Part 15

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.

"Bud!" For a moment Bill could say no more. In the past he and Bud had been friends--bar-room friends, it was true--but lately he had begun to suspect much about the Sheriff's career that was unsavory. Until to-day, however, he had had no proof that Bud could behave like a blackguard. "Bud," he rejoined, "you're goin' to make me lose my temper, and I 'ain't done that for twenty years." As he spoke he raised his foot on the log beside Bud's and in deliberate imitation of him leaned his elbow on his knee while he stared straight into the Sheriff's face.

"Don't be foolish," Bud began. "I can put you to a lot of trouble, and I will. I'll arrest these English people and put 'em under bond to appear as witnesses. They were at Maverick that day, and I got my posse ready and waitin' to obey orders." This, he thought, was the final shot to bring Bill to his senses. He waited.

With a tolerance that did not hide his contempt, Bill spoke. "Except for Jim's orders, I'd throw you off the place. Get agoin', Bud--get agoin'--and don't stop to pick flowers."

Bud knew that Bill was conveying a threat which, he felt, as he watched his face, it were wiser not to disregard. He walked towards the barn, stopped, ground his teeth, and looked back at Bill; but the big fellow stood motionless and in supreme disgust watched the Sheriff. Bud uttered a low oath, then hurried down to the corral.

Still, Bill did not move. He did not hear Diana as she opened the cabin door and, drinking in the fresh morning air, said, "I feel as though I should suffocate in there." Her looks told that something more than the close air of the cabin room was stifling her. As she came from under the porch she saw the immovable figure of the foreman leaning over the log with his head on his hands, watching several men down the road who were mounting horses and preparing to make a start.

"Oh, Mr.--" She paused.

Bill turned. He saw she had forgotten his name. "Bill, miss," he said.

"Mr. Bill--"

But Bill interrupted as he raised his hat. "Just plain Bill, if you don't mind--and there ain't anything too good for you at Red Butte ranch, lady."

Impulsively Diana held out her hand to Bill, who took it. "Thank you, Bill. It's good to feel that I'm among friends, because I feel so strange, so bewildered." She had learned of the foreman's devotion to Jim and knew that she could trust him. "Bill," she asked, "what do they mean by 'squaw-man'?" There was so much she could not say to Jim, so much that had puzzled her, and she longed to unburden her heart to some one. This faithful soul would understand her, and would, perhaps, help her to learn more about Jim and the Indian woman, concerning whose fate she was now growing anxious.

Bill seated himself. "Well, it's the name some people give a white man who marries an Indian squaw." Then quickly he added: "But I want you to understand, miss, Jim's respected in spite of the fact he's a squaw man. He's lived that down."

"Of course it was a great surprise to us all at first."

"Natural it would be, miss. Of course no ordinary white man would have done it. But you mustn't think any the less of Jim for that, miss."

Quickly Diana answered, in sympathetic accord with Bill's loyalty to his master: "I think all the more of him, Bill. It's only another of Jim's glorious mistakes." Then again she thought of the woman. "I wish I could see her. What is she like?"

Bill could not understand this interest in Nat-u-ritch. "Just a squaw," he said, indifferently. "She's got two ideas, and I guess only two--Hal and Jim."

He liked the little woman, but he could see where she had been a great disadvantage to Jim.

But Diana's voice as she said, "A mother and a wife--that's a good deal, Bill," made him realize that perhaps he was not doing the Indian girl justice. He could see the tears in Diana's eyes as she spoke. "And her boy goes back home with us."

Bill rose. "Kind of tough on yours truly, lady, bein' as Hal and me are kind of side-partners, but then I got to recollect it's the best for the kid. That's about the size of it, ain't it?" This time it was Bill who solicited comfort from Diana. The thought of the child's leaving them had been a difficult proposition for the boys, and they had discussed it long and excitedly when Jim told them the plan the night before.

Diana understood. "It involves a lot of suffering all around, doesn't it, Bill? But it seems to me Nat-u-ritch gets the worst of it."

True to his opinion of the red race, Bill answered, "She's an Injin--used to takin' things as they come," and he hardly heard Diana's words:

"Poor little savage!"

This lady had appealed to him--why shouldn't he ask her advice? It was all very well for him to have frightened the Sheriff into leaving the place, all very well to appear sanguine and hopeful while the boss stood near him, but in his heart he knew he was afraid. Something in the shifting, malicious look of Bud Hardy's eyes as he left the place told Bill that there might still be trouble. Twisting the rim of his big hat nervously, he said:

"Say, miss, you got a lawyer in your party, 'ain't you?" Diana turned to listen to him. "Oh, but pshaw!" he went on, trying to reassure himself even while he spoke the disquieting words. "It 'll never get to the lawyer, cause Jim 'll never let him arrest her--never!"

"Arrest her!" Diana exclaimed, in surprise.

Bill explained. "Nat-u-ritch. The Sheriff thinks he can prove she killed Cash Hawkins--that day you were at Maverick."

Jim had not recalled that incident to Diana last night. He had told her he owed his life to the Indian girl--how and why he had not explained. Eagerly she leaned towards Bill as she cautiously said, "Why did she kill him?"

"Well, if"--and Bill dwelled on the word--"_if_ she killed him, she did it to save Jim's life, and it stands to reason Jim ain't goin' to see her suffer for it." Then as he saw a troubled look on Diana's face he regretted the admission of his worries. "Say, miss, I'm awful glad that you an' Hal are goin' to pull your freight, for there's goin' to be merry hell around here."

He quickly begged her pardon for his involuntary slip, but Diana had hardly noticed it. This would mean new worry for Jim. Then she comforted herself with the thought that perhaps this kind-hearted soul was exaggerating things. Surely, if there were cause for anxiety, Jim would have spoken to her about it.

"Is there nothing that can be done, Bill?"

He shook his head.

"Well, is there anything that I can do?"

"Don't see how, except to git away as soon's you can." And then he told her of Bud's proposition to obtain money from Jim, and that the Sheriff was willing to sell his evidence against the Indian girl. "Why," he added, "I 'most kicked him off the place; and Bud will fight, you know."

But Diana was only concerned to know whether the Sheriff was safely out of the way. "You say the Sheriff's gone?"

"Thank Heaven!" Bill answered. "And, by-the-bye, just to be more cantankerous, he threatened to hold up you and your party as witnesses; but that wouldn't be legal, would it?" As he remembered the boys he added, chuckling, "It certainly wouldn't be popular."