Kitabı oku: «The Captain of the Gray-Horse Troop», sayfa 20
XXXIII
ELSIE CONFESSES HER LOVE
As he paused on the steps to the hotel, a gust of bitter rage swept over him. "What can I do against this implacable town? Oh, for a squad of the boys in blue!"
The street and square were filled with men all running, as to a fire, from left to right – a laughing, jesting throng. Along the hitching-poles excited and jocular cowboys were loosing their ponies and leaping to their saddles. Some excitable citizen had begun to ring the fire-bell, and women, bareheaded and white with fear, were lining the sidewalks and leaning from windows. The town resembled an ant-hill into which a fleeing bison has planted a foot.
"Oh, sir!" cried one young mother as she caught sight of Curtis, "are the Injuns coming?"
"No," he replied, bitterly, "these marauders are not Indians; they are noble citizens," and set off at a run towards the corral in which Two Horns and Crow were camped. The tumult behind him grew fainter, and at last died to a murmur, and only one or two houses showed a light.
Ladue's was an old ranch on the river, around which the town of Pinon had for twenty years been slowly growing. The cabin was of stone, low and strong, and two sides of it formed the corner of a low corral of cottonwood logs. In this enclosure teamsters (for two bits) were allowed to camp and feed their horses. A rickety gate some fifty feet south of the house stood ajar, and Curtis entered the yard, calling sharply for Crow Wing and Two Horns. No one replied. Searching the stalls, he found the blankets wherein they had lain, but the tumult had undoubtedly called them forth into danger.
Hurrying to the house, he knocked most vigorously at the door – to no effect. The shack was also empty. Closing the door with a slam, the young officer, now thoroughly alarmed, turned back towards the hotel. A vast, confused clamor, growing each moment louder, added edge to his apprehension. The crowd was evidently returning from the jail, jubilant and remorseless. Upon reaching the corner of the square Curtis turned to the left, with the design of encircling it, hoping to find the two redmen looking on from a door-way on the outskirts of the throng.
He had crossed but one side of the plaza, when a band of cowboys dashed in from the opposite corner with swinging lariats, whooping shrilly, in close pursuit of a flying footman. A moment later a rope looped, the fugitive fell and the horsemen closed round him in joyous clamor, like dogs around a fox.
With a fear that this was one of his men, Curtis raised a great shout, but his voice was lost in the rush and roar of the throng pouring in towards the fugitive. In fierce rage he rushed straight towards the whirling mass of horsemen, but before he had passed half the intervening space a horseman circled the pavilion, and the popping of a revolver, swift yet with deliberate pauses, began. Wild yells broke forth, the pursuers scattered, other revolvers began to crack, and as the press of horsemen reeled back, Curtis perceived Calvin, dismounted and bareheaded, with his back against the wall of the little wooden band-stand, defiant, a revolver in each hand, holding the mob at bay, while over his head a light sputtered and sizzled.
A lane seemed to open for Curtis as he ran swiftly in towards the writhing, ensnared captive on the ground. It was Two Horns, struggling with the ropes which bound him, and just as his Little Father bent over him the big Tetong freed himself, and, with a sliding rush, entered the shadow by Calvin's side. Instantly his revolver began to speak.
Curtis, left alone in the full light of the lamp on the pavilion, raised his arms and shouted: "Hold! Cease firing!" The crowd recognized him and fell silent. The army blue subdued them, and those who had done the shooting began to edge away.
For a moment the young soldier could not speak, so furious was he, but at last he found words: "Cowards! Is this your way of fighting – a hundred to one? Where is your mayor? Have you no law in this town?" He turned to Calvin, who stood still, leaning against the pavilion. "Are you hurt?"
Calvin lifted one dripping hand. "I reckon I'm punched a few. My right arm feels numb, and the blood is fillin' my left boot. But I'm all here, sure thing." But even as he spoke he reeled. Curtis caught him; he smiled apologetically: "That left leg o' mine, sure feels like a hitchin'-post; reckon some one must o' clipped a nerve somewhere."
Two Horns seized him by the other arm, just as Winters blustered into the circle. "What's going on here; who's doin' this shootin'?"
"This is a good time to ask that," remarked Curtis. "Where were you twenty minutes ago?"
Calvin struggled to get his right hand free. "Let me have a crack at the beast!" he pleaded. "I saw you," he said to Winters: "you were in the lynching crowd, you sneak! You hung round in the shadow like a coyote."
Curtis tried to calm him. "Come, this won't do, Calvin; you are losing blood and must have a doctor; come to the hotel."
As they half-carried him away the young rancher snarled back, like a wounded wolf: "I disown the whole cowardly pack of ye; I put my mark on some of ye, too."
The crowd was now so completely with Calvin that Winters hastened to explain: "Cal is my deputy; he was acting inside his duty! He was trying to keep the peace and you had no business fightin'," and proceeded to arrest some fairly innocent by-standers, while the wounded desperadoes were being swiftly hidden away by their friends, and the remaining citizens of the town talked of what should have been done.
Calvin continued to explain as they hurried him through the excited throng. "I tried to stand 'em off at the jail," he said, "but I couldn't get near enough; my cayuse was used up. Oh, you was there!" he called to a tall man with a new sombrero, "I saw you, Bill Vawney, and I'll get you for it; I've spotted you!"
He was enraged through every fibre of his strong, young body, and only the iron grip of the persistent men kept him from doing battle.
As they neared the hotel, Curtis, looking up, glimpsed Elsie's white face at the window and waved his cap at her. She clapped her hands in joy of his return, but did not smile. The hotel lobby was packed with a silent mass of men, but the landlord, with authoritative voice, called out: "Clear the way, gentlemen!" and a lane opened for them. "Right in here," he added, and led the way to the parlor bedroom. The Captain and Calvin were now most distinguished of citizens; nothing was too good for them.
"Bring a physician," said Curtis.
"Right here," replied a cool, clear voice, and Doctor Philipps stepped to Calvin's side and relieved Two Horns.
The young rancher sank down on the bed limply, but smiled as he explained: "I'm only singed a little, doc. They had me foul. You see, I was in the light, but I handed one or two of them something they didn't like. I left a keepsake with 'em. They won't forget me soon."
The physician pressed him back upon the bed and began to strip his clothes from him. "Be quiet for five minutes and I'll have you in shape. We must close up your gashes."
Curtis, relieved of part of his anxiety, then asked: "How is the Senator?"
"Pretty comfortable; no danger."
"Don't leave me, Major," called Calvin, as Curtis turned away to seek Elsie. "Don't let this chap cut me up. I'm no centipede. I need all my legs."
There was genuine pleading in the boy's voice, and Curtis came back and took a chair near him while the doctor probed the wounds and dressed them. The officer's heart was very tender towards the reckless, warm-hearted young rancher as he watched his face whiten and the lips stiffen in the effort to conceal his pain. "Calvin, you've been loyal all through," he said, "and we won't forget it."
At last, when the wounds were bandaged and the worst of the pain over, Curtis turned to Two Horns and signed:
"Where is Crow and the wife of Cut Finger?"
"I do not know."
"I will go find him; you remain here. Do not fear; you are safe now. Sit down by Calvin's bed. You will sleep here to-night."
As he made his way through the close-packed mass of excited men in the lobby and before the hotel, Curtis met no hostile face. It seemed that all men were become his friends, and eager to disclaim any share in the mob's action. He put their proffered hands aside and hurried back to Ladue's, which he found close-barred and dark.
"Who's there?" called a shaking voice as he knocked.
"Captain Curtis. Where is Crow?"
"In here!" was the answer, in joyful voice. As he opened the door, Ladue reached his hand to the agent. "My God, I'm glad it is you! I was afraid you'd been wiped out. Where is Two Horns?"
Crow, with his revolver still gripped in his hand, stepped forward, his face quivering with emotion. "Little Father, it is good to see you; you are not hurt? Where is Two Horns?"
"Safe in the big house with me. The evil white men are gone; you will camp here, you and the wife of Cut Finger," he signed as he saw the cowering form of the little wife.
Ladue, a big, hulking, pock-marked half-breed, began to grin. "I was a-scared; I sure was. I thought we was all goin' to hang. Old Bill Yarpe was out for game."
"The better citizens are in control now," replied Curtis. "You are safe, but you'd better remain in the house till morning."
As Curtis made his way through the crowd some one raised a cheer for "Major Curtis," and the cry was taken up by a hundred voices. Indignant citizens shouted: "We'll stand by you, Major. We'll see justice done."
Curtis, as he reached the stair-way, turned and coldly said: "Make your words good. For four days a mob of two hundred armed men have menaced the lives of my employés and my wards, and you did nothing to prevent them. I am glad to see you appreciate the horror and the disgrace of this night's doings. If you mean what you say, let no guilty man escape. Make this night the memorable end of lawlessness in your country."
"We will!" roared a big, broad-faced, black-bearded man, and the crowd broke into another roar of approval.
Elsie was waiting at the top of the stairs, tense and white. Her eyes burned down into his with a singular flame as she cried out:
"Why didn't you come to me sooner? Why do you walk so slowly? Are you hurt? Tell me the truth!"
"No, only tired," he answered, as he reached her side.
She put out her hand and touched his breast. "You are; you are all bloody. Take off your coat; let me see!"
"No, it's not mine; it is poor Calvin's; he was badly wounded; he leaned against me."
"But I saw you standing in the pistol-fire; take it off, I say!" Her voice was almost frenziedly insistent.
He removed his coat in a daze of astonishment, and she cried out, triumphantly: "See! I was right; your shirt is soaked. You are wounded!"
"True enough!" he replied, looking down in surprise at a big stain on his shoulder. "I've been 'singed,' as Calvin calls it. It can't be serious, for I have not felt it."
A sudden faintness seized upon Elsie as she gazed fixedly upon the tell-tale stain. A gray whiteness passed over her face. "Oh, God! suppose you had been killed!" she whispered.
In that shuddering whisper was the expression of the girl's complete and final surrender, and Curtis did not question, did not speak; he took her in his arms to comfort her.
"My sweetheart, you do love me! I doubt no more. My poverty, your wealth, what do they matter?"
She suddenly started away. "Oh, your wound! Where is the doctor? Go to him!"
"The touch of your lips has healed me," he protested, but she insisted.
"Go! You are bleeding!" she commanded; and so, reluctantly, lingeringly, with most unmilitary sloth, he turned away, made numb to any physical pain by the tenderness in her voice.
As the young surgeon was dressing the gash, he said: "Well, Captain, things happen in the West."
"Yes, the kind of things which ought not to happen anywhere. I suppose they lynched poor Cut Finger?"
"No; they merely shot him and dragged him to death, as near as I can learn."
Curtis clinched his fists. "Ah, the devils! Where is the body?"
"Back in the corridor of the jail."
Curtis pondered the effect of this news on the tribe. "It's a little difficult to eliminate violence from an inferior race when such cruelty is manifested in those we call their teachers."
He sent for Ladue, who was deep in discussion of the evening's events with Crow and Two Horns, and said to him: "Do not tell the wife of Cut Finger of the death of her husband; wait till morning. What the sheriff will do with the body I do not know. To-morrow say to her, 'All is over; go with the agent.' It will do her no good to remain here. Good-night!"
It was hard to realize in the peaceful light of the following morning that the little square had been the scene of so much cruelty and riot. The townspeople came forth yawning and lax, and went about their duties mechanically. Crow Wing and Two Horns, who would camp nowhere but on the floor of Curtis's room, were awake at dawn, conversing in signs, in order not to disturb the Little Father.
He, waking a little later, called to them in greeting and said: "Now all is quiet. The white men are sorry. You are safe. Go to Paul's, eat and get ready. We must start at once for the agency. Cut Finger did an ill deed, and brought trouble on us all. Now he is dead, but good may come out of it. Go, tell the little wife; be gentle with her; say to her I wish her to go home with us."
Silently, soberly, the two redmen left the room, and Curtis dressed and went at once to find Calvin. The boy looked up as Curtis entered and cheerily called: "Hello, Major, I've had a lively dream. I dreamed there was some gun-play goin' on out in the square and you and I were in it. Was that right?"
"I've a sore place here on my shoulder that says you are. How do you feel? Can you travel? If you can, I'll take you home in my buckboard."
"I can travel all right, but I haven't any home to go to. The old man and I haven't hitched very well for a year, and this will just about turn me out on the range."
"Well, come home with me, then; Jennie will soon have you all right again; she's a famous nurse, and will look out for you till your mother comes over, as she will. Mothers don't go back on their boys."
A curious dimness came into the bold, keen eyes of the wounded youth. "Major, that'll suit me better than anything else I know."
"Very well, if the doctor says you can travel, we'll go along together," replied Curtis.
He was eager to see Elsie and was pacing impatiently up and down the hall when Lawson met him, smiling, imperturbable. "Well, Captain, how are you this morning?"
"Have you seen Miss Brisbane?"
"No; she is still asleep, I hope. The Senator is conscious, but in a curious state; seems not to know or care where he is; his troubles are over."
Even as he spoke a maid came from Elsie's room to say that her mistress would breakfast in her own parlor, and wished both Mr. Lawson and Captain Curtis to join her in half an hour.
Lawson, in discussing the events of the night, was decidedly optimistic. "This outbreak will bring about a reaction," he said, with conviction. "You will find every decent man on your side to-day."
"I hope so," responded Curtis. "But last night's mob made me long for my Gray-Horse Troop."
When they entered the little parlor Elsie rose and passed straight to Curtis without coquetry or concealment. "How is your wound? Did you sleep?"
He assured her that he was almost as well as ever, and not till she had convinced herself of the truth did she turn to Lawson. "Osborne, I can never thank you enough for your good, kind help."
Osborne protested that he had done nothing worth considering, and they took seats at the table – a subdued and quiet group, for Lawson was still suffering from his loss, and the lovers could not conceal from themselves the knowledge that this was their last meeting for many long months. Elsie was a being transformed, so tender, so wilful, so strangely sweet and womanly was she in every smile and in every gesture.
They dwelt upon impersonal topics so long as Lawson remained; but he, being ill at ease, hastened with his coffee, and soon made excuse to withdraw, leaving them alone. For a moment they faced each other, and then, with a wistful cadence in his voice, Curtis said, "Dear girl, it's hard to say good-bye now, just when I have found you, but I must return at once."
"Oh, must you? Can't you wait till we go – this afternoon?"
"No; I must be the first to carry this dreadful news to my people."
"You are right, of course; but I'll miss you so, and you need me. Say you need me!"
"Need you! Of course I do; but you cannot stay with me and I cannot go with you."
"I know, I know!" she sighed, resignedly. "But it hurts all the same."
"This tumult will die out soon," he went on, in the effort to comfort her, "and then I can come on to Washington for a visit. I warn you I've lost all my scruples; seventeen hundred million dollars are as straws in my path, now that I know you really care for me."
"I don't feel rich now; I feel very poor. You must come to Washington soon."
"I warn you that when I come I will ask hard things of you!" He rose and his face darkened. "But my duty calls!"
She came to him and yielded herself to his embrace. "My queenly, beautiful girl! It is sweet to have you here in my arms; but I must say good-bye – good-bye."
In spite of his words he held her till she, with an instinctive movement, pushed from his arms. "Go – go quick!" she exclaimed, in a low, imperative voice.
Not staying to wonder at the meaning of her strange dismissal, he turned and left the room without looking back.
Only after he had helped Calvin into the wagon, and had taken his seat beside him, did the young soldier lift his eyes in search of her face at the window. She was looking down upon him, tears were on her cheeks, but she blew a kiss from her finger-tips, not caring if all the world were there to see.
XXXIV
SEED-TIME
As Lawson predicted, the very violence of this outburst of racial hatred was its cure. A reaction set in. The leaders of Brisbane's party, with loud shouts, ordered their harriers back to their lairs, while the great leader himself, oblivious to daylight or to darkness, was hurried home to Washington. The Tetongs returned to their camps and hay-making, the troops drilled peacefully each afternoon in the broiling heat, while Curtis bent to his work again with a desperate sort of energy, as if by so doing he could shorten the long, hot days, which seemed well-nigh interminable after the passing of Elsie and her friends.
In a letter announcing their safe arrival in Washington, Elsie said:
"I am going to see the President about you, as soon as he returns from the mountains. Papa is gaining, but takes no interest in anything. He is pitifully weak, but the doctor thinks he will recover if he will only rest. His brain is worn out and needs complete freedom from care. Congress has adjourned finally. I am told that your enemies expect to secure a court-martial on the charge of usurping the authority of the sheriff. Osborne says not to worry, for nothing will be done now till the President returns, and he is confident that the department will sustain you – the fact that the violence you feared did actually take place has robbed your enemies of their power."
Nevertheless, the fight against the Tetongs and himself went on with ever-increasing rancor during July and August, and each Congressional candidate was sharply interrogated as to his attitude towards the removal bill. The anti-administration papers boldly said: "If we win (and we will) we'll cut the comb of this bantam. We'll break his sabre over his back."
To this the opposition made answer: "We're no lovers of the redman, but Captain Curtis is an honorable soldier, doing his duty, and it will not be easy for you, even if victorious, to order a court-martial."
This half-hearted defence gave courage to those who took the high ground that the time for lynching had gone by. "The Tetongs have rights which every decent man is bound to respect, no matter how much he personally dislikes the redskin."
During the last days of August a letter came from Elsie, full of comforting assurances, both public and private, being more intimate and tender in tone than any that had preceded it, and full of sprightly humor too. It began:
"My dear Soldier, – I've been so busy fighting your enemies I couldn't write a letter. I've met both the Secretary and the commissioner – their desks are said to be full of screeds against you —and I've been to see the President! He wasn't a bit gallant, but he listened. He glowered at me (not unkindly) while I told your story. I'm afraid I didn't phrase it very well, but he listened. I brought out all the good points I could think of. I said: 'Mr. President, Captain Curtis is the most disinterested man in the Indian service. He is sacrificing everything for his plans.' 'What are his plans?' he asked, so abruptly that I jumped. I then spoke learnedly of irrigating ditches and gardens; you would have laughed had you heard me, and I said: 'If he is ordered back to his regiment, Mr. President, these poor people will be robbed again.' 'Does Mr. Blank, of New York, endorse Captain Curtis?' he asked. I didn't see what this led to, but I answered that I did not know. 'He's a friend of yours, isn't he?' he asked. 'Whom do you mean?' I said, and my cheeks burned. Then he smiled. 'You needn't worry,' he said, banging the table with his fist. 'I'll keep Captain Curtis where he is if every politician in the State petitions for his removal.' I liked his wooden cuss-word, and I thanked him and jumped up and hurried home to write this letter. The Secretary told Osborne that the bill for buying out the settlers would certainly go through next winter, and that your plans were approved by the whole department. So, you see, you are master of the situation, and can plan as grandly as you wish – the entire reservation is yours.
"It is still hot here, and now that my 'lobbying' is done, I am going to the sea-shore, where papa is, and I know I shall wish you were with me to enjoy it. I am so sorry for you and Jennie, my heart aches for you. Think of it! The cool, beautiful ocean will be singing me to sleep to-night. I wish I could send you some fruit and some ices; I know you are longing for them.
"I wonder how it will all turn out? Will you be East this winter? Perhaps I'll help you celebrate the opening of your new gardens, next spring. Wouldn't you like me to come out and break a bottle of wine over the first plough or water-gate or something? If you do, maybe I'll come. If you write, address me at the Brunswick, Crescent Beach. I wish you could come and see me here – you look so handsome in your uniform."
The soldier's answer was not a letter, it was a packet! He began by writing sorrowfully:
"Dearest Girl, – I fear I shall not be able to get away this winter. There is so much here that requires my care. If the bill passes, the people will be stirred up; if it doesn't pass, the settlers will be uneasy, and I shall be most imperatively necessary here. Nothing would be sweeter to me than a visit to you at the beach. As a boy I knew the sea-shore intimately, and to wall the sands with you would be to revive those sweet, careless boy memories and unite them with the deepest emotions of my life – my love for you, dear one. It almost makes me willing to resign. In a sense it would be worth it. I would resign only I know I am not losing the delight forever – I am only postponing it a year.
"I have thought pretty deeply on my problem, dearest, and I've come to this conclusion: When two people love each other as we do, neither poverty nor riches – nothing but duty, should separate them. Your wealth troubled me at first. I knew I could not give you the comforts – not to say luxuries – you were accustomed to, and I knew that my life as a soldier would always make even a barrack a place of uncertain residence. I must stand to my guns here till I have won my fight; then I may ask for a transfer to some field where life would not be so hard. If only there were ways to use your great wealth in helping these people I would rejoice to be your agent in the matter.
"I am a penniless suitor, but a good soldier. I can say that without egotism. I think I could have acquired money had I started out that way; of course I cannot do it now. Perhaps my knowledge and training will come to supplement and give power to your wealth. I must work. I am not one to be idle. If I go on working – devising – in my own way, then my self-respect would not be daunted, even though you were worth ten millions instead of one. I am fitted to be the head of a department – like that of Forestry, or Civil Engineering. After my work here is finished I may ask for something of that kind, but I am resolved to do my duty here first. I like your suggestion about the water-gate. I hold you to that word, my lady. One year from now, when my gardens are ready for the sickle, I will have the criers announce a harvest-home festival, and you must come and dance with me among my people, and then, perhaps, I will take a little vacation, and return with you to the East, and be happy with you among the joyous of the earth for a little season. Beyond that I dare not plan."
The administration was sustained, and Brisbane's forces were beaten back. The better elements of the State, long scattered, disintegrated, and without voice, spoke, and with majesty, rebuking the cruelty, the barbarism, and the blatant assertion of men like Musgrove and Streeter, who had made the State odious. Even Winters, the sheriff, was defeated, and a fairly humane and decent citizen put in his place, and this change, close down to the people, was most significant of all. "Now I have hope of the courts," said Curtis to Maynard.
If the Tetongs did not at once apprehend the peace and comfort which the defeat of Brisbane's gang and the passage of the purchase bill assured to them, they deeply appreciated the significance of the immediate withdrawal of the settlers. They rejoiced in full-toned song as their implacable and sleepless enemies drove their heavily laden wagons across the line, leaving their farms, sheds, and houses to the government for the use of the needy tribe.
The urgency of the case being fully pleaded, the whole readjustment was permitted to be made the following spring, and the powers of the agent and his employés were taxed to the uttermost. When the order actually came to hand, Curtis mounted his horse and rode from camp to camp, carrying the good news; calling the members of each band around him, he told the story of their victory.
"Your days of hunger and cold will soon be over," he said. "The white man has gone from the reservation. The water of the streams, the ploughed fields, are all yours. Now we must set to work. Every one will have good ground; all will share alike, and every one must work. We must show the Great Father at Washington that we are glad of his kindness. Our friends will not be ashamed when they come to see us, and look upon our corn and wheat."
Every man, woman, and child did as they had promised. They laid hands to the duties appointed them, and did so merrily. They moved at once to the places designated. A mighty shifting of dwellings took place first of all, and when this was finished they set to work. They built fences, they dug ditches, they ploughed and they planted, cheery as robins. Even the gaunt old women lifted their morose faces to the sun and muttered unaccustomed thanks. The old men no longer sat in complaining council, but talked of the wonderful things about to be.
"Ho! have you heard?" cried one. "Grayman lives in the house the white man has left; Elk too. Two Horns sleeps in the house above Grayman, and is not afraid. Ah, it is wonderful!"
The more thoughtful dwelt in imagination on the reservation completely fenced, and saw the hills swarming with cattle as in the olden time it swarmed with the wild, black buffalo. They helped at the gardens, these old men, and as they rested on their hoes and listened to the laughter of the women and children, they said one to the other: "Our camp is as it was in the days when game was plenty. Every one is smiling. Our worst days are over. The white man's road is very long, and runs into a strange country, but while Swift Eagle leads we follow."
There was commotion in every corral, where long-haired men in leggings and with feathered ornaments in their hats, were awkwardly breaking fiery ponies to drive, for teams were in sharp demand. The young men who formerly raced horses, for lack of other things to do, and in order not to die of inertness, now became the hilarious teamsters of each valley. Every person, white or red, who could give instruction in ditching and planting, was employed each hour of the day. The various camps were as busy as ant-hills, and as full of cheer as a flock of magpies.
Curtis was everywhere, superintending the moving of barns, the building of cabins, and the laying out of lands. Each night he returned to his bed so tired he could not lie flat enough, but happy in the knowledge that some needed and permanent improvement had that day been made. Lawson, faithful to his post, came on from Washington, and was a comfort in ways less material than wielding a hoe. He went about encouraging the people at their work, and his words had the quality of a poem.
"You see how it is!" he said. "You need not despair. It is not true that the redmen are to vanish from the earth. They are now to be happy and have plenty of food. The white people, at last, have found out the way to help you."
Maynard got a short leave of absence, and came over to see "the hustle," as he called it, and to visit Jennie, who still refused to leave her post, though she had practically consented to his proposal. "We will see," she had said. "If George marries, then I will feel free to go with you; but not now."
Maynard expressed the same astonishment as ever. "A man may fight a people a lifetime and never really know 'em. Now I consider it marvellous the way these devils work."
