Part 14

"Indeed!" And still Petrie was puzzled at Jim's attitude.

"There isn't any place in England for Nat-u-ritch." Then, as Jim bent over the boy, he held him close and said, "Kiss me, dear, and now run in and help your mother." Jim followed the boy to the cabin door.

Malcolm Petrie said, tentatively, "And that Indian squaw--woman, I mean--is your--"

But Jim stopped the word that he felt Petrie was about to speak.

"My wife," he said. Petrie dropped his glasses and turned sharply to Jim. "My wife," Jim said again. "You don't suppose I'd let my boy come into the world branded with illegitimacy, do you?"

To this Petrie gave no answer. Under Jim almost defiant gaze he found it impossible to argue, but there must be a solution to this problem. He moved away as he almost lightly said, "An awkward situation, Mr. Carston--quite an awkward situation," but the words conveyed no idea that he felt there was a finality about the matter. His lawyer's brain would unravel the knot. Jim could still have his freedom. Then he said, "But these matters can be arranged. You will be in a position to settle an income on her which will make her comfortable for life, and some good man will eventually marry her."

Jim almost smiled. There was so much of the conventional standard in Petrie's speech.

"Wait a bit. You don't understand." He motioned Petrie to be seated again. He hesitated, then determined to tell his story. It might as well be done now; it would save further discussion.

"I first saw Nat-u-ritch at a bear-dance at the agency. The Indians reverse our custom, and the women ask the men to dance. Nat-u-ritch chose me for her partner. We met again at Maverick, where she killed a desperado to save my life." These words Jim almost whispered to Petrie, who leaned forward to catch every syllable. "The next time I saw her--Oh, well, why tell of the months that followed? One day I found myself lying in her wickyup. I had been at death's door fighting a fever. Searching for strayed cattle, I had tumbled into Jackson's Hole and had been abandoned for dead. Nat-u-ritch went in alone, on snow-shoes, and dragged me back to her village. It was a deed no man, red or white, would have attempted to do. When I grew well enough she brought me here to my own ranch, where I had a relapse. Again she nursed me back to life."

He paused. How should he tell this man of the days of blinding temptation the loneliness of his life had brought with it? Petrie waited. Jim moved a little closer to him as he went on:

"When I grew stronger, I tried my best to induce her to leave the ranch, but she would not go. She loved me with a devotion not to be reasoned with. I almost tried to ill-treat her. It made no difference." Again the despair that Petrie had noticed before crept into Jim's voice. "I was a man--a lonely man--and she loved me. The inevitable happened. You see, I cannot go back home."

No, this was not the usual case, Malcolm Petrie told himself. Even he had been impressed by Jim's recital of the story. It was this man's attitude towards the woman that gave him more cause for anxiety than the squaw's position in the case, so he said:

"Don't you think you take rather too serious a view of the case? You can explain the situation to her and she will be open to reason."

But Jim interrupted him. "I wouldn't desert a dog that had been faithful to me. That wouldn't be English, would it? The man who tries to sneak out of the consequences of his own folly--"

"Believe me," the lawyer protested, "I would advise nothing unbecoming a gentleman. But aren't you idealizing Nat-u-ritch a little?"

Jim's answer was not reassuring. "On the contrary, we never do these primitive races justice. I know the grief of the ordinary woman. It doesn't prevent her from looking into the mirror to see if her bonnet is on straight; but Nat-u-ritch would throw herself into the river out there, and I should be her murderer as much as if I pushed her in."

Then Petrie devised a new scheme to test Jim's resolution.

"Why not take her with you to England?" he asked.

"Impossible!" Jim answered. "We'd both be much happier here. Even here I am a squaw man--that means socially ostracized." A bitter laugh broke from him. "You see, we have social distinctions out here."

"How absurd!"

"Social distinctions usually are," and Jim laid his arm on Petrie's. He was growing tired of the discussion. Petrie felt that Jim wished to dismiss it, so he determined to play his trump card. This sacrifice of a splendid fellow was madness. Years from now, Jim would thank him that he had urged him to abandon this life to which he clung with his mistaken sense of right.

"I think I am justified in violating my instructions," Petrie began. "You were not to know that Lady Kerhill accompanied me to this country."

Jim's hands tightened on Petrie. "Diana here?" Furtively he looked about him, as though fearful of seeing her. "In America?" He waited to be quickly reassured that there was no danger of her coming to the ranch.

"I left them at Fort Duchesne--her ladyship and her cousin, Sir John Applegate. I was to bring you there and give you what was intended to be an agreeable surprise--but--"

"Thank God you did not bring her here."

Jim moved away, with his hands clinched behind him. Petrie followed as he urged. "She will be disappointed, deeply disappointed; she is still a young and beautiful woman."

If there was temptation in the words, Jim did not betray it. Quite simply he said, "She must be."

"With many admirers, it is only natural that she should marry again."

And Jim answered, fully aware of the torturing methods used by the man who wished to conquer him, "It is inevitable."

This time Petrie's quiet voice rose in an almost impatient intolerance as he questioned, "And yet you feel--"

But Jim stopped him. There was agony in his voice. "Petrie, don't tempt me. I cannot go. My decision is made and nothing on earth can change it." He walked towards the house as he felt the sudden need of comfort. He wanted to feel his boy's arms about him; that would be his solace. At the window he saw Hal, and a nod brought the child to him.

As he watched him, Petrie said, more to himself than to Jim, "The sentimental man occasions more misery in this world than your downright brutally selfish one." To Jim he put the direct question, "Your decision is final?"

"Final."

"Too bad. Too bad. You are condemning yourself to a living death."

"Oh no; I have my boy. Thank God, I have my boy."

And in those words Petrie knew that the child meant more than all the rest of life to Jim. He knew the type--a type that prevails more especially among Englishmen, perhaps, in whom the need of fatherhood is strongly dominant. Almost prophetically the lawyer laid his hand on the head of the boy, who was standing on the bench playing with his father's kerchief. "The future Earl of Kerhill."

Jim answered, defiantly, "My boy is my boy."

If Jim persisted in refusing to accept the position as the head of his house, then this child was the stake to play for, Petrie decided.

"Well, think of him--of his future. He has the right to the education of a gentleman, to the surroundings of culture and refinement."

As Petrie spoke, his glances took in the shabby little chaps, the feet in their worn moccasins, the coarse flannel shirt; and Jim saw the look and understood. He almost hurt the boy, so tight was his grasp as he lifted him down and held him in his arms.

"One moment, Mr. Petrie. I see your drift," he savagely answered. "But you sha'n't do it, sir. You sha'n't. I won't listen."

But Petrie now knew that he had touched Jim's vulnerable point, and that he was capable of making the sacrifice for the boy.

"I speak as the trusted friend of your family, as the advocate of your child." He told himself he was justified in asking what he did.

"Before you came," Jim said, "I was a ruined man--stone broke, as we say out here. I had to begin my life all over again. But I had Hal, his love and his life to live in day by day, and now you want that, too. I can't do it. I know it's selfish, but life owes me something, and that's all I ask. I can't let him go. I can't--I can't!"

But Malcolm Petrie persisted. "You're responsible for that child's future. You don't want him to grow up to blame you--to look back to his youth and his father with bitterness, perhaps hate."

Jim, as he held the boy from him and studied the tiny face, cried, "You'll never do that, will you, Hal, my boy?"

"What, daddy?"

"Think badly of your father?"

"No, daddy, no," and the child's arms were thrown about Jim's shaking body.

Petrie touched Jim's arm quietly. "You're robbing your child of his manifest destiny."

"What do you want?"

"Send the little man home with me."

With eyes almost blinded with emotion, Jim looked into Petrie's face. "Have you any children, Petrie?"

The solicitor shook his head, and in Jim's words, "I knew it--I knew it," he understood what he meant.

Like a father who sympathizes, yet must be firm in his efforts to convince his son of his wisdom, Petrie spoke.

"I am thinking of Hal's future, as the friend and adviser of your family. I am thinking coldly, perhaps, but, believe me, kindly."

Jim could not doubt his sincerity. He buried his head against the child. "You don't know what a lonely life I led until Hal was born, and how lonely I'll be when he is gone."

Gone! Could he agree to this separation? The word frightened him. "Gone! Oh, my God, no!" He could not.

Then Petrie appealed to Jim's conscience. "You know the trite old saying, 'England expects that every man this day shall do his duty.'" So simply, so seriously did Petrie quote the well-worn phrase, that its shaft went home.

Duty! Duty! Ah, one might squander control of one's own destiny, but for another, for the child whom the parent has brought into life--how answer that? It was the duty of the parent to the child--in that lay the whole definition of the word. He held the tiny face in his hands as he whispered: "Well, Hal, old chap, it's a tough proposition they've put up to your daddy, son. But what must be must be. You'll be braver than I am, I hope." He forgot that the child could not understand him. Sobs shook him as he held the boy tight against his breast. Hal sought to comfort his father with soft, loving pats.

Jim raised his head. "Petrie, you've nailed me to the cross. He goes back with you."

"You'll never regret this," and Petrie laid his hand on Jim's shoulder.

"Ask them to teach him that I did this for his sake; but he'll forget me--you'll see. Some one else will take my place, and he will learn to love them better than he loves me."

Petrie tried to comfort him. "No, he shall hold you in his memory always--always."

Suddenly Jim remembered. "What about his mother?"

"If you can make the sacrifice, she must. They say Indians are stoics."

"I can understand the reason for it, Petrie, man. It will seem a needless cruelty to her. She's almost as much of a child as Hal. I'll try--I'll try."

Holding Hal by the hand, he walked to the cabin and called: "Nat-u-ritch, Nat-u-ritch, come here, little woman. I want you."

*CHAPTER XXIII*

Nat-u-ritch, with slow impassiveness, obeyed. She came from the house with hardly a glance at the stranger. She had changed but little; still slender and childish in form, motherhood and the past five years seemed to have left no mark upon her save, perhaps, for a more marked wistfulness of expression, especially when she looked at Jim and the boy. Her life was complete; physical deprivations or disappointments mattered little to her. Taught by Jim the ways of civilization, she tried to apply them to her surroundings, but it seemed to her a waste of the golden hours when she might be following her master instead across the plains or playing with her child. It was almost piteous to see how she controlled the instincts of her savage desire for freedom, and in her primitive way cared for the little cabin so as to please Jim.

Malcolm Petrie noticed at once the difference between Nat-u-ritch and the other Indian women whom he had seen during the past days, and was impressed by it.

Hal, at sight of his mother, quickly responded to her out-stretched hand.

"Nat-u-ritch, this is my te-guin--my friend," and Jim indicated Petrie. She inclined her head to the solicitor and said, "How?" As her eyes met Petrie's shrewd glance an instinctive apprehension caused her to tighten her arm about the child.

"Te-guin--big chief from out yonder--over the big water," Jim explained, but her unflinching gaze made it difficult for him to go on. He whispered to Petrie: "I don't know how to do it---I don't know how to do it." Then he summoned all his courage, and with a forced smile said, pleasantly, as though humoring a child, "Nat-u-ritch, te-guin--big chief--come for little Hal."

She flung her arms about the sturdy little fellow, and a sharp exclamation was her only answer.

"Pretty soon make Hal big chief. Touge wayno--te-guin--good friend--take Hal long way off." A shudder ran through her. She began to grasp what the stranger's presence meant. He was of her boy's father's race, and for too long she had forgotten, what in the beginning had so often troubled her, that Jim would some day want to return to his own people. This had been her great fear, but his kindness all these years had lulled to rest that ache of the early days.

While these thoughts tormented her, she could hear Jim still explaining. "Long trail, heap long trail--over mountains, heap big mountains--Washington."

She slipped the child to the other side of her, that he might be farther away from the silent man who was bringing this woe to her, and her clutch grew tighter at the word "Washington." Jim explained to Petrie, "Washington means a lot to them." Then he came closer to Nat-u-ritch as he said, impressively:

"Big Father--send for little Hal. Say make him big chief--te-guin cross wide water--heap big boat--Hal see the rising sun. Pretty soon, some day, Hal heap wickyup--heap cattle--heap ponies--pretty soon heap big chief."

He waited the result of his words. He thought to appeal to her pride and ambition for the boy; but she only shook her head and gazed at him like an affrighted animal whose young is about to be torn from her.

Jim's fortitude began to desert him. "She doesn't understand. She can't--she can't," he almost moaned, as he turned away, while his clinched hands and the stiffening of his body showed the strain that was proving almost too great for him. "This is a hard business, Mr. Petrie," and Petrie could feel the vibrant emotion of these two victims of fate. As Jim moved a step away, Nat-u-ritch, still holding the boy, started forward and caught his arm as though to hold him back. Her mind was in a daze--she could utter no word; but Jim understood the pantomime.

"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."