Kitabı oku: «Golden Face: A Tale of the Wild West», sayfa 7
Chapter Sixteen
A Conjugal Debate and its Sequel
With all his failings, the Rev. Dudley Vallance had one redeeming point – he was excessively fond of his children; but it is probable that he loved his only son more than all the rest put together. To him he could refuse nothing. Indeed, so loth was he to part with him even for a time that he could not bring himself to allow Geoffry to enter any profession. He must remain at home. There was no need for him to earn his living, since he would one day succeed to the Lant property, and meanwhile he could be learning to look after it.
Fortunately, Geoffry was something of a bookworm, and studious of temperament, or the bringing-up he had received, and the aimless life which it entailed upon him, would have sent the boy straight to the dogs. As it was, he was cut out by Nature for a college don rather than for a country squire, and during his University career he was known essentially as a reading man.
It may be imagined, then, that when he returned home at the end of the summer term, after taking a brilliant double first, the pride and delight of his reverend parent knew no bounds, and by a series of festivities, unparalleled since the distinguished youth’s coming of age, was Lant-Hanger at large, and particularly its “County Society,” bidden to share the parental joy.
But, alas! that the latter should be so short-lived. The object of all this fun and frolic seemed in no way to relish it at all. Instead of returning home cheerful, overflowing with spirits, thoroughly enjoying life with the zest of the average young Englishman who has just scored a signal success, and sees a congenial and rose-bestrewn future before him, poor Geoffry seemed to have parted with all capacity for enjoyment. He was pale and listless, absent, bored, and – shall we own it? – at times excessively irritable, not to say peevish. His father was deeply concerned, and his mother, who read off the symptoms as briefly as the village doctor would diagnose a case of incipient scarlet fever, felt more of anger than concern.
“I really don’t know what to do about the boy,” said the Rev. Dudley, dejectedly, coming into his wife’s morning-room the day after the last of their house party had dispersed. “It’s dreadful to see the poor fellow in such low spirits. He must have been working too hard, whatever he may say to the contrary. It’s hard to part with him so soon, the dear fellow, but we positively must send him abroad to travel for the summer. Nothing like travel.”
“Try him, and see if he’ll go,” was the short reply.
“We must insist upon it. We must get medical advice – a doctor’s opinion to back us up. The boy will be ill – ill, mark me. He eats nothing. He doesn’t sleep, for I hear him moving in his rooms far into the small hours. He looks pale and pulled down, and doesn’t even care for his books. Then, when all the people were here, he would steal away from everybody, and wander about and mope by himself all day. We had some nice people, too; and pleasant, good-looking girls. Come, hadn’t we?”
“Oh, yes; a most complete party. Only one ingredient left out.”
“And that?”
“Yseulte Santorex.” And Mrs Vallance shut down the envelope she was closing with a vicious bang.
“God bless my soul! you don’t say so? Surely it hasn’t gone so far as that?”
“It has gone just as far as that abominable girl could carry it,” was the uncompromising reply. “Surely you are not simple enough to imagine that the daughter of that hybrid Spanish atheist would neglect such an opportunity? The girl has simply made a fool of him.”
“You dislike her to that extent?” said Mr Vallance, vacantly, his mind full of the woeful plight into which his son was plunged. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think her not a bad sort of girl considering the fallow in which her mind has been allowed to lie. And Geoffry might do worse.”
“Oh, yes. He might, but not much. A forward, bold, masculine minx, tramping the countryside, fishing and shooting. And she is utterly devoid of respect for her elders, and as for principle or religion – faugh! I beg leave to think, Dudley, that he hardly could do worse.”
This spitefulness on the lady’s part was not wholly devoid of excuse. For her elders, as represented by Mrs Dudley Vallance, Yseulte certainly had scant respect. And then, if she became their son’s wife, the day might come when Mrs Vallance would have to abdicate Lant Hall in her favour, whereas no such calamity could in the nature of things ever befall its reverend squire. Of course Geoffry must marry somebody or other one day; but Geoffry’s mother could contemplate such a contingency with far more equanimity than that of being dispossessed by a girl whom she detested, and whom she knew despised her.
“Well, well! we won’t say that; we won’t say quite that,” rejoined Mr Vallance. “Perhaps you are a little hard on poor Yseulte. She is young, remember, and at a thoughtless age. But she is thoroughbred in the matter of birth, and will be well off. We must not expect everything at once. And the girl is very pretty, with all her faults. I am not surprised at Geoffry’s infatuation.”
“No more am I,” was the short reply.
“Oh, but you must look at a question of this kind apart from prejudice. And then I can’t bear to see poor Geoffry simply eating his heart out like this. I am becoming seriously alarmed about him; and I tell you what it is, my dear, as he really has staked his happiness on this girl, he shall have her. I’ll see Santorex about it this very day.”
“Oh, well, if you have quite made up your mind, the sooner you do so the better,” answered his spouse, resignedly.
“Very well, then, that’s settled,” said the Rev. Dudley, with a sigh of relief.
There was just one thing they forgot, this worthy couple, namely, that before settling a matter of the kind so comfortably and out of hand, it might be necessary to obtain the concurrence of the party most concerned, to wit Yseulte Santorex herself. But that Yseulte might unhesitatingly decline the honour of the projected alliance never occurred to them for one moment, and any suggestion of the bare idea of such a contingency would have thrown them into a state of wild amazement.
During the above debate, the subject thereof was doing exactly as his father had said; wandering about by himself – and moping. Strolling down the cool mossy lane, shaded between its high nut-hedges, he found himself upon the river-bank. It was time to go home. They would be wondering what had become of him; perhaps sending everywhere in search of him. In his then morbid frame of mind, Geoffry shrank from being made a fuss over. Mechanically he turned to retrace his steps.
“Great events from little causes spring.” The little cause in this instance was a little flock of sheep, which a farmer’s lad, aided by his faithful collie, was driving into the lane from an adjacent field. The animals were kicking up a good deal of dust; Geoffry was no fonder of walking in a cloud of dust than most people. The lane was narrow, and sheep are essentially idiotic creatures; were he to try and pass these, they would, instead of making room for him, inevitably scamper on ahead as fast as their legs could carry them, thereby kicking up about ten times more dust. That decided him. He would extend his walk.
Over a rail, an unexpected flounder into a dry ditch, and he stood up to his neck in brambles and nettles. But the sting of the latter was hardly felt; for his eyes fell upon an object which set his knees trembling and his heart going like a hammer. A moment earlier and he would have missed the phenomenon which evoked this agitation, but for the sheep. What was it? Only a broad-brimmed straw hat, and beneath it a great knot of dark brown hair rippling into gold.
It needed not this, nor the supple figure in its cool light dress which became visible, as with an effort poor Geoffry staggered up from his thorny hiding-place, to reveal the identity of this new feature of the situation. She was standing with her back towards him, about fifty yards away, taking a fishing-rod to pieces, and she was alone.
At the tearing and rustling noise caused by his efforts to free himself from the clinging brambles, she turned quickly, the half-startled look upon her features giving way to a wholly amused one as she took in the situation. Geoffry, noting it, felt savage, reckless, mad with himself and all the world. Could he never appear before her but in a ridiculous light – the central figure of some absurd situation?
“Why, Mr Vallance, you seem to have fallen among thorns,” she cried, adding, with a merry laugh, “and the thorns have sprung up and choked you. But never mind. Sit down and rest here in the shade, while I do up my tackle, and then we can walk home together as far as our ways lie.”
The tone was kind and sympathetic, and Geoffry felt soothed. Red and perspiring, he cast himself down with a grateful sigh upon a mossy bank, in the shadow of the great oak beneath which she was standing.
“That’ll be some consolation,” he replied ruefully. “It was nothing, though – the tumble, I mean. I must have caught my foot in something, and came a cropper. But, it was well worth while.”
Yseulte smiled, trying hard not to render the smile a mischievous one.
“Well, you’re the best judge of that. And now, have all your visitors left?”
“Yes, and a good job too,” was the fervent reply.
“How ungrateful! I’m sure they did their best to make themselves agreeable, especially to you. Confess; you are dreadfully bored now that they are gone.”
“Not in the very least. You are here – and – and – ” He broke off, helpless and stuttering.
“But I shall not be much longer. I am going away too.”
He sprung to his feet as if he had been stung.
“What? You are going away? When?”
“Very soon. In a week or ten days; perhaps not quite so soon.” Already she wished she had not told him. It would have been better, for every reason, that he should have heard the news at second hand.
“In a week or ten days!” he echoed. “But not for long – Yseulte, say it will not be for long!”
If at times the girl had been guilty of a touch of feminine spitefulness in the reflection that she had completely subjugated – and through no artful intent – the hope of this family whom, not without reason, she detested, assuredly she felt sorry and ashamed of it now, as she noted the pitiable effect which her announcement produced upon her admirer. His face was as pale as death.
“But what if it will be for long?” she answered, gently. “For months, perhaps – or a year.”
“Then I’ll go and hang myself.”
Poor Geoffry! For weeks – for months – he had been anticipating such a moment as this; had revolved every kind of set speech; every form of the most moving entreaty; every promise to devote his life to her happiness and welfare; all in the most impassioned language that the earnestness of his love could suggest: and had shivered with apprehension lest his nervousness and misgiving should intervene to mar the effect and leave him stuttering and looking an ass; yet now that the critical moment had come, all his carefully-planned oratory had resolved itself into the brusque, passionate statement – “Then I’ll go and hang myself.” Yet never was declaration more exhaustive.
She understood his meaning; she did not wish him to say more; and her tone was very gentle, very pitiful, as she replied:
“Be a man.”
The utterly wretched expression upon his face, showed that he had understood her. Never was proposal more terse; never refusal more prompt and decisive. It was impossible for each to misunderstand the other.
“Have I no chance, Yseulte?” he said, the eager trepidation of his former tone having given way to one of dull hopelessness, which moved her infinitely.
“No,” she answered, gently. “It would be cruel to leave you in any doubt. There are many reasons against it – insuperable reasons.”
“Oh, what are they? Tell me what they are,” he cried, relapsing into his former tone. “They can be removed – there is nothing I will not do, or give up, for you. What are they? You don’t like my people, I know; but you have always been kind and friendly with me. Surely my relations need not stand in the way?”
“You must not ask me for reasons, Geoffry. Let us talk over this rationally. If I cared for you as you wish, nothing should stand in the way. But as I do not, even you would not thank me for coming between yourself and those who do. Only think what a firebrand I should be.”
“No, you would not. I tell you there is nothing I would not do for you – or would not give up for you. Only just try me.”
What complication-loving fiend should have brought to her recollection then the vision of that pictured face which had made such an impression upon her – the face of the disinherited heir of Lant Hall? The leaven of her father’s cynical philosophy almost moved her to experiment on this corpus vili ready to her hand, and ascertain whether his protestations would go the length of espousing her ideas of right and wrong as regarded that particular subject. But she restrained herself in time.
Very dejectedly and in silence he walked beside her as far as their ways lay together. He would fain have reopened his pleadings, but with a hurried farewell she left him before he could detain her.
“Well, Chickie? Been having it out with Geoffry Plantagenet?” said her father, who, from his library window, had witnessed their parting at the divergence of the roads.
“Yes; that’s just what I have been doing. And – I think, dear, we oughtn’t to laugh at poor Geoffry quite so much.”
“Oh, that’s how the land lies, is it?” answered Mr Santorex, struck by the unwonted gravity which she had brought to bear upon the subject. “All right, we won’t. Not that we shall have much longer to laugh at anyone,” he added somewhat ruefully.
Chapter Seventeen
War Wolf is “Wanted.”
“Say, Vipan. Guess we’d better draw off out o’ this for a bit. There’s no call for us to help do police work just now, and we can’t stand looking on. There’ll be hair-lifting here in a minute, I reckon.”
Thus Smokestack Bill to his friend and boon companion as the two lounged on the turf, a hundred yards or so from the trading store attached to the Blue Pipestone Agency. The place was alive with Indians, gathered there for the purpose of drawing the rations with which a paternal Government supplied them, contingent on their good behaviour and in consideration of their peaceably abiding on their reservation and eschewing the fiery delights of the war-path. So Uncle Sam’s red nephews occupied the ground in crowds, indulging in much jollification on the strength of newly-acquired beef and flour and other commodities which should refresh and comfort both the inner and the outer man, and while the squaws were busily packing these upon their much-enduring ponies, their lords were lounging about, chatting, smoking, merry-making, and having a good time generally. Meanwhile, the trading post had been doing a brisk business.
“Police work, eh?” returned Vipan, with a glance at the detachment of U.S. Cavalry, which, encamped in the neighbourhood of the store, showed no sign that any serious undertaking was in contemplation. “Who are they after nobbling?”
“See here, old pard – if I didn’t know you well enough to stake my life you’d never go back on a pardner, you and I wouldn’t be here together to-day. If they can’t claw hold of their man, it mustn’t be through any meddlin’ of ours.”
“Who is it they want?”
“War Wolf.”
“The devil they do! They gave out a different story.”
“That’s so. Joe Ballin, who’s with them, ’s an old pard of mine. We’ve done many a scout together in ’67 and ’68. Well, he told me all about it. This command is out after no less a chap than War Wolf. You see the pizen young skunk has been braggin’ all over the section how he scalped Rufus Charley and Pesky Bob, them two fellers we buried down by Burntwood Creek. It’s got to the General’s ears, and now they’ve come to take him over to Fort Price. They’ve given out a lie that they’re bound down the river on the trail of a Minneconjou who ran off a lot of Government beef last month, but that’s just a red herring. As sure as War Wolf comes along, they’ll grab him – mind me.”
Vipan meditatively blew out circles of smoke into the air, without replying. This was a most untoward contretemps. He remembered the scalp-dance which he had witnessed; the two scalps – including the red-haired one – which War Wolf had so boastfully brandished during that barbarian orgie, and it flashed across him vividly now that, were the Indian arrested for the deed, the bulk of his clansmen and the Sioux at large would look upon himself as having betrayed their compatriot into the enemy’s hand, or would for their own purposes affect to. Here were the troops, and he, Vipan, on good terms and hob-nobbing with their leaders. The capture – if it took place – would be to himself most disastrous. It was characteristic of the man that he lost sight of the grave peril in which he himself would be placed, alone here in the midst of hundreds of exasperated savages. His plans of future enrichment would be utterly broken up, and it was of this he was thinking. Unscrupulous, self-seeking as he was, Vipan had his own code of honour, and he would no more have dreamed of betraying his friend’s confidence than of cutting his friend’s throat. But had the information reached him through any other channel, it is more than doubtful whether Uncle Sam’s cavalry would have effected their capture that day.
“You’re right, Bill,” he said, at length. “There’ll be an almighty rumpus if that game’s tried on. Why, there are enough reds here to chaw up this command twice over, and they’ll do it, too, I’ll bet a hat. Why the devil did they send out so few men?”
“Well, what d’you say? Hadn’t we better git?”
“Not this child. You see, if we make tracks, and War Wolf gets grabbed, the reds’ll certainly think I gave him away. He’s an infernal young skunk, and I’d gladly see him hung; still, it nohow suits my book that he should be just now. So I’ll see it out, but if you’d rather be outside it, don’t stay. We can rendezvous anywhere you like afterwards.”
“Oh, well; it’s no great matter. I don’t care if I stay,” answered the scout, with his usual imperturbability. “Here’s a big burst of rain coming. We’d better get inside the store, anyhow.”
Great drops began to plash around them; there was a steely gleam, followed by a long, muttering roll of distant thunder. As they made their way towards the log-house, the Indians were breaking up into groups of twos and threes, and hurrying away in the direction of a cluster of teepes erected hard by. Failing any necessity for it, they were no more inclined for a ducking than most people. The cavalrymen, beyond taking precautions for keeping their arms and ammunition dry, seemed indifferent to the weather.
“Hello, Smokestack Bill!” cried a hearty voice, as they entered. “So that’s how Nat Hardroper custodies his State prisoners, eh?”
They recognised in the speaker the officer who had arrested them in the Black Hills. With him was Joe Ballin, the scout above referred to. Vipan, especially, further noticed a sergeant and a dozen men posted, apparently by accident, within the room.
“Lord, Colonel,” replied the scout, “you don’t want us to foot the Henniker trail again?”
“Not I,” said the other, with a laugh. “Other game afoot this journey.”
Then at Vipan’s suggestion, drinks were dispensed, the storekeeper – a long, lank Eastern man – participating in the round.
Suddenly the latter exclaimed:
“Snakes! here come three reds. Your man in ’em, Colonel?”
Through the open door three Indians could be descried approaching rapidly. It was raining hard, and their blankets were drawn over their heads and shoulders, leaving only a part of their faces visible. The swarthy features of Ballin the scout lit up with a momentary excitement.
“The centre one, Colonel,” he whispered, hardly moving his lips. “The centre one. He’s the skunk we want, and no mistake.”
The Indians continued to advance with their light, springy step. When about a hundred yards from the store they were suddenly joined by a large band of fully-armed and mounted warriors, clearly a band which had just arrived upon the ground, but which had hitherto been unseen by those inside the store, owing to the limited range of vision afforded by the latter’s doorway.
This untoward arrival placed a critical aspect on the state of affairs. But Captain Fisher’s orders – the higher rank by which that officer was commonly addressed, was mere popular brevet – were concise. They were to the effect that he should apprehend upon sight, and convey to Fort Price an Ogallalla Sioux, known as War Wolf. This was sufficient. If that Indian were not apprehended it would only be because he had made himself remarkably scarce. As it was, however, here he stood before them, advancing confidently into the trap. But then, he had at his back a formidable force of his compatriots, outnumbering the cavalrymen three to one, not reckoning the number of warriors already on the ground, and whom the first whoop would bring upon the representatives of authority in crowds. Clearly here was a critical situation. So thought Vipan, who stood prepared to watch its dénouement with intense interest. So thought Smokestack Bill and the storekeeper, who, however, with characteristic phlegm, stood prepared to act as events should decide. So, especially, thought the Captain and the dozen men disposed inside the store to effect the capture.
The whole band, in delightful disorder, was now straggling around the door; the three pedestrians, who had been joined by a couple of the new arrivals, leading. All unconscious of danger, War Wolf was chattering and laughing with his companions. Then a shadow darkened the doorway, and the first Indian entered. Before his eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the sudden darkness – for the windows had been purposely shaded – the second was in the room. A rapid movement, a sudden exclamation, and two struggling bodies – all quick as lightning. Captain Fisher had seized the second Indian from behind, effectually pinioning him.
It was done in a moment. The desperate struggles of the lithe and active savage taxed all the efforts of the half-dozen men who had been told off for the purpose, while the remainder held the entrance. In a trice he was subdued, disarmed, and securely bound. His comrade, to whom Ballin the scout had hurriedly explained that no harm was intended, stood by sullen and immovable.
Then arose an indescribable hubbub. The warriors outside, who had dismounted, rushed helter-skelter for their ponies, and the loud, vibrating shout of the war-whoop rose above the clamour of angry and inquiring voices. At its sound the temporary village became as a disturbed ants’ nest, Indians pouring from the teepes in swarms: and in less than a minute a crowd of excited savages – mounted and afoot – came surging down upon the log-store, brandishing their weapons, and fiercely clamouring for the instant release of their compatriot.
But a line of disciplined men barred their way. Drawn up in front of the store, the troopers, some fifty strong, stood with carbines levelled, awaiting the word of command; while Ballin, duly instructed, went outside and informed the Indians that, should they approach twenty paces nearer, the troops would fire.
The effect was magical. The entire mass halted dead. Then, yelling the war-whoop, a number of young bucks darted out from the main body and, putting their ponies at full speed, began circling round the tenement and its defenders. But a peremptory mandate from one of the chiefs present recalled these young-bloods, and for a moment the two rival forces stood contemplating each other – the savages with a fierce scowl of hatred, the troops, cool, determined, and not altogether anxious for a peaceful solution to the difficulty.
Then the chief who had recalled the more ardent of his followers, advanced making the peace-sign – extending his right hand above his head with the palm outwards.
What had War Wolf done, he asked, that he should be seized like a common thief in the white men’s towns? Had he not come peaceably with the rest to obtain his rations, and had obtained them – a clear proof that the Government was not angry with him? He had been living on the reservation with them all, as everybody knew; why then should the Great Father send soldiers to take him?
Briefly Captain Fisher explained the charge against the young warrior. The killing of two citizens in time of peace was murder – not an act of war. The prisoner would have to answer for it before the Civil Courts of the Territory.
The chief’s face was a study in admirably feigned surprise, as the above was interpreted to him. He was a warrior of tall, commanding aspect, just past middle age, and looked almost gigantic beneath his nodding eagle plumes. He was the head war-chief of the Minneconjou clan, and had the reputation of being well-disposed towards the whites. He rejoiced in the name of Mahto-sapa, or The Black Bear.
“What the white Captain had just told them contained sound sense,” he replied. “But would it not do as well if War Wolf were released now, and called upon to answer to the charge against him later on, when the Great Father should want to try him. Such a course would be most gratifying to his countrymen, who were highly incensed that a warrior of his standing and repute should be seized in the way he had been. It would be best, perhaps, for all parties,” the Indian explained, with just a shadow of meaning in his uniformly courteous tone – “for his young men were so hot-blooded and impatient, he feared they might not act with the prudence and moderation to be looked for in men of riper years, a contingency which would be in every way lamentable to himself and the other chiefs of the Dahcotah nation.”
If the speaker expected his veiled threat to produce any effect on Captain Fisher, he must have been sadly disappointed. Concisely that officer informed him that, in the matter of a grave charge of this kind, War Wolf could not expect more lenient treatment than would be accorded to a citizen under similar circumstances. No white man would be held to bail if arrested for murder, and an Indian must look for precisely the same treatment – no better and no worse. At the same time he guaranteed that the prisoner should receive every consideration compatible with his safe keeping until such time as the authorities should decide upon his guilt or innocence. As for the anger of the warriors he saw before him, greatly as he should regret any breach of the peace, that consideration could not in any way be suffered to interfere with him in the discharge of his duty. Were he, the speaker, the very last man left of the command they saw before them, he should still do his best to convey his prisoner whither he had been ordered, and would die rather than release him.
The chief, seeing that further parley was useless, turned and rejoined his followers. Then once more arose a wild hubbub of angry and discordant voices, and for a moment it seemed that the crowd of impulsive and exasperated barbarians would hurl itself forward and in one overwhelming rush annihilate that mere handful of troops. Suddenly a body of warriors, some hundred strong, sprang on their ponies, and, unmindful of their leader’s mandate, scoured away over the plain, whooping and brandishing their weapons. The remainder having withdrawn some little distance gathered into knots, or squatted in circles on the ground, talking in eager and menacing tones.
“Thunder! Reckon that lot’s gone to raise hell among the pesky varmints camped along your return trail, Colonel,” said the lank storekeeper, pinning a fly to the wall with his quid at half-a-dozen paces. “You’ll need to keep a bright lookout on the road if you’re ever going to get this skunk to Fort Price.”
And what of the captive? The first expression of rage, mingled with amazement and mortification, having rapidly glinted across his countenance, his features became as a mask of impassibility. Only once, as his glance met that of Vipan, his eyes glared as he hissed in a tone inaudible to those around:
“Golden Face! The Dahcotah’s brother! Ha! We shall meet again!”
“War Wolf walks straight into the trap, as a silly antelope walks up to the fluttering rag upon the hunter’s wand. Who is to blame but War Wolf himself?” replied Vipan, in the same almost inaudible tone. But the Captain hearing it, turned sharply round. Vipan’s reputation as being on more than ordinarily friendly terms with the Sioux had already reached him. However, he made no remark, but having disposed his prisoner in such wise as to guard against all possibility of escape or rescue, he prepared to start. Just then the other Indian who had accompanied the prisoner into the store, inquired if he might go and fetch his pony. War Wolf was his brother, and he, Burnt Shoes, did not intend to leave him. He would go as a prisoner too.
“He’s a fine, staunch fellow,” said the Captain, kindly, as this request was interpreted. “But we can’t take him. Tell him so, Ballin, and also that he can serve his brother’s interests better by going back to his people and notifying them that in the event of their making any attack upon us either now or along the road, the prisoner will be shot dead.”
This was interpreted, and at War Wolfs request the two Indians were allowed a few moments’ conversation together. Then Burnt Shoes, having taken leave of his brother, strode away, looking straight in front of him.
The threat and the warning were by no means superfluous. As the troopers appeared outside with their prisoner, the bands of savages clustered hard by sprang to their feet with an angry shout. Many of the warriors could be seen fitting arrows to their bowstrings, and the click of locks was audible as they handled their rifles in very suggestive fashion.
