The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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be struggling to penetrate the sphinx-like expression he beheld.
He scented danger, he knew there was danger. But even so his mind was made up. He would not face the jury of his white brothers. He believed he understood the Indians, and saw chances in this direction. But there was the wonder why Seth had given him the chance. He had no time to debate the question. His answer was needed.
"I'll go back to the Indians," he said, with a hateful laugh, in which there was no semblance of mirth. "As you suggest, a yellow dog can always run for it."
"Jest so. It ken allus run."
Then the full bitterness of his position swept over the renegade, and a deep rage stirred the hatred he held for this man who had outwitted him at every turn, and now was in a position to pronounce sentence upon him. And his words came low with concentrated fury.
"Yes, blast you, you can sneer! But I tell you you're making a mistake. I can twist the Indians around my finger. Bah, I care nothing for them! I shall get clear and save myself, and, as sure as there's a hell for the damned, you shall pay!"
But the man he addressed remained undisturbed. His manner was imperturbable. He nodded gravely.
"Good," he said. "Now git--git quick!"
And the man who posed as Nevil Steyne passed out of the hut and out of the fort, urged almost to precipitancy by the suggestion of Seth's final command.
After his going silence reigned in the little corn shed. Parker had a hundred questions to ask, but none of them came readily to his lips in face of his companion's silence. In the end it was Seth who spoke first.
"Wal," he said, with a sigh, "that's settled." His words were an expression of relief.
"I don't understand. You've let him go. You've given him a chance to get away in safety after----"
"Yes," responded the other grimly, "a dawg's chance."
The answer silenced all further protest.
"Yes," Seth went on reflectively, "I've done with him, I guess; we all have. Say, he's Rosebud's uncle."
"Ah!" Parker was beginning to understand. But he was not yet satisfied, and his ejaculation was an invitation to the other.
Seth went on as though in soliloquy.
"Yes. He's gone, an' ther' ain't no tellin' where he'll finish. Ther's a hell some'eres. Mebbe he ken twist 'em, the Injuns, around his finger, mebbe he can't. I 'lows he goin' to face 'em. They'll deal out by him as they notion justice, I guess."
"But he may escape them. He's slippery." Parker hated the thought of the man going scot-free.
Seth shook his head.
"No," he said. "He'll face 'em. I've seen to that, I guess. Jim Crow follers him wherever he goes. An' Jim Crow hain't no use for Stephen Raynor."
"What do you think will happen?"
Parker looked up into the taller man's face as they stood in the doorway of the hut.
Seth turned. His shoulders shrugged expressively as he moved out and walked toward the farmhouse.
CHAPTER XXXII
WANAHA THE INDIAN
The moon at its full shone down upon a scene of profound silence. Its silvery rays overpowered the milder starry sheen of the heavens. The woods upon the banks of the White River were tipped with a hard, cold burnish, but their black depths remained unyielding. All was still--so still.
Thousands of Indians are awaiting in silent, stubborn hatred the morrow's sentence of their white shepherds. A deep passion of hatred and revenge lies heavy on their tempestuous hearts; and upon the heart of their warlike chieftain most of all.
The heart that beats within the Indian bosom is invincible. It is beyond the reach of sympathy, as it is beyond the reach of fear. It stands alone in its devotion to warlike brutality. Hatred is its supreme passion, just as fearlessness is its supreme virtue. And hatred and revenge are moving to-night--moving under the calm covering of apparent peace; moving now lest the morrow should put it beyond the power of the red man to mete out the full measure of his lust for native savagery. And so at last there comes a breaking of the perfect peace of night.
A dark figure moves out of the depths of the woods. It moves slowly toward the log hut of Nevil Steyne. It pauses at a distance and surveys the dim outline against the woodland backing.
Another figure moves out from the woods, and a moment later another and yet another; and each figure follows in the track of the foremost, and they stand talking in low murmurs. Thus twenty-five blanketed figures are gathered before the hut of the white renegade. They are Indians, hoary-headed patriarchs of their race, but glowing with the fierce spirit of youth in their sluggish hearts.
Presently they file away one by one, and it becomes apparent that each old man is well armed. They spread out and form themselves into a wide circle, which slowly closes in upon the hut. Then each decrepit figure huddles itself down upon its haunches, like some bald-headed vulture settling with heavily flapping wings upon its prey.
Sleep has not visited the eyes of those within the hut. When things go awry with those who live by double-dealing, sleep does not come easily. Nevil Steyne is awake, and his faithful wife keeps him company.
The interior of the hut is dismantled. Bundles of furnishings lie scattered about on the floor. It is plain that this is to be the last night which these two intend to spend in the log hut which has sheltered them so long.
The squaw is lying fully dressed upon the bed, and the man is sitting beside her smoking. They are talking, discussing eagerly that which has held the man's feverish interest the whole night.
There is no kindness in the man's tone as he speaks to the woman. He is beset with a fear he cannot conceal. It is in his tone, it is in his eyes, it is in his very restlessness.
The woman is calm. She is an Indian, and in her veins runs the blood of generations of great chiefs. Fear has no place in her heart, but her devotion to her man makes her anxious for him. Her slow, labored use of his language is meant to encourage him, but he takes no comfort from it. His utter selfishness, his cowardice, place him beyond mere verbal encouragement.
"It still wants two hours to dawn," Nevil exclaimed, referring to his watch for about the twentieth time in the last hour. "God, how the time hangs!"
The woman's dark eyes were upon his nervous face. She noted the anxious straining of his shifty eyes. Their whites were bloodshot, and his brows were drawn together in the painful concentration of a mind fixed upon one thought.
"It will pass," she said, with all the hopefulness she could express.
"Of course it will. Do you suppose I don't know?" The man spoke with harsh irritation. "You--you don't seem to understand."
"Wanaha understands." The squaw nodded. Then she, too, gave way to a slight irritation. "Why you not sleep, my Nevil? Wanaha watch. It a long journey. Sleep, my husband. You fear foolish. So."
The man turned scornful eyes in her direction, and for a moment did not speak. Then presently he said--
"Sometimes I think it's unnecessary for us to go. I can't make up my mind. I never had such difficulty in seeing clearly before. Your brother was so quiet and calm. He spoke so generously. I told him the whole story. How I was forced by that damned Seth to go into the fort. And how I was forced to fight. Pshaw! what's the use of talking? I've told you all this already. Yet he listened to all I had to say, and as I made each point he nodded in that quiet, assured way of his--you know. I think he understood and was satisfied. I think so--and yet--it's no use, I can't be sure. I wish he'd lost his temper in his usual headstrong way. I understand him when he is like that. But he didn't. He was very calm.
"Do you know, my Wana, it seemed to me that he'd heard my story before, told by some one else, probably told with variations to suit themselves. It seemed to me that--well, he was only listening to me because he had to. I swear I'd give ten years of my life to know what he really thinks. Yes,