Part 16

Before Diana could reply, Jim interrupted them. Like a restless spirit he had been wandering over the place, from barn to cabin, from Hal's sleeping-room to the boys' quarters; accomplishing little and vainly trying to accept the events that had crowded into his life during the last hours. The Sheriff, he felt sure, could easily be managed, but Nat-u-ritch's disappearance was causing him anxiety. He knew it was a trait in the Indian character to hide away and stoically endure its grief in silence. Every moment he expected her to return. Stronger than all these thoughts was the desire that Diana should go at once, and little Hal with her. This speedy termination would make it easier for them all, he told himself, and then there were matters enough to claim his attention. So he reasoned as he came from the back of the house, where he had been brooding over a valise containing the child's belongings. As he saw Diana sitting there deep in conversation with Bill, he stood amazed at the simple adaptability that made it possible for her to adjust herself to these primitive belongings and people. Bill was already regarding her as a friend. Then he remembered that he must see Tabywana to tell him of Nat-u-ritch's disappearance, and arrange a plan with him to help her to evade Bud for several days.

"Bill, I wish you would get Baco. I have sent for Tabywana, and want Baco to interpret for me."

Bill's heavy boots creaked down the corral.

"I hope you've rested well, Diana," Jim said.

"I haven't been to bed, Jim. I've been trying to think it all out." She rose and came to him. "Would she be quite impossible at Maudsley Towers?"

Jim knew she wanted to take up their conversation where it had stopped last night. They had discussed the subject already, and he felt the futility of going over the same arguments. It only tormented him, so he answered, "Quite."

Diana persisted. "Couldn't she be sent to school for a few years?"

"It's too late. That might have been done when she was a child, but now she's a woman."

"And a mother." Then hurriedly, as though fearful that she would not have the courage to express to Jim all her concern for Nat-u-ritch, she said, "Jim, I wonder if we are treating her quite fairly?"

"I hope so." And in Jim's voice there was a prayer.

During the night many thoughts had haunted Diana. The soft little arms that had clung to her the night before troubled her. What would their loss mean to this child-woman of the woods? She decided to make one more appeal to Jim and frankly lay before him the conflicting emotions that had torn her since her arrival at the ranch.

"At first, Jim, I hated everybody, then I pitied you. Now I am thinking of her." Jim listened intently. She laid her hand on his arm. "Civilization has bred in people like you and me many needs and interests. But this helpless child-mother has just her child and you, and we are taking the child away. Oh, have you the right to sacrifice her even for the child?"

Jim could not argue. He had made his decision when Petrie wrested from him the concession to let the child go to be prepared for the life he had no right to deny him.

"I have done the best I know how, Diana," he said, simply. "We must leave the rest to God," and Diana knew that the words were the result of his own bitter struggle and she could no longer doubt their wisdom.

She stood silent. Jim looked at her. Of their own love that had endured all these years, neither spoke. It was Jim's moment of greatest temptation. He longed to say something to her that might express what he felt; but again he conquered himself.

"Will you take Hal?" was all he said. "I want you to get away before the heat of the day."

And Diana left him.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

Jim waited anxiously for Tabywana, to enlist his services in protecting Nat-u-ritch. Impatient of delay, he started towards the bunk-house. On his way he met Bill, who informed him that Bud and his men had gone. Tactfully, Bill avoided any reference to Bud's last threats, and Jim was comforted with the news of the Sheriff's departure. It only remained now for him to send Tabywana in search of Nat-u-ritch. He found the Chief and Baco, and in a few words told Tabywana that Nat-u-ritch had gone into the hills because he had decided to send the child away, that she was very unhappy, and that he wished him to go to her. Unmoved, the Indian listened, and only at the end of the words that Baco was translating for him made answer that Jim had spoiled Nat-u-ritch, that she must obey her master, and that he would insist upon her returning at once. But Jim explained that he wished her to remain hidden a little longer, until he was sure that the Sheriff had really left the neighboring country, as he was fearful that Bud Hardy meant mischief. Through Baco and Tabywana he would send her food and clothing, he added. Gradually he made the Chief see that this way was the wisest, and Tabywana left, breathing vengeance on Bud, and swearing that a war should follow if the Sheriff dared to arrest Nat-u-ritch.

Jim found the boys assembled before the cabin on his return, while Bill was directing the hitching of the horses to a wagon that was to carry Diana and Hal to Fort Duchesne.

"Everything ready, Bill?" he said, bravely.

"Yes, sir, everything ready."

Jim called to Hal and Diana, who came from the house. He picked the boy up in his arms and a sudden terror overcame him. He must be alone a moment, to gain the courage necessary to face this last ordeal.

"Take him, Bill," he said, "while I go and get his bag," and he went into the cabin.

The foreman nodded. He held the boy high up in his strong arms while the men crowded around him. He must try to make it easy for the boss; there must be no tears. Diana and Sir John, from under the porch where they were standing, watched the men with the child, and during the years that followed it was a memory that often recurred to them.

"Fellers," Bill began, as he enthroned Hal on his shoulder--"fellers, he's agoin' to Duchesne--savvy? Gee whiz, don't I wish I was goin' to see the soldiers and flags and drums and brass bands and everything! Ain't he goin' for a fine time!"

The child answered with glee, "Sure," and the men's laughter rang out at the child's use of their own mode of expression.

Carrying the bag, Jim came from the house. "It won't hurt anybody to carry his belongings; it's almost empty."

Shorty sniffed as he peered into it. "'Tain't very full." Then he threw into it the old jewel-box with the trinket which Jim had given him. Jim saw and understood. The men had come for their final leave-taking of the boy; they wished to prove that their animosity was over, that they recognized that misfortune had come to them through no fault of his.

"Hold on, Shorty." Jim tried to prevent the little fellow from getting the valise, but Shorty took the bag out of his hand as he snapped:

"That's Hal's trunk, ain't it?"

"Yes, but--"

"It ain't yourn." Ever aggressive, Shorty finished, "You don't want to fight the outfit the day your boy's agoin' away." And he pushed Jim aside as he carried the valise over to Grouchy, who was holding up a villainous-looking jack-knife to the child.

"Say, old man," the slow, lumbering ranchman labored, "you wanted this for a long time. I wouldn't give it to you, 'cause I was afraid you might cut yourself, but I've been a-savin' it for you. When you get bigger, you can make things with it."

Grouchy threw the knife into the bag, while Shorty, deeply touched, muttered, "That's the longest speech Grouchy ever pulled off." After all, the box with its trinket had been a gift to him; he must give something to the child that had been his very own.

"Say," he began, "I'm in on this; he's admired my saddle for a long time."

But Jim protested, "Shorty, what on earth is he to do with it?"

And Shorty answered, as he flung his saddle into the wagon. "I'll bet they 'ain't got nothin' to touch it in England."

Bill approvingly observed, "That's right; he's a cow-boy and needs a real saddle."

Quietly Andy pressed forward and diffidently began, "Und say--und say--und sure--the boy you know--und, by golly, he's got to have something to remember old Andy by--fadder or no fadder." As he spoke he drew from his belt his revolver, carefully emptied it, and held it up to Hal, whose eyes gleamed with joy at this especially desired gift. "Maybe dot don'd tickle him, eh?"

"Andy, is that sure for me?" Hal gasped.

"Sure," Andy said. "Und say, old man, it's a good one--und say, it's the best ever; und, by golly, been a good frient to me, und come in handy some day for you; und you remember old Andy by dot better than anything."

Shorty opened the bag and dropped the revolver in. The German held out his arms and in a trembling voice said, "Kiss me, you rascal," and the boy jumped into his arms.

Bill, who had been listening and watching the men, was tugging at his waistcoat. "And here's an old watch with a horse-hair chain--he's had his eye on it for some moons. He'd 'a' had it before," he explained confidentially to Jim, who was trying to prevent Bill from loosening it, "only it belonged to my mother." He knelt down on the ground and opened his arms. "And now, old man, give me a long hug. Don't ever forget your side-partner." Bill felt he must be careful. The men were beginning to move away, and surreptitiously to dig their knuckles into eyes that were showing their emotion.

Elated and excited by what seemed play to him, Hal said, as he patted the foreman, "Be good, Bill," and the men laughed as Bill answered:

"Sure I will--sure--sure."

The horses began to stamp impatiently as they grew restive under the attack of the flies. Diana looked at Sir John. They must start shortly, she knew; but who would make Jim realize that the final farewell to the child must be spoken. Petrie, who through a feeling of delicacy had kept away from Jim and the boy all morning, came to Sir John and Diana with a whispered message from the driver, who was anxious to make a start.

As though divining their thoughts, Jim went to Bill, who was still holding Hal. He threw his arm around the big fellow's shoulder. "Aren't you goin' to drive to the fort, Bill?"

"No, I think you need me more than he does."

"Oh, I'll be all right."

Jim's eyes searched the child's face. For the boy's sake he must control the aching sense of desolation that beset him.

The cow-punchers silently made their way up to the wagon and began adjusting its contents. No one noticed the dark, tragic face of Nat-u-ritch peering out of the loft door down at the child and the strangers that stood prepared to carry him away. Returning a short time before from her hiding-place by another trail, she had eluded her father, and crept into the barn while the men were absorbed in bestowing their farewell gifts on the child. Hidden among the bales of straw, she looked down on the scene. In her eyes was an almost fanatical calm, so stoically did she watch the child. She seemed in some dumb way to have reached a solution of her problem, but in conquering herself she had paid heavily, and this abnormal expression of hopeless resignation which her eyes held betrayed a terrible possibility.

Bill waited for Jim to speak. As he held the dark little face between his hands, Jim softly whispered, "I wish his mother could see him once before he goes; but nothing would ever reconcile her to it, I suppose.

"It's a heap sight better for her as it is," Bill brusquely said. "I told Charley to drive like hell; the quicker they're out of sight the better." Bill turned to the porch, where Sir John Applegate, Malcolm Petrie, and Diana stood, and his glance told them that they must end the strain and get away at once.

"Well, Jim," Sir John said, "our horses are tied to the corral; everything is ready." He took Jim's hand in both of his. "Good-bye, Jim; sorry you're not going with us."

"Good-bye, John," was all that Jim said.

Jim was conscious that the last moments he had dreaded were becoming a tragic reality. There stood Diana ready to start on her journey; on the other side of him Petrie advanced with out-stretched hand; while at the back of the yard he could see the boys clustered around the wagon waiting for the final moment. He realized that the sun was rising higher and higher in the heavens and that it was growing hotter. He must send them away. A strange veil, that dimmed all about him, seemed to hang between him and his surroundings. Finally he turned to Petrie, who stood on the other side of Bill. "Good-bye, Mr. Petrie." Jim held his hand out to the lawyer, in front of the child, and in a low voice said, "You've won your case against me; see that my boy gets all that is coming to him."

Petrie gravely answered, "You may trust me, sir." Then he joined the others at the wagon.

Jim stretched out his hands in silence to the boy. The child jumped from Bill's shoulder and nestled against his father. Bill left them; only Diana remained near Jim.

"And now, old man, kiss your daddy."

A troubled look crept over the child's face. It had all been great fun, but now--he was growing frightened. His hold tightened around his father's neck. Jim quickly saw that he must divert the boy's mind.

"Take good care of Cousin Diana, won't you?"

At this appeal the child, who was a masterful little fellow, used to being treated as an equal by the men on the ranch, answered, "Sure." And as Diana came to him he leaned down, smiled, and said, "I like you."

Diana smiled as she kissed him, and said, "And I love you, God bless you!"

She could scarcely bear the look of pain in Jim's eyes as they went from the boy's face to hers, then back again to the boy. In silence they grasped each other's hands, then Diana walked over to Bill, who tenderly helped her into the wagon.

Jim was alone with his boy. There was much that he wished to say, but he dare not speak. He could see the wistful look beginning to return to the child's face.

"Good," he said, lightly. "And now be off." Close he pressed the child's face to his lips. "There's a brave boy--with a smile and hurrah!"

How could he place the child in the wagon beside the waiting woman, whose face was turned away to hide her pain! His voice dropped low and almost broke. "Some day, when you have a son of your own, you'll know what this means," they heard him whisper. "But no Wynnegate ever was a quitter, and so we'll take things as they come."

Still no one turned to him. Diana felt the child being lifted in beside her and the baby fingers fasten around hers. She turned her face to Jim, but almost savagely he called:

"Drive on, and never look back."

And Charley, who had remembered Bill's words "to drive like hell," with a crack and a slap let the impatient animals go. The men started after the wagon.

"Give 'em a cheer, boys," Jim cried, and the place rang with their shouts.

Petrie and Sir John galloped alongside the wagon, with Grouchy, Andy, Shorty, and Bill following as fast as they could run. Cheer after cheer sent back its echo, while Jim stood alone listening as he watched the swaying, rumbling cart raise its cloud of dust, through which he could barely see the men still running and hear the faint echoes of their cries of "Good-bye, Hal."

Like a symbol of broken hope, he stood, a solitary figure in the dreary, deserted place. His hands were still out-stretched towards the receding wagon. The deep-tinted, rose-colored rocks glowed more and more radiantly, until the blinding glare from the plains made Jim shield his eyes.

"There they go"--he strained forward closer to watch the wagon--"down into the ravine--out of sight--and out of my life forever."

As the dip in the land engulfed and shut out his last glimpse of the travellers, he dropped inert and clinched his arms over his head, while his heavy, dragging steps were the only sounds that broke the terrible stillness that had fallen over the yard. Almost mechanically he reached the bench and sank down upon it. Nat-u-ritch, from her hiding-place above, could hear the sobs that came from the crushed and broken man.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

Nat-u-ritch stole down from the loft and crept to where Jim had stood. Unconsciously she repeated the same picture of desolation he had made as he stretched out his arms and strained his eyes to see the wagon disappear down the ravine, which the Indian girl could now see far off, like an ant on a hill, as it crawled up the dun-colored mound. Like him, she folded her arms and stared ahead for a long time--even though the blinding light blurred and made the landscape a chaotic meeting of sky and earth.

But, unlike him, no sobs shook her tiny body; erect and resolute she stood, then turned and noiselessly came down behind the weeping man. In wondering pity she watched him, then crossed to the house and entered it. She quickly returned with the small revolver in her hand; but her soft-shod feet made no sound, and Jim, unconscious of her presence, still sat with his head on his knees. As she caught sight of the tiny moccasins the child had left lying on the bench, she wavered a moment, but she only paused to pick them up and press them against her wildly beating heart. She had but one thought--escape from the pain that gnawed and tormented her.

Without the boy, and with the look she feared she must face daily in Jim's eyes, she knew she could not endure life. There was no rebellion, only acceptance of her fate, as she crept close behind Jim, the moccasins covering the steel weapon. Worn out, Jim still remained with head bowed, a physical stupor of fatigue almost dulling his sorrow. Nat-u-ritch's quick ear heard the voices of the returning men, and she darted across to the corral and disappeared behind the barn. But even that did not arouse Jim.

Shorty, Andy, and Grouchy hurried after Bill, who was coming back to look after Jim. Shorty grasped Bill's arm, wheeled him about, and pointed in the direction the carriage had taken.

"What are they bringing them back for, Bill?" he asked.

Bill swore a mighty oath as he saw the wagon headed for the cabin, with Bud and his posse surrounding it. He must prevent a meeting between Jim and Bud if possible.

"Don't say a word," he whispered to the boys as he caught sight of Jim. "We'll get him into the house."

He came down to Jim and tenderly laid his hand on his shoulder. "Jim, old man, you haven't had any sleep; go in and rest awhile."

Jim looked up at Bill, who pulled him to his feet, then started to lead him towards the cabin. He could fight the physical weariness no longer.

"Oh, I'll be all right soon, Bill."

Bill, as though humoring a child, said: "Sure. We've all got to get kind of used to it. Sleep's the thing to put you right."

They reached the cabin door. Jim dully echoed, "Sleep--sure, sleep, Bill." Then Bill closed the door on him.

"Shorty," he called, "you and Grouchy stand outside of that door, and don't you let him out of there until we can get Bud Hardy away." He meant to hurry and meet the wagon before it could reach the yard, but as he spoke he heard the men and horses and knew that it was useless.

Andy, who had been watching farther down the road, ran towards him. "Bill," he called, "Bud Hardy's here." As he spoke, Bud and his men advanced, followed by Diana and the child, while Sir John and Petrie stood close to them.

"Bud," Bill began, in a quick, low voice, "Jim ain't in any mood to be trifled with to-day. What in hell do you mean by stopping these people when I ordered you off the place?" He blurted out the words as though fearful of the impulse that drove him to do bodily harm to the Sheriff.

With a sneer Bud answered, "I told you I would hold these people as witnesses, and now I want Nat-u-ritch."

Before Bill could remonstrate, there was a hoarse cry from the house. They heard Jim wildly saying, as he rushed to Bill:

"Where is it? Where is it? It's gone--gone! Who took it? Bill, did you put that little gun back in the room as I told you?"

"That I did, boss."

As Jim stood in the yard he failed to see Diana or the child. He saw only the great form of the Sheriff, with his men around him, and he knew that mischief was afoot.

"You here, damn you!" He made a movement to reach Bud, but was restrained by Shorty and Grouchy. Then he saw that the entire party had been taken into custody. Before he could expostulate, a shot rang out.

"What was that!"

Bill ran to the barn. Jim followed him, but was stopped at the door by Bill.

"Jim," he cried, "it's Nat-u-ritch."

Before either of them could reach the tiny form they saw Tabywana lean over and pick up the child-woman in his arms. He had found her, but too late.

Diana, holding the child and followed by Petrie and Sir John, drew back into the corner of the porch. Bud and his men, who had lost their prey, slunk away. Only his faithful men stood by Jim as Tabywana advanced, carrying in his arms the dead Nat-u-ritch. From her hands dangled the tiny baby shoes.

Tabywana held out the lifeless body to Jim. In death as in life, she belonged to her master.

"Poor little mother! Poor little mother!" Jim whispered.

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

The fields were golden-tipped with mustard-flower, while a haze as golden touched and glinted the green of the encircling hills. A riot of vernal glory met Jim's eyes as he walked through the lanes that led to the Towers.

Six months had passed since Diana and Hal had left him, and until now the West with its memories had held him. He had written that he would be with them on this day, but he wished to return quietly. Only Diana and the child knew of his expected arrival.

The soft summer heat had brought into blossom every wild flower in glen and roadway; the great trees seemed heavy with the fragrant breezes that wafted through their leaves. As he had gone from home, so he wished to return to it--alone. A tumult of emotions battled within him as he approached the entrance to the Towers. He found the heavy doors opened wide as though expectant of a visitor. As he stood on the threshold the clock of the church-tower struck twelve. It was noon--the high noon of his life.

From the hall he heard a voice cry, "Welcome home, daddy!"

He turned to see his boy, changed even during the short separation--but stronger, more beautiful, a veritable princeling--holding out his eager little arms. And his boy, standing alone in the great hallway of the home of their ancestors, welcomed Jim to his own. As he held the child close to him, his eyes searched for Diana, and as the boy rained kisses on his face, Jim said:

"Cousin Di--where is she?"

The child smiled, and, slipping down to the ground, took hold of his father's hand and started to draw him down the corridor that led to the garden.

"Cousin Di is waiting for you in the Fairies' Corner," said the child. "We go there to play, you know, and listen for the fairies."

Jim did not speak, but the child prattled on as he led him across the green grass, past the swaying, flaunting hollyhocks and the beds of old-fashioned, fragrant flowers that lined the walks. The songs of birds filled the air--linnet, lark, and thrush seemed carolling a welcome to him. But Jim hardly heard what the boy said. He could see only the waving tree-tops of the mysterious Corner in the distance.

"Cousin Di!" the child called, as he ran ahead to herald his father's coming.