CHAPTER V
A GOOD INDIAN
Underneath that face like summer's ocean, Its lips as moveless, and its brow as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotion, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow,--all save fear.
Cast in the setting of to-day, after such an attempt on human life as webroke up on the prairie, Jean Pahusca would have been hiding in thecoverts of Oklahoma, or doing time at the Lansing penitentiary forattempted assault with intent to kill. The man who sold him the whiskeywould be in the clutches of the law, carrying his case up to the SupremeCourt, backed by the slush fund of the brewers' union. The AssociatedPress would give the incident a two-inch heading and a one-inch story;and the snail would stay on the thorn, and the lark keep on the wing.
Even in that time Springvale would not have tolerated the Indian amongus had it not been that the minds of the people were fermenting withother things. We were on the notorious old border between free and slavelands, whose tragedies rival the tales of the Scottish border. Kansashad been a storm centre since the day it became a Territory, and theoverwhelming theme was negro slavery. Every man was marked as "pro" or"anti." There was no neutral ground. Springvale was by majority aFree-State town. A certain element with us, however, backed up by theFingal's Creek settlement, declared openly and vindictively for slavery.It was from this class that we had most to fear. While the best of ourpeople were giving their life-blood to save a nation, these men connivedwith border raiders who would not hesitate to take the life and propertyof every Free-State citizen. When our soldiers marched away to fields ofbattle, they knew they were leaving an enemy behind them, and no man'shome was safe. Small public heed was paid then to the outbreak of adrunken Indian boy who had been overcome in a scrap out on the prairiewhen the youngsters were hunting their cows.
Where the bushes grow over the edge of the bluff at the steep bend inCliff Street, a point of rock projects beyond the rough side. By a rudesort of stone steps beside this point we could clamber down many feet tothe bush-grown ledge below. This point had been a meeting-place andplayground for Marjie and myself all those years. We named it"Rockport" after the old Massachusetts town. Marjie could hear my callfrom the bushes and come up to the half-way place between our two homes.The stratum of rock below this point was full of cunning little crevicesand deep hiding-places. One of these, known only to Marjie and myself,we called our post-office, and many a little note, scrawled in childishhand, but always directed to "Rockport" like a real address on theoutside fold, we left for each other to find. Sometimes it was amessage, sometimes it was only a joke, and sometimes it was just a lineof childish love-making. We always put our valentines in this privatehouse of Uncle Sam's postal service. Maybe that was why the other boysand girls did not couple our names together oftener. Everybody knew whogot valentines at the real post-office and where they came from.
On the evening after the storm there was no loitering on the prairie.While we knew there was no danger, a half-dozen boys brought the cowshome long before the daylight failed. At sunset I went down to"Rockport," intending to whistle to Marjie. How many a summer eveningtogether here we had watched the sunset on the prairie! To-night, for noreason that I could give, I parted the bushes and climbed down to theledge below, intending in a moment to come up again. I paused to listento the lowing of some cows down the river. All the sweet sounds andodors of evening were in the air, and the rain-washed woodland of theNeosho Valley was in its richest green. I did not notice that the busheshid me until, as I turned, I caught a glimpse of a red blanket, with acircular white centre, sliding up that stairway. An instant later, acall, my signal whistle, sounded from the rock above. I stood on theledge under the point, my heart the noisiest thing in all that summerlandscape full of soft twilight utterances. I was too far below thecliff's edge to catch any answering call, but I determined to fling thatblanket and its wearer off the height if any harm should even threaten.Presently I heard a light footstep, and Marjie parted the bushes aboveme. Before she could cry out, Jean spoke to her. His voice was clear andsweet as I had never heard it before, and I do not wonder it reassuredher.
"No afraid, Star-face, no afraid. Jean wants one word."
Marjie did not move, and I longed to let her know how near I was to her,and yet I dared not till I knew his purpose.
"Star-face," he began, "Jean drink no more. Jean promise Padre LeClaire, never, never, Star-face, not be afraid anymore, never, never.Jean good Indian now. Always keep evil from Star-face."
How full of affection were his tones. I wondered at his broken Indiantongue, for he had learned good English, and sometimes he surpassed usall in the terse excellence and readiness of his language. Why should hehesitate so now?
"Star-face,"--there was a note of self-control in his pleadingvoice,--"I will never drink again. I would not do harm to you. Don't beafraid."
I heard her words then, soft and sweet, with that tremor of fear shecould never overcome.
"I hope you won't, Jean."
Then the bushes crackled, as she turned and sped away.
I was just out of sight again when that red blanket slipped down therocks and disappeared over the side of the ledge in the jungle of bushesbelow me.
A little later, when Mary Gentry and O'mie and I sat with Marjie on theWhately doorstep, she told us what Jean had said.
"Do you really think he will be good now?" asked Mary. She was alwayscredulous.
"Yes, of course," Marjie answered carelessly.
Her reply angered me. She seemed so ready to trust the word of thissavage who twenty-four hours before had tried to scalp her. Did hismanner please Marjie? Was the foolish girl attracted by this picturesquecreature? I clenched my fists in the dark.
"Girls are such silly things," I said to myself. "I thought better ofMarjie, but she is like all the rest." And then I blushed in the darkfor having such mean thoughts.
"Don't you think he will be good now, Phil?"
I did not know how eagerly she waited for my answer. Poor Marjie! To herthe Indian name was always a terror. Before I could reply O'mie brokein:
"Marjory Whately, ye'll excuse me fur referrin' to it, but I ain't nobigger than you are."
O'mie had not grown as the most of us had, and while he had a lightningquickness of movement, and a courage that never faltered, he was nomatch for the bigger boys in strength and endurance. Marjie was roundinginto graceful womanhood now, but she was not of the slight type. Shenever lost her dimples, and the vigorous air of the prairies gave herthat splendid physique that made her a stranger to sickness and kept thewild-rose bloom on her fair cheeks. O'mie did not outweigh her.
"Ye'll 'scuse me," O'mie went on, "fur the embarrassin' statement; but Iain't big, I run mostly to brains, while Phil here, an' Bill, an' Dave,an' Bud, an' Possum Conlow runs mostly to beef; an' yet, bein' small, Iain't afraid none of your good Injun. But take this warnin' from me, anold friend that knew your grandmother in long clothes, that you kapewide of Jean Pahusca's trail. Don't you trust him."
Marjie gave a little shiver. Had I been something less a fool then Ishould have known that it was a shiver of fear, but I was of the age toknow everything, and O'mie sitting there had learned my heart in amoment on the prairie the evening before. And then I wanted Marjie totrust to me. Her eyes were like stars in the soft twilight, and herwhite face lost its color, but she did not look at me.
"Don't you trust that mock-turtle Osage, Marjorie, don't." O'mie wasmore deeply in earnest than we thought.
"But O'mie," Marjie urged, "Jean was just as earnest as you are now;and you'd say so, too, Phil, if you had heard him."
She was right. The words I had heard from above the rock rang true.
"And if he really wants to do better, what have we all been told in theSunday-school? 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'"
I could have caught that minor chord of fear had I been more master ofmyself at that moment.
"Have ye talked wid Father Le Claire?" asked O'mie. "Let's lave thebaste to h
im. Phil, whin does your padre and his Company start to subduethe rebillious South?"
"Pretty soon, father says."
"My father is going too," Marjie said gently, "and Henry Anderson andCris Mead, and all the men."
"Oh, well, we'll take care of the widders an' orphans." O'mie spokecarelessly, but he added, "It's grand whin such min go out to foight fura country. Uncle Cam wants to go if he's aqual to the tests; you knowhe's too near-sighted to see a soldier. Why don't you go too, Phil?You're big as your dad, an' not half so essential to Springvale. Justlave it to sich social ornimints as me an' Marjie's 'good Injun.'"
Again Marjie shivered.
"I want to go, but father won't let me leave--Aunt Candace."
"An' he's right, as is customary wid him. You nade your aunt to takecare of you. He couldn't be stoppin' the battle to lace up your shoesan' see that you'd washed your neck. Come, Mary, little girls must begettin' home." And he and Mary trotted down the slope toward thetwinkling lights of the Cambridge House.
Before I reached home, O'mie had overtaken me, saying:
"Come, Phil, let's rest here a minute."
We were just by the bushes that shut off my "Rockport," so we partedthem and sat down on the point of rock. The moon was rising, red in theeast, and the Neosho Valley below us was just catching its gleams on thetreetops, while each point of the jagged bluff stood out silvery whiteabove the dark shadows. A thousand crickets and katydids were chirpingin the grass. It was only on the town side that the bushes screened thispoint. All the west prairie was in that tender gloom that would rollback in shadowy waves before the rising moon.
"Phil," O'mie began, "don't be no bigger fool than nature cut you outfur to be. Don't you trust that 'good Injun' of Marjie's, but kape oneeye on him comin' an t' other 'n on him goin'."
"I don't trust him, O'mie, but he has a voice that deceives. I don'twonder, being a girl, Marjie is caught by it."
"An' you, bein' a boy," O'mie mimicked,--"Phil, you're enough to turn myhair rid. But never mind, ye can't trust him. Fur why? He's not to betrusted. If he was aven Injun clean through you could a little, maybe.Some Osages has honor to shame a white man,--aven an Irishman,--but he'snot Osage. He's a Kiowa, the kind that stole that little chap years agoup toward Rid Range. An' he ain't Kiowa altogether nather. The Injunblood gives him cuteness, but half his cussedness is in that soft blackscalp an' that soft voice sayin', 'Good Injun.' There's some old LouisXIV somewhere in his family tree. The roots av it may be in the Plainsout here, but some branch is a graft from a Orleans rose-bush. He's gotthe blossoms an' the thorns av a Frenchman. An' besides," O'mie added,"as if us two wise men av the West didn't know, comes Father Le Claireto me to-day. He's Jean's guide an' counsellor. An' Phil, begorra, themtwo looks alike. Same square-cut kind o' foreheads they've got. Annyhow,I was waterin' the horses down to the ford, an' Father Le Claire comeson me sudden, ridin' up on the Kaw trail from the south. He blessed mewid his holy hand and then says quick:
"'O'mie, ye are a lad I can trust!'"
"I nodded, not knowin' why annybody can't be trusted who goes swimmin'once a week, an' never tastes whiskey, an' don't practise lyin', norshirkin' his stunt at the Cambridge House."
"'O'mie,' says he, 'I want to tell you who you must not trust. It isJean Pahusca,' says he; 'I wish I didn't nade to say it, but it is meduty to warn ye. Don't mistreat him, but O'mie, for Heaven's sake, kapeyour eyes open, especially when he promises to be good.' It's our stunt,Phil, to watch him close now he's took to reformin' to the girls."
"O'mie, we know, and Father Le Claire knows, but how can we make thosefoolish girls understand? Mary believes everything that's said to heranyhow, and you heard Marjie to-night. She thinks she should take Jeanat his word."
"Phil, you are all right, seemin'ly. You can lick any av us. You've gotthe build av a giant, an' you've beautiful hair an' teeth. An' you areson an' heir to John Bar'net, which is an asset some av us would love topossess, bein' orphans, an' the lovely ladies av Springvale is allbewitched by you; but you are a blind, blitherin' ijit now an' again."
"Well, you heard what Marjie said, and how careless she was."
"Yes, an' I seen her shiver an' turn white the instant too. Phil, she'sdoin' that to kape us from bein' unaisy, an' it's costin' her some todo it. Bless her pretty face! Phil, don't be no bigger fool than ye cankape from."
In less than a week after the incident on the prairie my father'sCompany was called to the firing line of the Civil War and theresponsibilities of life fell suddenly upon me. There was a greatgathering in town on the day the men marched away. Where the opera housestands now was the corner of a big vacant patch of ground reaching outtoward the creek. To-day it was filled with the crowd come to see thesoldiers and bid them good-bye. A speaker's stand was set up in the yardof the Cambridge House and the boys in blue were in the broad streetbefore it. It was the last civilian ceremony for many of them, for thatKansas Company went up Missionary Ridge at Chattanooga, led the line asKansans will ever do, and in the face of a murderous fire they drove thefoeman back. But many of them never came home to wear their laurels ofvictory. They lie in distant cemeteries under the shadow of tallmonuments. They lie in old neglected fields, in sunken trenches, bylonely waysides, and in deep Southern marshes, waiting all the lastgreat Reunion. If I should live a thousand years, the memory of thatbright summer morning would not fade from my mind.
Dr. Hemingway, pastor of the Presbyterian Church, presided over themeeting, and the crowd about the soldiers was reinforced by all thecountryside beyond the Neosho and the whole Red Range neighborhood.
Skulking about the edge of the company, or gathered in little groupsaround the corners just out of sight, were the pro-slavery sympathizers,augmented by the Fingal's Creek crowd, who were of the Secession elementclear through. In the doorway of the "Last Chance" sat the Rev. Dodd,pastor of the Springvale Methodist Church South, taking no part in thispatriotic occasion. Father Le Claire was beside Dr. Hemingway. He saidnot a word, but Springvale knew he was a power for peace. He did notsanction bloodshed even in a righteous cause. Neither would he allowthose who followed his faith to lift a hand against those who did go outto battle. We trusted him and he never betrayed that trust. This morningI recalled what O'mie had said about his looking like Jean Pahusca. Hisbroad hat was pushed back from his square dark forehead; and the hair,soft and jetty, had the same line about the face. But not one featurethere bespoke an ignoble spirit. I did not understand him, but I wasdrawn toward him, as I was repelled by the Indian from the moment Ifirst saw his head above the bluff on the rainy October evening longago.
How little the Kansas boys and girls to-day can understand what thatmorning meant to us, when we saw our fathers riding down the Santa FeTrail to the east, and waving good-bye to us at the far side of theford! How the fire of patriotism burned in our hearts, and how thesudden loss of all our strongest and best men left us helpless amongsecret cruel enemies! And then that spirit of manhood leaped up withinus, the sudden sense of responsibility come to "all the able-bodiedboys" to stand up as a wall of defence about the homes of Springvale.Too well we knew the dangers. Had we not lived on this Kansas border inall those plastic years when the mind takes deepest impressions? Theruffianism of Leavenworth and Lawrence and Osawatomie had been repeatedin the unprotected surroundings of Springvale. The Red Range schoolhousehad been burned, and the teacher, a Massachusetts man, had been drownedin a shallow pool near the source of Fingal's Creek, his body fastenedface downward so that a few inches of water were enough for the fiendishpurpose. Eastward the settlers had fled to our town, time and again, toescape the border raiders, whose coming meant death to the free-spiritedfather, and a widow and orphans left destitute beside the smoking embersof what had been a home. Those were busy days in Kansas, and the memoryof them can yet stir the heart of a man of sixty years.
That morning Dr. Hemingway offered prayer, the prayer of a godly man,for the souls of men about to be baptized with a baptism of blood thatother men might b
e free, and a peaceful generation might walk with easewhere their feet trod red-hot ploughshares; a prayer for the strong armof God Almighty, to uphold every soldier's hands until the cause ofright should triumph; a prayer for the heavenly Father's protectionabout the homes left fatherless for the sake of His children.
And then he prayed for us, "for Philip Baronet, the strong and manly sonof his noble father, John Baronet; for David and William Mead, for Johnand Clayton and August Anderson." He prayed for Tell Mapleson, too (Tellwas always square in spite of his Copperhead father), and for "ThomasO'Meara." We hardly knew whom he meant.
Bud Anderson whispered later, "Thay, O'mie, you'll never get intokingdom come under an athumed name. Better thtick to 'O'mie.'"
And last of all the good Doctor prayed for the wives and daughters, thatthey "be strong and very courageous," doing their part of working andwaiting as bravely as they do who go out to stirring action. Thenringing speeches followed. I remember them all; but most of all thewords of my father and of Irving Whately are fixed in my mind. My fatherlived many years and died one sunset hour when the prairies were intheir autumn glory, died with his face to the western sky, his lastearthly scene that peaceful prairie with the grandeur of a thousandever-changing hues building up a wall like to the walls of the NewJerusalem which Saint John saw in a vision on the Isle of Patmos. Therewas
No moaning of the bar When he put out to sea
for he died beautifully, as he had lived. I never saw Irving Whatelyagain, for he went down before the rebel fire at Chattanooga; but thesound of his voice I still can hear.
The words of these men seemed to lift me above the clouds, and whatfollowed is like a dream. I know that when the speeches were done,Marjie went forward with the beautiful banner the women of Springvalehad made with their own hands for this Company. I could not hear herwords. They were few and simple, no doubt, for she was never given todisplay. But I remember her white dress and her hair parted in front andcoiled low on her neck. I remember the sweet Madonna face of the littlegirl, and how modestly graceful she was. I remember how every man heldhis breath as she came up to the group seated on the stage, how pink hercheeks were and how white the china aster bloom nestling against theripples of her hair, and how the soldiers cheered that flag and itsbearer. I remember Jean Pahusca, Indian-like, standing motionless, nevertaking his eyes from Marjie's face. It was that flag that this Companyfollowed in its awful charge up Missionary Ridge. And it was IrvingWhately who kept it aloft, the memory of his daughter making it doublysacred to him.
And then came the good-byes. Marjie's father gripped my hand, and hisvoice was full of tears.
"Take care of them, Phil. I have no son to guard my home, and if wenever come back you will not let harm come to them. You will let me feelwhen I am far away that you are shielding my little girl from evil,won't you, Phil?"
I clenched his hand in mine. "You know I'll do that, Mr. Whately." Istood up to my full height, young, broad-shouldered, and muscular.
"It will be easier for me, Phil, to know you are here."
I understood him. Mrs. Whately was, of all the women I knew, least ableto do for herself. Marjie was like her father, and, save for her fear ofIndians, no Kansas girl was ever more capable and independent. It hasbeen my joy that this father trusted me. The flag his daughter put intohis hands that day was his shroud at Chattanooga, and his last momentswere happier for the thought of his little girl in my care.
Aunt Candace and I walked home together after we had waved the lastgood-byes to the soldiers. From our doorway up on Cliff Street wewatched that line of men grow dim and blend at last into the easternhorizon's purple bound. When I turned then and looked down at the townbeyond the slope, it seemed to me that upon me alone rested the burdenof its protection. Driven deep in my boyish soul was the sense of thesacredness of these homes, and of a man's high duty to keep harm fromthem. My father had gone out to battle, not alone to set free anenslaved race, but to make whole and strong a nation whose roots are inthe homes it defends. So I, left to fill his place, must be the valiantdefender of the defenceless. Such moments of exaltation come to theyoung soul, and by such ideals a life is squared.
That evening our little crowd of boys strolled out on the west prairie.The sunset deepened to the rich afterglow, and all the soft shadows ofevening began to unfold about us. In that quiet, sacred time, standingout on the wide prairie, with the great crystal dome above us, and thelandscape, swept across by the free winds of heaven, unrolled in all itsdreamy beauty about us, our little company gripped hands and swore ourfealty to the Stars and Stripes. And then and there we gave sacredpledge and promise to stand by one another and to give our lives if needbe for the protection and welfare of the homes of Springvale.
Busy days followed the going of the soldiers. Somehow the gang of us whohad idled away the summer afternoons in the sand-bar shallows beyond theDeep Hole seemed suddenly to grow into young men who must not neglectschool nor business duties. Awkwardly enough but earnestly we strove tokeep Springvale a pushing, prosperous community, and while our effortswere often ludicrous, the manliness of purpose had its effect. It gaveus breadth, this purpose, and broke up our narrow prejudices. I believein those first months I would have suffered for the least in Springvaleas readily as for the greatest. Even Lettie Conlow, whose father kept onshoeing horses as though there were no civil strife in the nation, foundsuch favor with me as she had never found before. I know now it was onlya boy's patriotic foolishness, but who shall say it was ignoble in itsinfluence? Marjie was my especial charge. That Fall I did not retire atnight until I had run down to the bushes and given my whistle, and hadseen her window light waver a good-night answer, and I knew she wassafe. I was not her only guardian, however. One crisp autumn night therewas no response to my call, and I sat down on the rocky outcrop of thesteep hill to await the coming of her light in the window. It was aclear starlight night, and I had no thought of being unseen as I wasquietly watching. Presently, up through the bushes a dark form slid. Itdid not stand erect when the street was reached, but crawled with headup and alert in the deeper shadow of the bluff side of the road. I knewinstinctively that it was Jean Pahusca, and that he had not beenexpecting me to be there after my call and had failed to notice me inhis eagerness to creep unseen down the slope. Sometimes in these lateryears in a great football game I have watched the Haskell Indianscrawling swiftly up and down the side-lines following the surge of theplayers on the gridiron, and I always think of Jean as he crept down thehill that night. It was late October and the frost was glistening, but Ipulled off my boots in a moment and silently followed the fellow. Insidethe fence near Marjie's window was a big circle of lilac bushes,transplanted years ago from the old Ohio home of the Whatelys. Insidethis clump Jean crept, and I knew by the quiet crackle of twigs and deadleaves he was making his bed there. My first thought was to drag him outand choke him. And then my better judgment prevailed. I slipped away tofind O'mie for a council.
"Phil, I'd like to kill him wid a hoe, same as Marjie did that otherrattlesnake that had Jim Conlow charmed an' flutterin' toward his pisenfangs, only we'd better wait a bit. By Saint Patrick, Philip, we can'thang up his hide yet awhoile. I know what the baste's up to annyhow."
"Well, what is it?" I queried eagerly.
"He's bein' a good Injun he is, an' he's got a crude sort o' notion he'sprotectin' that dear little bird. She may be scared o' him, an' he knowsit; but bedad, I'd not want to be the border ruffian that went prowlin'in there uninvited; would you?"
"Well, he's a dear trusty old Fido of a watchdog, O'mie. We will takeFather Le Claire's word, and keep an eye on him though. He will sleepwhere he will sleep, but we'll see if the sight of water affects himany. A dog of his breed may be subject to rabies. You can't always trusteven a 'good Injun.'"
After that I watched for Jean's coming and followed him to his lilacbed, a half-savage, half-educated Indian brave, foolishly hoping to wina white girl for his own.
All that Fall Jean never missed
a night from the lilac bush. As long ashe persisted in passing the dark hours so near to the Whately home myburden of anxiety and responsibility was doubled. In silent faithfulnesshe kept sentinel watch. I dared not tell Marjie, for I knew it wouldfill her nights with terror, and yet I feared her accidental discoveryof his presence. Jean was doing more than this, however. His promise tobe good seemed to belie Father Le Claire's warning. In and out of thevillage all that winter he went, orderly, at times even affable, quietlyrefusing every temptation to drunkenness. "A good Indian" he was, evento the point where O'mie and I wondered if we might not have been wrongin our judgment of him. He was growing handsomer too. He stood six feetin his moccasins, stalwart as a giant, with grace in every motion.Somehow he seemed more like a picturesque Gipsy, a sort ofsemi-civilized grandee, than an Indian of the Plains. There was adominant courtliness in his manner and his bearing was kingly. Peoplespoke kindly of him. Regularly he took communion in the little Catholicchapel at the south edge of town on the Kaw trail. Quietly butpersistently he was winning his way to universal favor. Only the Irishlad and I kept our counsel and, waited.
After the bitterly cold New Year's Day of '63 the Indian forsook thelilac bush for a time. But I knew he never lost track of Marjie's comingand going. Every hour of the day or night he could have told just whereshe was. We followed him down the river sometimes at night, and lost himin the brush this side the Hermit's Cave. We did not know that this wasa mere trick to deceive us. To make sure of him we should have watchedthe west prairie and gone up the river for his real landing place. Howhe lived I do not know. An Indian can live on air and faith in apromise, or hatred of a foe. At last he lulled even our suspicion tosleep.
"Ask the priest what to do," I suggested to O'mie when we grew ashamedof our spying. "They are together so much the rascal looks and walkslike him. See him on annuity day and tell him we feel like chickenthieves and kidnappers."
O'mie obeyed me to the letter, and ended with the query to the goodFather:
"Now phwat should a couple of young sleuth-hounds do wid such a dacentgood Injun?"
Father Le Claire's reply stunned the Irish boy.
"He just drew himself up a mile high an' more," O'mie related to me,"just stood up like the angel av the flamin' sword, an' his eyes blazeda black, consumin' fire. 'Watch him,' says the praist, 'for God's sake,watch him. Don't ask me again phwat to do. I've told you twice. Thirtyyears have I lived and labored with his kind. I know them.' An' then,"O'mie went on, "he put both arms around me an' held me close as me ownfather might have done, somewhere back, an' turned an' left me. Sothere's our orders. Will ye take 'em?"
I took them, but my mind was full of queries. I did not trust theIndian, and yet I had no visible reason to doubt his sincerity.