Tales of Trail and Town, Bret Harte [to read list TXT] 📗

actually empty board, and saw even the tables disappear, Lady Elfrida plaintively protested that she felt as if she had been presiding over an Arabian Nights entertainment, served by genii, and she knew that they would all awaken hungry when they were well on their way back. Nevertheless, in spite of this expedition, the officers lounged about smoking until every trace of the festivity had vanished. Reggy found himself standing near Peter. “You know,” he said, confidentially, “I don’t think the colonel has a very high opinion of your pets,—the Indians. And, by Jove, if the ‘friendlies’ are as nasty towards you as they were to us this morning, I wonder what you call the ‘hostile’ tribes.”

“Did you have any difficulty with them?” said Peter quickly.

“No, not exactly, don’t you know—we were too many, I fancy; but, by Jove, the beggars whenever we met them,—and we met one or two gypsy bands of them,—you know, they seemed to look upon us as TRESPASSERS, don’t you know.”

“And you were, in point of fact,” said Peter, smiling grimly.

“Oh, I say, come now!” said Reggy, opening his eyes. After a moment he laughed. “Oh, yes, I see—of course, looking at it from their point of view. By Jove, I dare say the beggars were right, you know; all the same,—don’t you see,—YOUR people were poaching too.”

“So we were,” said Peter gravely.

But here, at a word from the major, the whole party debouched from the woods. Everything appeared to be awaiting them,—the large covered carryall for the guests, and the two saddle horses for Mrs. Lascelles and Lady Elfrida, who had ridden there together. Peter, also mounted, accompanied the carryall with two of the officers; the troopers and wagons brought up the rear.

It was very hot, with little or no wind. On this part of the plain the dust seemed lighter and finer, and rose with the wheels of the carryall and the horses of the escort, trailing a white cloud over the cavalcade like the smoke of an engine over a train. It was with difficulty the troopers could be kept from opening out on both sides of the highway to escape it. The whole atmosphere seemed charged with it; it even appeared in a long bank to the right, rising and obscuring the declining sun. But they were already within sight of the fort and the little copse beside it. Then trooper Cassidy trotted up to the colonel, who was riding in a dusty cloud beside the carryall, “Captain Fleetwood’s compliments, sorr, and there are two sthragglers,—Mrs. Lascelles and the English lady.” He pointed to the rapidly flying figures of Jenny and Friddy making towards the wood.

The colonel made a movement of impatience. “Tell Mr. Forsyth to bring them back at once,” he said.

But here a feminine chorus of excuses and expostulations rose from the carryall. “It’s only Mrs. Lascelles going to show Friddy where the squaws and children bathe,” said Lady Runnybroke, “it’s near the fort, and they’ll be there as quick as we shall.”

“One moment, colonel,” said Peter, with mortified concern. “It’s another folly of my sister’s! pray let me take it upon myself to bring them back.”

“Very well, but see you don’t linger, and,” turning to Cassidy, as Peter galloped away, he added, “you follow him.”

Peter kept the figures of the two women in view, but presently saw them disappear in the wood. He had no fear for their safety, but he was indignant at this last untimely caprice of his sister. He knew the idea had originated with her, and that the officers knew it, and yet she had made Lady Elfrida bear an equal share of the blame. He reached the edge of the copse, entered the first opening, but he had scarcely plunged into its shadow and shut out the plain behind him before he felt his arms and knees quickly seized from behind. So sudden and unexpected was the attack that he first thought his horse had stumbled against a coil of wild grapevine and was entangled, but the next moment he smelled the rank characteristic odor and saw the brown limbs of the Indian who had leaped on his crupper, while another rose at his horse’s head. Then a warning voice in his ear said in the native tongue:—

“If the great white medicine man calls to his fighting men, the pale-faced girl and the squaw he calls his sister die! They are here, he understands.”

But Peter had neither struggled nor uttered a cry. At that touch, and with the accents of that tongue in his ears, all his own Indian blood seemed to leap and tingle through his veins. His eyes flashed; pinioned as he was he drew himself erect and answered haughtily in his captor’s own speech:—

“Good! The great white medicine man obeys, for he and his sister have no fear. But if the pale-face girl is not sent back to her people before the sun sets, then the yellow jackets will swarm the woods, and they will follow her trail to the death. My brother is wise; let the girl go. I have spoken.”

“My brother is very cunning too. He would call to his fighting men through the lips of the pale-face girl.”

“He will not. The great white medicine man does not lie to his red brother. He will tell the pale-face girl to say to the chief of the yellow jackets that he and his sister are with his brothers, and all is peace. But the pale-face girl must not see the great white medicine man in these bonds, nor as a captive! I have spoken.”

The two Indians fell back. There was so much of force and dignity in the man, so much of their own stoic calmness, that they at once mechanically loosened the thongs of plaited deer hide with which they had bound him, and side by side led him into the recesses of the wood.

 

… …

 

There was some astonishment, although little alarm at the fort, when Lady Elfrida returned accompanied by the orderly who had followed Peter to the wood, but without Peter and his sister. The reason given was perfectly natural and conceivable. Mrs. Lascelles had preceded Lady Elfrida in entering the wood and taken another opening, so that Lady Elfrida had found herself suddenly lost, and surrounded by two or three warriors in dreadful paint. They motioned her to dismount, and said something she did not understand, but she declined, knowing that she had heard Mr. Atherly and the orderly following her, and feeling no fear. And sure enough Mr. Atherly presently came up with a couple of braves, apologized to her for their mistake, but begged her to return to the fort at once and assure the colonel that everything was right, and that he and his sister were safe. He was perfectly cool and collected and like himself; she blushed slightly, as she said she thought that he wished to impress upon her, for some reason she could not understand, that he did not want the colonel to send any assistance. She was positive of that. She told her story unexcitedly; it was evident that she had not been frightened, but Lady Runnybroke noticed that there was a shade of anxious abstraction in her face.

When the officers were alone the colonel took hurried counsel of them. “I think,” said Captain Fleetwood, “that Lady Elfrida’s story quite explains itself. I believe this affair is purely a local one, and has nothing whatever to do with the suspicious appearances we noticed this afternoon, or the presence of so large a body of Indians near Butternut. Had this been a hostile movement they would have scarcely allowed so valuable a capture as Lady Elfrida to escape them.”

“Unless they kept Atherly and his sister as a hostage,” said Captain Joyce.

“But Atherly is one of their friends; indeed he is their mediator and apostle, a non-combatant, and has their confidence,” returned the colonel. “It is much more reasonable to suppose that Atherly has noticed some disaffection among these ‘friendlies,’ and he fears that our sending a party to his assistance might precipitate a collision. Or he may have reason to believe that this stopping of the two women under the very walls of the fort is only a feint to draw our attention from something more serious. Did he know anything of our suspicions of the conduct of those Indians this morning?”

“Not unless he gathered it from what Lord Reginald foolishly told him. We said nothing, of course,” returned Captain Fleetwood, with a soldier’s habitual distrust of the wisdom of the civil arm.

“That will do, gentlemen,” said the colonel, as the officers dispersed; “send Cassidy here.”

The colonel was alone on the veranda as Cassidy came up.

“You followed Mr. Atherly to-day?”

“Yes sorr.”

“And you saw him when he gave the message to the young lady?”

“Yes sorr.”

“Did you form any opinion from anything else you saw, of his object in sending that message?”

“Only from what I saw of HIM.”

“Well, what was that?”

“I saw him look afther the young leddy as she rode away, and then wheel about and go straight back into the wood.”

“And what did you think of that?” said the colonel, with a half smile.

“I thought it was shacrifice, sorr.”

“What do you mean?” said the colonel sharply.

“I mane, sorr,” said Cassidy stoutly, “that he was givin’ up hisself and his sister for that young leddy.”

The colonel looked at the sergeant. “Ask Mr. Forsyth to come to me privately, and return here with him.”

As darkness fell, some half a dozen dismounted troopers, headed by Forsyth and Cassidy, passed quietly out of the lower gate and entered the wood. An hour later the colonel was summoned from the dinner table, and the guests heard the quick rattle of a wagon turning out of the road gate—but the colonel did not return. An indefinable uneasiness crept over the little party, which reached its climax in the summoning of the other officers, and the sudden flashing out of news. The reconnoitring party had found the dead bodies of Peter Atherly and his sister on the plains at the edge of the empty wood.

The women were gathered in the commandant’s quarters, and for the moment seemed to have been forgotten. The officers’ wives talked with professional sympathy and disciplined quiet; the English ladies were equally sympathetic, but collected. Lady Elfrida, rather white, but patient, asked a few questions in a voice whose contralto was rather deepened. One and all wished to “do something”—anything “to help”—and one and all rebelled that the colonel had begged them to remain within doors. There was an occasional quick step on the veranda, or the clatter of a hoof on the parade, a continued but subdued murmur from the whitewashed barracks, but everywhere a sense of keen restraint.

When they emerged on the veranda again, the whole aspect of the garrison seemed to have changed in that brief time. In the faint moonlight they could see motionless files of troopers filling the parade, the officers in belted tunics and slouched hats,—but apparently not the same men; the half lounging ease and lazy dandyism gone, a grim tension in all their faces, a set abstraction in all their acts. Then there was the rolling of heavy wheels in the road, and the two horses of the ambulance appeared. The sentries presented arms; the colonel took off his hat; the officers uncovered; the wagon wheeled into the parade; the surgeon stepped out. He exchanged a single word with the colonel, and lifted the curtain of the ambulance.

As the colonel glanced within, a deep but embarrassed voice fell upon his ear. He turned quickly. It was Lord Reginald, flushed and sympathetic.

“He was a friend,—a relation of ours, you