Petrie with them awhile. "It would be rough on him to leave us all so suddenly and go away with a perfect stranger. Can't you stay here a week or two to let him get used to you?" Jim proposed. "By that time you will have won his confidence."

Petrie answered, "I am sorry, but that is impossible. I have overstayed my time some weeks. I left important business interests in London to undertake this mission, and I must return at once."

"But," Jim pleaded, "It can't be as bad as that. Well, then, only a week."

"I am sorry, but I have already used up all the time I can spare, in finding you. If the boy goes with me it must be now." Petrie knew that Diana was waiting for Jim's arrival; he must reach her with the news as soon as possible. Every hour was of moment to them. She had been persistent in her desire to accompany him, and two days had passed since he left her at Fort Duchesne. He feared some complication might arise from her woman's impatience, and as it was, he would not be able to leave the ranch before daybreak. Night was already beginning to close in on them.

Jim began to realize the wisdom of Petrie's decision. It would only prolong the agony. He must make it easy for the boy; afterwards – well, afterwards – But he dared not picture the desolation which would be his.

"Hal, my boy, my darling, I must tell you something. You know you want to be a soldier like the ones you saw at Fort Duchesne. Remember? With the yellow plumes and tassels and swords and things?"

The boy was growing sleepy, but at these words roused himself and delightedly exclaimed, "Yes, yes!"

"Well, Mr. Petrie is going to make you one." Hal looked over in approval at their visitor who was to make his dream come true. "Only," Jim continued, "you'll wear a fine red coat instead of a blue one, and Mr. Petrie's going to make you a big, fine soldier man. So daddy's going to let you go. Isn't that fine?"

"You, too, daddy?" the child questioned.

"No, dear; I can't go. When you go away there'll be nobody but me to take care of little momie."

"I won't go alone," Hal protested.

"Yes, dear, if father wants you to," Jim persuaded.

But the child only cried, "I won't – I won't – I won't!" as he flung his arms about his father's neck.

Jim felt it would be useless to argue further now. It was past the boy's bedtime, so he only said, coaxingly, "Yes, yes, you will." A scheme to help the boy to bear the separation began to formulate in his mind. They should take him away while he was asleep, and he would send Big Bill along with him for a few days if necessary.

"Now, old man, tell Mr. Petrie good-night."

The child did as he was bid.

Quite hopefully Jim went on talking to him as they crossed to the cabin. "All right. And now daddy will undress you and hear your prayers, and we'll have our usual romp, and then the sandman will come." Then, as the sleepy child, yawning, drooped his head, Jim lifted him in his arms and cried: "Kiss me, dear. Oh, don't ever forget your daddy!"

So engrossed was he that he failed to hear in the distance sounds that told that visitors were arriving at the ranch. But Petrie, who was ever alert, had been aware of the first clatter of the horses' hoofs, and now turned in the direction from which came Big Bill's voice, high above all the others, saying:

"Well, I guess not. Ain't none of us ever forgot that day at Maverick. My, he'll be glad to see you! – Mr. Carston," he called.

But it was the triumphant call of "Jim, Jim!" that made him turn to see Diana. In it was all the hope that had been buried so long – all the loving joy which she meant to lavish on the man whose starved life had been one long sacrifice for her She had imagined this moment – lived it again and again, and now it was hers.

Gracious and beautiful she stood in the dim light, holding out her hands in welcome. Behind her stood Sir John, while Petrie's face betrayed the surprise that he felt, although he knew he had been fearing such an occurrence. Jim saw them all. One hand still kept its hold on the child, who at the voices had hidden behind his father; he raised the other to his head. He simply spoke the name "Diana."

"Why, Jim, I don't believe you're glad to see us!" Diana cried, as he made no attempt to take her hand.

"Oh yes," he answered. "I'm dazed, Diana – dazed." Then he turned in appeal to Malcolm Petrie. "Petrie?" he questioned. It would have been too cruel if this had taken place with Petrie's knowledge, but he could not doubt the truth of the solicitor's words.

"This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you, Mr. Carston."

Diana smiled at Petrie. She had taken her own way in spite of his and Sir John's remonstrance. But they could not understand her – Jim would. What did they know of the Fairies' Corner – of the long torment she and Jim had shared?

"We simply couldn't wait any longer, Jim. We've come to take you home – you'll come home now, Jim, won't you? Come home?" And as she spoke she meant all that the word implied in its completeness. She was suing Jim to let her give him all that he had desired in the long ago.

"Home – home," Jim repeated. Was he always to be tortured by what he never could have? His eyes fell on Hal, who was peering out from behind him. As Diana saw the tiny figure in its strange garments, she involuntarily exclaimed:

"Oh, what a dear boy!"

The child stared at her.

Smiling, she knelt before him. "Whose little boy are you, dear?" she asked.

Hal glanced at his father and his look said, "Shall I go to the strange lady?" Jim nodded his head. Shyly the child advanced towards her. "Jim's boy," he said.

Diana was holding the child's hands in hers. At the words she lifted her face to Jim and mechanically repeated, "Jim's boy?" Then she looked from the dark head, with its curious foreign beauty, up to the man who stood there with blanched face and sorrow-stricken eyes. Gradually she began to comprehend the meaning of the boy's words. Again she mutely questioned Jim.

He came to the boy and laid his hands on the little fellow's head. "Yes, Diana. My boy – my son."

She had dropped the child's hands at his first word. She looked about her, but everything was dim and ghostly in the dim light. She felt the child's hand on her sleeve. She could see only Jim's eyes in the boy's face inquiringly regarding her. Above him, Jim still stood, silent and constrained. Petrie and Sir John, with Big Bill, had left them. Only a moment did she waver, then with a quick, impetuous cry she caught the boy to her heart, and in that cry was expressed all the starved maternity of her barren life.

CHAPTER XXIV

Jim and Diana sat late into the night while she listened to the story of his life in the West. Urged by Sir John, it was arranged that she should leave the ranch the following day. Bitter as was her disappointment, Diana accepted it without comment. Now her concern was chiefly for the boy, and she eagerly awaited Nat-u-ritch's return, hoping she might help the little woman to see the wisdom of making this sacrifice for her child's advantage.

Down the hills towards midnight Nat-u-ritch stole, an elf-like creature, with her clinking, beaded robe gleaming in the moonlight. Past the men's dwelling she went, and on to the cabin for a last sight of her sleeping boy. From his spying-ground Bill saw her, but made no effort to detain her. He knew that the arrival of Jim's kinsmen had caused a strange turmoil in his life, and made him forget that Bud Hardy might still prove a menace to him. So Bill kept his faithful vigil; but once fatigue caught him and he closed his tired eyes for a brief space. It was just the moment that Kid Clarke, the Sheriff's watcher, had been waiting for. Unobserved, he slipped away to follow the trail that Nat-u-ritch had taken when she fled from the house in the afternoon. Bud Hardy had cautioned him not to lose sight of the squaw, and to report to him in the early dawn at the cabin. Like Bill, he saw Nat-u-ritch make her way to the cabin and saw her return; then, as he felt secure that she was safely out of the way, he lay in the loft near the cabin and waited for Bud.

But Nat-u-ritch had not succeeded in seeing her child. As she peered into the windows of the cabin she saw a beautiful woman and another stranger seated near Jim. For a long time she watched him as he talked to the woman, who now and then went to the door of the room in which the child lay, and listened as though afraid that their voices might disturb the boy. The woman's presence became an added complication in the impending tragedy that engulfed Nat-u-ritch. She longed to creep into the room and kneel beside Jim, to beg to be allowed just to be near him; but she was afraid – afraid of the curious glances of the strangers. Intently she watched the woman and saw the look on Jim's face as he talked long and earnestly to her. How he had changed! She remembered him as the young, strong, handsome buck whom she had met at the bear-dance. For the first time she seemed to see the whitened hair, the tired, patient eyes, and the marks of sorrow on his face. Once she saw him lean forward and gently argue with the white woman. She dimly understood the difference between his attitude towards this woman of his own race and to her. Gradually a new pain was added to the hurt that tried her endurance; she could not explain it, but Jim had never looked at her like that. He treated her as he did little Hal, while he regarded the woman with him as his equal. She began to sob piteously, like a child who is suddenly asked to face something it cannot understand. It was useless to remain there longer. Back she hurried to the hills, more desolate than when she started to see her child. Through the long hours that followed she made no effort to reason or to control her emotions, but abandoned herself to her grief.

Just before daylight Tabywana crept silently along the road and hid behind the wagon that stood near the house. He had been following Bud Hardy, whose early visit to the cabin had aroused his suspicions. Although Jim had dismissed his advice yesterday, the Chief was determined to see him again as soon as daylight should come. He was impatient to disclose to Jim the fear that tormented him for Nat-u-ritch's safety. As he watched for the first faint streaks of dawn, from his hiding-place Tabywana saw Bud Hardy emerge from the men's quarters and steal towards the cabin. Bud tiptoed about the place, then crossed to the loft and gave three short whistles. Almost immediately Kid Clarke appeared and leaned out of the loft door.

"Well?" Bud called, as Clarke, dazed, rubbed his sleepy eyes.

"Nat-u-ritch has disappeared – her trail leads to the hills. Carston hasn't been to bed at all. He went away about half an hour ago."

Bud glanced quickly about the place. "No one in the room, then?"

Kid nodded.

"All right – come down," Bud said.

Kid disappeared from the aperture in the loft and Bud went softly into the house.

Silently the Chief slid down under the porch of the cabin. As Bud came out of the house he saw in the Sheriff's hand a small thirty-two-caliber revolver which he was smilingly examining. Before he could pocket the weapon Tabywana leaped upon him and clutched the hand that held the gun, but Bud, with a muttered imprecation, deftly threw the hand with the revolver over Tabywana's shoulder, but only to feel an iron fist beat his knuckles. Involuntarily he loosened his hold and heard Bill's voice say:

"Put up your gun, Clarke."

Kid had reached there just at the end of the struggle, and had started to pull his revolver to assist Bud.

Holding the captured revolver in his hand, Bill said: "Why, what's the matter, boys? I don't allow no gun-play on this ranch – not while I'm foreman of it."

In the first faint light of the rising sun the three figures were like ghostly silhouettes against the gray background.

"I want that gun," Bud replied.

"How did you come by it?" Bill demanded.

Before Bud Hardy could speak, Tabywana grasped Bill by the arm and by pantomime indicated that Bud had crept into the house and stolen it.

Bill turned sternly to Bud. "What do you mean by sneakin' into other peoples' houses at night an' takin' their property? Why" – as he examined the revolver – "this gun belongs to Nat-u-ritch."

Almost savagely Bud interposed: "Oh, it does, does it? You heard that, Clarke? Well, that's all I want to know."

Bill saw that Bud had gained evidence against the little woman. "Well, it ain't all I want to know. You'll have to show me, Bud – you'll have to show me why you're combinin' the trades of burglar an' sheriff." Then, with a change in his voice, he said, "Better sit down and we'll discuss this amicable."

Bud seated himself near Clarke and Bill; Tabywana remained standing near them, eagerly trying to grasp all that was being said. Bud was not averse to taking Bill into his confidence. He felt that with Clarke as a witness to Bill's statement he had gained the essential point his case needed.

"You fellers have guyed me for years about Cash Hawkins's death, 'ain't you? Now it's my turn."

So Bud was going to try to make a sensational arrest through Bill, and thus win the county over to him and secure another election to the office of sheriff! Should he call Jim at once, Bill wondered. He determined to wait and see if Bud meant to declare his intentions.

"Ancient history that, Bud," he said, "Forgotten long ago."

But Bud answered, "Not by his friends and relatives about Jansen."

"Oh, they're still looking for somebody to scalp, eh? Better let sleeping dogs lie, Bud." Perhaps he could reason the Sheriff out of this scheme; perhaps convince him that it was not a profitable move on his part, and that he would in such case have the other party against him if he ever attempted to use these unfair means.

His thoughts were interrupted by Bud, who said, with a knowing look at Clarke, "You'll have to hand that gun over to me, Bill."

"Will I?"

Bud rose, and with a certain amount of assumed dignity said, "I demand it in my official capacity." As he moved towards Bill he felt Tabywana creeping behind him. Irritated, he turned and faced the Indian as he said, "Say, we 'ain't got to take Indians into our confidence, have we?"

Bill, who saw that he might accomplish more if left alone with Bud, said, kindly: "Tabywana, get Baco up, will you? I want him."

Tabywana knew that he was dismissed, but he trusted Bill, so he only muttered a warning as he started to do his bidding.

"All right, I can take care of myself, Chief."

Then the Indian left him.

"Come on, Bud, I call you. You got to show me your hand."

"Well, if I want an election it's up to me to make good with Cash's outfit, ain't it?"

"So you're due for a grandstand play, eh?" was Bill's comment. The way events were shaping themselves worried him. These rough-shod political aspirations often led men like Hardy to play to the gallery in order to win a high-handed election.

Bud went on, sure that Bill would see the reason of his adventure, "I have always had the bullet that killed Cash, and that's been the only clew I've ever had."

Dryly, Bill interrupted. "It hasn't led you very far, Bud."

But Bud did not notice Bill's remark. Impressively he said: "It was a thirty-two. Now no man in this country ever carried a toy like that. That's a woman's weapon." Then slowly pointing to the revolver in Bill's hand, he said, "That gun of Nat-u-ritch's is a thirty-two."

If this was all the evidence that Bud had, the case was not so serious after all, so, much relieved, Bill said, lightly: "Bud, you're a joke. Because Nat-u-ritch happens to own a thirty-two – "

Bud maliciously interposed: "Don't be in such a hurry. The last time I was over to Maverick I happens to ask Nick, the barkeep, for a light, and he lets me help myself from a squaw's beaded match-safe." Bud cautiously drew a tiny blue-and-green embroidered bag from his pocket. "'Hello,' says I. 'Where did you get that?' 'Oh,' says he, 'I've had that for years – ever since the day that Cash Hawkins was killed. Found it in front of the side door down there.' And I bought it of him then and there" – Bud looked straight into Bill's eyes as he finished – "cause I recognized it as one I had tried to buy of Nat-u-ritch."

But even this statement apparently did not startle Bill, who met Bud's glance squarely as he said, "And so you jump at the conclusion that – "

"Nat-u-ritch killed Cash Hawkins." Bud took him up. "There ain't a doubt about it. You see that thirty-two is minus just the shot which she done it with."

Bill paled a little. So Bud had noticed the missing bullet. He knew that since her marriage Nat-u-ritch had never carried the revolver. It had been put away on a shelf to be out of the child's way.

Bud reached his hand towards Bill. "I've shown you my hand fair and square – man to man – now I'll thank you for that gun."

But Bill, who caught sight of Jim coming through the corral, said, "That's up to Mr. Carston, and here he is."

Bud turned sharply. He would have preferred to meet Jim some other time, but it was too late to retreat now.

Bill went to Jim. "Hello," he said. He decided to blurt out the whole affair to Jim at once. He knew then that the squaw would be safe; the boss would see to that. "Mr. Carston," he began, "our amusin' little friend over there is a-contemplatin' of arrestin' Nat-u-ritch for the killin' of Cash Hawkins."

"Oh no; you must be joking," Jim said to Bud, too worn out to give vent to the anger that began to surge through him.

Bill was relieved at the light manner in which Jim seemed to take the news. "Well, that's what I thought, but he takes himself kind of serious."

Furiously came Bud's next words. "Anyway, I've got evidence to arrest her."

Showing the revolver to Jim, Bill contemptuously added, "And which said Sheriff steals out of the house of said trustin' and confidin' friend."

Jim stared in amazement at the revolver. Yes, it was Nat-u-ritch's. He had never looked at it since that day at Maverick when her hand had saved him from the cowardly attack of Cash Hawkins. He did not speak.

Bud moved closer to him. He pointed to Bill. "And which he said belonged to Nat-u-ritch." Triumphantly he pointed also to Clarke to indicate that he had him as a witness.

Jim motioned Bill to the house. "Put that revolver back where it belongs," he said, and Bill obeyed.

Bud darted forward as though to stop Bill. "I demand the custody of that myself, Mr. Carston."

"Let's understand each other, Sheriff." As he spoke, Jim deliberately blocked Bud's way. "Nat-u-ritch is as innocent of wrong as a bird that flies. It wouldn't do to confine her in that dirty little jail in Jansen. It would be murder."

"You're a law-abiding citizen, Mr. Carston. You ain't agoin' to resist the law?"

But Jim stood firm in front of the cabin door. "There are cases, Sheriff, where justice is superior to the law, and the white man's court is a bad place for justice to the Indian. Fortunately for all of us, Nat-u-ritch has disappeared."

As Jim spoke, Bud realized that if the Indian woman were there Carston would not be so calm.

"But you couldn't arrest her, Sheriff – not while I live. Bill" – he turned to the foreman, who came out of the house – "I'm not in a mood to discuss this with Sheriff Hardy, and I don't want to violate the laws of hospitality. But just one word, Sheriff – you've eaten my bread, slept under my roof, and now you sneak into my house to get evidence against the mother of my boy." Jim hesitated, and then as he left them he quietly finished, "Bill, I think you'd better see the Sheriff safely on his way."

And Bud knew that for the time being he had lost his game.

CHAPTER XXV

"Carston's locoed. He's plumb crazy. There can't be a jail for whites and a palace for Injins. He don't suppose he can stop me, does he?" Bud began, excitedly.

Bill, encouraged by Jim's mastery of the situation, chaffingly answered: "After you arrest Nat-u-ritch you'll never hold office, Bud. You may hold a harp or a coal-shovel." Then he laughed.

"My! You're making a fuss over a squaw," said Bud, who could see no humor in Bill's words.

But Bill replied, "Arrestin' the mother of innocent kids will not be considered a popular form of amusement around here, Bud."

"Kids? What's that got to do with it?"

"Well," said Bill. "The kid's an influential citizen hereabouts. He's our long suit, and there ain't a live thing on the ranch that would let you arrest his rag doll. You couldn't get away with it, Bud." And as though it were his final word on the subject, Bill said, conclusively, "Better get elected some easier way."

A new idea fermented in Bud's brain. If he failed in his scheme to bring to trial the murderer of Cash Hawkins, hundreds of men to whom he had blustered and sworn that he would accomplish the deed would no longer believe in him and he would probably lose the election. Why not try to gain some compensation if this must be the case?

"Git our horses ready, Clarke," he said and watched his assistant leave the yard. Slowly Bud hitched his foot on a log, and, as though he were about to confer a favor upon Jim, spoke with condescension. "Mr. Carston takes this too much to heart, Bill. Perhaps we can come to some understanding."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's come into some money, ain't he? Of course I might lose this match-safe crossing Red River." He lovingly fingered the little bag. Bill drew nearer. "And I might" – Bud continued – "be made independent of the job of sheriff, if it's worth the boss's while." There was no mistaking the intention of his words.