Part 11

It was natural that, as host, Curtis should enjoy a large part of Elsie's company, but neither of them seemed to realize that Lawson was being left quite unheeded in the background, but Jennie was aware of this neglect, and put forth skilful effort to break the force of it. Lawson himself seemed to be entirely unconscious of any loss or threatening disaster.

A little later, as they sat watching the fire grow in power in the deepening darkness, Curtis suddenly lifted his hand.

"Hark!"

All listened. Two Horns spoke first. "One man come, on horse."

"Some messenger for me, probably," said the Captain, composedly. "He is coming fast, too."

As the steady drumming of the horse's hoofs increased in power, Elsie felt something chill creep beneath the roots of her hair. Perhaps the Indians had broken out in war against the whites! Perhaps--

A tall young Tetong slipped from his tired horse and approached the Captain. In his extended hand lay an envelope, which gleamed in the firelight. As Curtis took this letter the messenger, squatting before him, began to roll a cigarette. His lean and powerful face was shadowed by a limp sombrero and his eyes were hidden, but his lips were grave and calm. A quirt dangled from his right wrist, and in the two braids of his hair green eagle-plumes were twisted. The star on the lapel of his embroidered vest showed him to be a police-officer. From the intensity of his attitude it was plain he was studying his agent's face in order to read thereon the character of the message he had brought.

Curtis turned the paper slowly and without excitement. With rapid signs he dismissed the courier. "I have read it. You will camp with Two Horns. Go get some food. Mary will give you meat."

Turning to his guests, he then said: "It is nothing special--merely some papers I forgot to sign before leaving."

"By George! what a picture the fellow made, sitting there!" said Parker. "It was like an illustration in a novel. Why don't you paint that kind of thing, Bee Bee?"

"Because I can't," she replied. "Don't you suppose I saw it? I'd need the skill of Zorn to do a thing as big and mysterious as that. Did you see the intensity of his pose? He expected Captain Curtis to show excitement or alarm. He was very curious to know what it was all about--don't you think so?"

Curtis was amused. "Yes, I suppose he thought the paper more important than it was. The settlers have kept the tribe guessing all the spring by threats of running them off the reservation. Of course they wouldn't openly resort to violence, but there are several irresponsibles who would strike in the dark if they found opportunity."

In spite of his reassuring tone, a vague fear fell over the camping party. Parker was frankly alarmed.

"If you think there is any danger, Captain, I want to get out o' here quick. I'm not here to study the Tetong with his war-paint on."

"If there had been any danger, Mr. Parker, I would not have left my office. I shall have a report similar to this every day while I am away, so please be composed."

The policeman came back, resumed his squatting position before the fire, and began a series of vigorous and dramatic gestures, to which the Captain replied in kind, absorbed, intent, with a face as inscrutable as that of the redman himself. The contrast between the resolute, handsome young white man and the roughhewn Tetong was superb. "There's nothing in it for me," said Parker, "but it's great business for a painter."

Elsie seized a block of paper, and with soft pencil began to sketch them both against the background of mysterious blackness, out of which a pine bole gleamed ashy white.

Suddenly, silently, as though one of the tree-trunks had taken on life, another Tetong appeared in the circle of the firelight and stood with deep-sunk eyes fastened on the Captain's face. Another followed, and still others, till two old men and four young fellows ranged themselves in a semicircle before their agent, with Crane's Voice and Two Horns at the left and a little behind. The old men smoked a long pipe, but the young men rolled cigarettes, taking no part in the council, listening the while with eyes as bright as those of foxes.

It was all sinister and menacing to the Parkers, and all wondered till Curtis turned to say: "They are my mill-hands--good, faithful boys, too."

"Mill-hands!" exclaimed Parker. "They looked uncommonly like a scalping party."

"That is what imagination can do. I thought your faces were extra solemn," remarked Curtis, dryly; but Lawson knew that the agent was not so untroubled as he pretended, for old Crow Killer had a bitter story to relate of the passage of a band of cowboys through his camp. They had stampeded his ponies and shot at him, one bullet passing so close to his ear that it burned the skin, and he was angry.

"They wish to kill us, these cattlemen," he said, sombrely, in conclusion. "If they come again we will fight."

Happily, his vehemence did not reach the comprehension of the women nor the understanding of Parker, and Lawson smoked on as calmly as if these tell-tale gestures were the flecking of shadows cast by the leaping flames. At last the red visitors rose and vanished as silently as they came. They seemed to pass through black curtains, so suddenly they disappeared.

In spite of all reassurance, the women were a little reluctant to go to bed--at least Mrs. Parker and Elsie were.

"I wish the men's tent were not so far off," Mrs. Parker said to Elsie, plaintively.

"I'll ask them to move it, if you wish," returned Elsie, and when Jennie came in she said: "Aren't you a little nervous to-night?"

Jennie looked surprised. "Why, no! Do you mean about sleeping in a tent?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Parker. "Suppose a wolf or a redman should come?"

Jennie laughed. "You needn't worry--we have a powerful guard. I never am afraid with George."

"But the men are so far away! I wish their tent were close beside ours. I'm not standing on propriety," Mrs. Parker added, as Jennie hesitated. "I'm getting nervous, and I want Jerome where he can hear me if I call to him."

Perceiving that Elsie shared this feeling in no small degree, Jennie soberly conveyed their wish to Curtis.

"Very well, we'll move over. It will take but a moment."

As she heard the men driving the tent-pegs close beside her bed Mrs. Parker sighed peacefully.

"_Now_ I can sleep. There is no comfort like a man in case of wolves, Indians, and burglars," and the fact that the men were laughing did not disturb her.

With a little shock, Elsie realized that Curtis and not Lawson was in her mind as her defender. Of course, he was in command; that accounted for it.

Nevertheless, as she listened to the murmur of their voices she detected herself waiting for Curtis's crisp, clear bass, and not for the nasal tenor of the man whose ring she wore. Her mind was filled, too, with the dramatic figure the young officer made as he sat in gesture-talk with his Tetong wards. In case of trouble the safest place on all the reservation would be by his side, for his people loved and trusted him. She did not go to sleep easily; the excitement, the strangeness of being in a tent, kept her alert long after Jennie and Mrs. Parker were breathing tranquilly on their cots.

One hears everything from a tent. It seems to stand in the midst of the world. It is like being in a diving-bell under water. Life goes on almost uninterruptedly. The girl heard a hundred obscure, singular, sibilant sounds, as of serpents conferring. Mysterious footsteps advanced, paused, retreated. Whispered colloquies arose among the leaves, giving her heart disquiet. Every unfamiliar sound was a threat. The voices of birds and beasts no longer interested her--they scared her; and, try as she would to banish these fancies, her nerves thrilled with every rush of the wind. It was deep night before she dropped asleep.

XVII

A FLUTE, A DRUM, AND A MESSAGE

Elsie dreamed she was at the theatre. The opera was "Il Trovatore," and at the moment when the prison song--that worn yet ever-mournful cry--should have pulsed forth; but in its stead another strain came floating from afar, a short phrase equally sad, which sank slowly, as a fragment of cloud descends from sky to earth to become tears of dew on the roses. Over and over again it was repeated, so sad, so sweet, so elemental, it seemed that the pain of all love's vain regret was in it, longing and sorrow and despair, without relief, without hope, defiant of death.

Slowly the walls of the theatre faded. The gray light of morning crept into the dreamer's eyes, and she was aware of the walls of her tent and knew she had been dreaming. But the sorrowful song went on, with occasional slight deviations of time and tone, but always the same. Beginning on a high key, it fell by degrees, hesitating, momentarily swooping upward, yet ever falling, till at last it melted in with the solemn moan of the pines stirring above her head. Then she drowsed again, and seemed to be listening to the wailing song with some one whose hand she held. As she turned to ask whence the music came a little shudder seized her, for the eyes looking into hers were not those of Lawson. Curtis faced her, grave and sweet.

With this shock she wakened, but the song had ceased. She waited in silence, hoping to hear it again. When fully aroused to her surroundings, she was convinced that she had dreamed the music as well as the hand-clasp, and a flush ran over her. "Why should I dream in that way of _him_?"

She heard the soft lisp of moccasined feet outside the tent, and immediately after the sound of an axe. Presently the fire began to crackle, and the rising sun threw a flood of golden light against the canvas wall. Jennie lifted her arms and yawned, and at last sat up and listened. Catching Elsie's eye she said: "Good-morning, dear. How did you sleep?"

"Deliciously--but did you hear some one singing just before sunrise?"

"No--did you?"

"I thought I did; but perhaps I dreamed it."

"Where did it seem to come from?"

"Oh, from away off and high up--the saddest song--a phrase constantly repeated."

"Oh, I know. It was some young Tetong lover playing the flute. They often do that when the girls are going for water in the morning. Isn't it beautiful?"

"I never heard anything so sad."

"All their songs are sad. George says the primitive love-songs of all races are the same. But Two Horns has the fire going, and I must get up and superintend breakfast. You need not rise till I call."

Mrs. Parker began to stir. "Jerome! What time is it?"

The girls laughed as Jerome, in the other tent, replied, sweetly:

"Time to arise, Honey Plum."

Mrs. Parker started up and stared around, her eyes still misty with slumber. "I slept the whole night through," she finally remarked, as if in answer to a question, and her voice expressed profound astonishment.

"Didn't hear the wolves, did you, pet?" called Parker.

"Wolves! No. Did they howl?"

"Howl is no name for it. They tied themselves into double bow-knots of noise."

"I don't believe it."

Elsie replied: "I didn't hear anything but the music. Did you hear the singing?"

Lawson spoke. "You people have the most active imaginations. All I heard was the wind in the pines, and an occasional moose walking by."

"Moose!" cried Mrs. Parker. "Why, they're enormous creatures."

Jennie began to laugh. "You people will need to hurry to be ready for breakfast. I'm going to put the coffee on." She slipped outside. "Oh, girls! Get up at once, it's glorious out here on the lake!"

Curtis was busy about the camp-fire. "Good-morning, sis. Here are some trout for breakfast."

"Trout!" shouted Lawson, from the tent.

"Trout!" echoed Parker. "We'll be there," and the tent bulged and flapped with his hasty efforts at dressing.

In gay spirits they gathered round their rude table, Parker and Jennie particularly jocular. Curtis was puzzled by some subtle change in Elsie. Her gaze was not quite so frank, and her color seemed a little more fitful; but she was as merry as a child, and enjoyed every makeshift as though it were done for the first time and for her own amusement.

"What's the programme for to-day?" asked Parker.

"After I inspect the saw-mill we will hook up and move over the divide to the head-waters of the Willow and camp with Red Wolf's band."

Parker coughed. "Well, now--of course, Captain, we are depending on you."

Curtis smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to go back to the agency?"

"No, sirree, bob! I'm sticking right to your coat-tails till we're out o' the woods."

Lawson interposed. "You wouldn't infer that Parker had ever had a Parisian education, would you?"

Parker was not abashed. "I know what you mean. Those are all expressions my father used. They stick to me like fly-paper."

"I've tried and tried to break him of his plebeian phrases, but I cannot," Mrs. Parker said, with sad emphasis.

"I wouldn't try," replied Jennie. "I like them."

"Thank you, lady, thank you," Parker fervently made answer.

Curtis hurried away to look at the saw-mill. Lawson and Parker went fishing, and Elsie got out her paint-box and started another sketch. The morning was glorious, the air invigorating, and she painted joyously with firm, plashing strokes. Never had she been so sure of her brush. Life and art were very much worth while--only now and then a disturbing wish intruded--it was only a vague and timid longing; but it grew a little in power each time. Once she looked steadily and soberly at the ring whose jewel sparkled like a drop of dew on the third finger of her left hand.

A half-hour later Curtis came back, walking rapidly. Seeing her at work he deflected from the straight trail and drew near.

"I think that is wonderful," he said, as he looked at her sketch. "I don't see how you do so much with so few strokes."

"That always puzzles the layman," she replied. "But it's really very simple."

"When you know how. I hope you're enjoying your trip with us?"

She flashed a smile that was almost coquettish upon him. "It is glorious. I am so happy I'm afraid it won't last."

"We always feel that way about any keen pleasure," he replied, soberly. "Now I can't keep the thought of your going out of my mind. Every hour or two I find myself saying, 'It'll be lonesome business when these artists leave us.'"

"You mustn't speak of anything sorrowful this week. Let's be as happy as we can."

He pondered a fitting reply, but at last gave it up and said: "If you are satisfied with your sketch, we'll start. I see the teams are ready."

"Oh yes, I'm ready to go. I just wanted to make a record of the values--they are changing so fast now," and she began to wipe her brushes and put away her panel. "I don't care where we go so we keep in the pines and have the mountains somewhere in sight."

It must have been in remorse of her neglect of Lawson the preceding day that Elsie insisted on sitting beside him in the back seat, while Mrs. Parker took her place with the driver. The keen pang of disappointment which crossed his heart warned Curtis that his loyalty to his friend was in danger of being a burden, and the drive was robbed of all the blithe intercourse of the day before. Parker and Jennie fought clamorously on a variety of subjects in the middle distance, but Curtis was hardly more than courteous to Mrs. Parker--so absorbed was he in some inner controversy.

Retracing their course to the valley the two wagons crossed the stream and crawled slowly up the divide between the Elk and the Willow, and at one o'clock came down upon a sparse village of huts and tepees situated on the bank of a clear little stream--just where it fell away from a narrow pond which was wedged among the foot-hills like an artificial reservoir. The year was still fresh and green here, and the air was like May.

Dogs were barking and snarling round the teams, as a couple of old men left the doors of their tepees and came forward. One of them was gray-haired, but tall and broad-shouldered. This was Many Coups, a famous warrior and one of the historians of his tribe. He greeted the agent soberly, expressing neither fear nor love, asking: "Who are these with you? I have not seen them before."

To this Curtis replied: "They are my friends. They make pictures of the hills and the lakes and of chieftains like Many Coups."

Many Coups looked keenly at Elsie. "My eyes are old and poor," he slowly said. "But now I remember. This young woman was at the agency last year," and he put up his hand, which was small and graceful even yet--the hand of an artist. "I make pictures also," he said.

When this was translated, Elsie said: "You shall make a picture of me and I will make one of you."

At this the old man smilingly answered: "It shall be so."

"Where is Red Wolf?" asked Curtis.

"He is away with Tailfeathers to keep the cowboys from our land. We are growing afraid, Little Father."

"We will talk more of that by-and-by--we must now camp. Call your people together and at mid-afternoon we will council," replied Curtis.

Driving a little above the village, Curtis found a sheltered spot behind some low-growing pines and not far from the lake, and there they hastened to camp. The news flew from camp to camp that the Little Father was come, but no one crowded unseasonably to look at him. "We will council," Many Coups announced, and began to array himself for the ceremony. Horsemen galloped away to call Red Wolf and others who lived down the valley. Never before had an agent visited them in their homes, and they were disposed to make the most of it.

By the time the white people had eaten their lunch all the red women were in their best dresses. The pappooses were shining with the scrubbing they had suffered and each small warrior wore a cunning buckskin coat elaborate with beads and quills. A semicircular wall of canvas was being erected to shield the old men from the mountain wind, and a detail of cooks had started in upon the task of preparing the feast which would end the council.

Said Curtis: "You will find in this camp the Tetong comparatively unchanged. Red Wolf's band is the most primitive encampment I know." A few minutes later he added, "Here comes Many Coups and his son in official garb."

The two chieftains greeted their visitors as if they had not hitherto been seen--with all the dignity of ambassadors to a foreign court.

"Please treat them with the same formality," warned Curtis. "It will pay you for the glimpse of the old-time ceremony."

The younger man was unpainted, save for some small blue figures on his forehead. On his head he wore a wide Mexican hat which vastly became him. His face was one of the handsomest and most typical of his race.

"This young man is the son of Many Coups, and is called Blue Fox, or 'The Southern Traveller,' because he has been down where the Mexicans are. His hat he got there, and he is very proud of it," explained Curtis.

Jennie gave each of them a cup of coffee and a biscuit, of which they partook without haste, discussing meanwhile the coming council.

"We did not know you were coming; some of our people will not get here in time," said Many Coups.

"To-night, after the council, we wish to dance," said Blue Fox, meaning it as a request.

"It is forbidden in Washington to dance in the old way."

"We have heard of that, but we will dance for your wives. They will be glad to see it."

"Very well, you may dance, but not too long. No war-dance--only the visitors' dance."

"Ay, we understand," said Many Coups as he rose and drew his blanket about him. "In one hour we will come to council. Red Wolf will be there, and Hump Shoulder and his son. It may be others will return in time."

The women were delighted at the promise of both a council and a dance, and Lawson unlimbered his camera in order to take some views of both functions, though he expressed some dissatisfaction.

"The noble redman is thin and crooked in the legs," he said to Curtis. "Why is this?"

"All the plains Indians, who ride the horse almost from their babyhood, are bow-legged. They never walk, and they are seldom symmetrically developed."

"They are significant, but not beautiful," said Lawson.

As they walked about the camp Elsie exclaimed: "This is the way all redmen should live," and, indeed, the scene was very beautiful. They were far above the agency, and the long valleys could be seen descending like folds in a vast robe reaching to the plain. The ridges were dark with pines for a space, but grew smooth and green at lower levels, and at last melted into haze. The camp was a summer camp, and all about, in pleasant places among the pines, stood the tepees, swarming with happy children and puppies. Under low lodges of canvas or bowers of pine branches the women were at work boiling meat or cooking a rude sort of cruller. They were very shy, and mostly hung their heads as their visitors passed, though they soon yielded to Jennie, who could speak a few words to them.

"There's nothing in them for sculpture," said Parker, critically. "At least not for beauty. They might be treated as Raffaelle paints--for character."

"They grow heavy early," Jennie added, "but the little girls are beautiful--see that little one!"

The crier, a tall old man, toothless and wrinkled and gray, began to cry in a hollow, monotonous voice, "Come to the council place," and Curtis led his flock to their places in the midst of the circle.

The council began with all the old-time forms, with gravity and decorum. Red Wolf was in the centre, with Many Coups at his left. The pipe of peace went round, and those whose minds were not yet prepared for speech drew deep inspirations of the fragrant smoke in the hope that their thoughts might be clarified, and when they lifted their eyes they seemed not to perceive their visitors or those who passed to and fro among the tepees. The sun, westering, fell with untempered light on their heads, but they faced it with the calm unconcern of eagles.

To please his guests, Curtis allowed the utmost formality, and did not hasten, interrupt, or excise. The speeches were translated into English by Lawson, and at each telling point or period in Red Wolf's speech the women looked at each other in surprise.

"Did he really say that?" asked Elsie. "Didn't you make it up?"

"Rather good for a ragamuffin, don't you think?" said Lawson, as the old man took his seat.

Many Coups spoke slowly, sadly, as though half communing with himself, with nothing of the bombast the visitors had expected, and he grew in dignity and power as his thought began to make itself felt through his interpreter.

"He is speaking for his race," remarked Lawson to Elsie.

"By Jove! the old fellow is a good lawyer!" cried Parker. "I don't see any answer to his indictment."

Curtis sat listening as though each point the old man made were new--and this attitude pleased the chieftains very much.

The speech, in its general tenor, was similar to many others he had heard from thoughtful redmen. Briefly he described the time when the redmen were happy in a land filled with deer and buffalo, before the white man was. "We lived as the Great Spirit made us. Then the white man came--and now we are bewildered with his commands. Our eyes are blinded, we know not where to go. We know not whom to believe or trust. I am old, I am going to my grave troubled over the fate of my children. Agents come and go. The good ones go too soon--the bad ones stay too long, but they all go. There is no one in whose care to leave my children. It is better to die here in the hills than to live the slave of the white man, ragged and spiritless, slinking about like a dog without a friend. We do not want to make war any more--we ask only to live as our fathers lived, and die here in the hills."