9 WESTERNS: The Law of the Land, The Way of a Man, Heart's Desire, The Covered Wagon, 54-40 or Fight, The Man Next Door, The Magnificent Adventure, The Sagebrusher and more. Emerson Hough
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drum; the drum never made by white hands, never seen by the eyes of white men; the drum whose note has never yet been heard in the North, but which some day, perhaps, may be; whose note is not yet understood by those of the North, over-wise, arrogant in the arrogance of an utter ignorance, who may yet one day hear its strange and frenzied summons!
The drum spoke on — the drum of the savage people, of the ancient savage tribes. The rolling vibration of its speech swung and extended, causing the leaves to shiver in its strange power. The sound could have been heard for miles — was heard for miles. Slipping down the little leafy paths in the cane, pushing along the edges of the highway for a time, ready to step out of sight upon the instant did occasion arise for concealment; coming down the paths made by deer and bear and panther; moving slowly but speedily and with confidence through this cover of vine and jungle, to which the black man takes by instinct, but which is never really understood by the white man; knowing the secrets of this savage wilderness, yielding to its summons and to this summons of the compelling drum, whose note shivered and throbbed through all the heavy air of the afternoon — these people, these inhabitants of the jungle, slipped and slunk and hesitated and came on, until at last this little, secret, unknown building which served as their hidden temple was fairly packed with them; and a circle, open-eared, alert for any sudden danger, made a human framing half-hidden in the shrouding of the mighty canes.
One blast of the horn of white hunter or of chance traveler, and the spot had been deserted on the instant, its peopling vanished beyond discovery. But there was no horn of hunter, no sound even of tinkling cow-bell, no voice of youth in song or conversation. Only the sound of the great drum, the drum made years ago and hidden in a spot known to few, spoke out its sullen summons, slowly, in savage deliberation. Its sound had a carrying quality of its own, unknown in white men's instruments. It was heard at the Big House, five miles away, though it was not recognized as an actual and distinct sound, white ears not being attuned to it. Even here at the hidden temple it seemed not more than the whisper of a sound, scarce louder than it appeared miles away. It was bell and drum in one, and trump of doom as well.
The drum spoke on, the drum of the jungle. It whispered of revenge to those who crept up to the dusky drummer and stood waiting to drink in at each long interval this deep intoxicating stimulus, the note of the priestly drum. And each deep throb of the drum carried a greater frenzy, a frenzy still suppressed, yet mysteriously growing. The riot of the ominous clanging sank into the blood of these people, though still it only caused them to shiver and now and then to sob — to sob! these giants, these tremendous human beings, these black or bronze Titans of the field, transplanted — in time, perhaps, to have their vengeance of the ages! They stood, their eyes rolling, their mouths slavering slightly, the muscles of their shoulders now and again rolling or relaxing, their hands coming tight together, palm smitten to palm, jaw clenched hard upon its fellow.
The drum spoke on. Inside the low log building certain preparations progressed, mummeries peculiar to the tribesmen, not to be described, strange, grotesque, sickening, horrible. A few donned fantastic uniforms cut out from colored oil-cloths. They placed upon their heads plumed hats of shapes such as white men do not create. They buckled about their bodies belts spangled with bits of shining things such as white men do not wear. They drew slowly together and passed apart. They seated themselves now, in long rows, upon logs hewn out as benches, on either side of the long room; but restless of this, they rose again and again to pace, walking, walking, uneasy, anxious. Now and then an arm was flung up. Outside, where ranks of eyes gazed unwinking, hypnotized, upon the door of the temple, there rose no sound save now and then this strange sobbing.
And still the drum throbbed on, the drum of the jungle, whose sound not all white men have heard as yet. The forest shivered across its miles of matted growth, as it heard the growling voice which called, "The Time! The Time!" Relentless, measured, so spoke the savage drum.
Chapter VII. THE BELL
Meanwhile at the Big House there was no suspicion of what was going forward in the forest beyond; indeed the occupants had certain problems of their own to absorb them. A strange unrest seemed in possession of the place. Decherd had disappeared for a time. Mrs. Ellison, in her own room, rang and called in vain for Delphine. The master himself, moody and aloof, took saddle and rode across the fields; but if there were fewer hands at labor than there should have been, he did not notice the fact as he rode on, his hat pulled down over his face, and his mind busy with many things, not all of which were pleasing to him.
As for Miss Lady, she occupied herself during the afternoon much after the fashion of any young girl of seventeen left thus, without companions of her own sex and age. She strolled about the yard, finding fellowship with the hounds, with the horses in the neighboring pasture. She looked up in pensive question at the clouds, feeling the soft wind, the hot kiss of the sun on her cheek. Upon her soul sat the melancholy of youth. In her heart arose unanswered queries of young womanhood.
Now, as to this young man, Henry Decherd, thought Miss Lady, why should he trouble her by being continually about when she did not care for him? Why had he been so eager, even from the first day when he met her at the Big House? What had he to do with her coming to the Big House? Why did her mother now leave her with him, and, then again, capriciously call her away from him? And why should she herself avoid him, dismiss him, and then wonder whither he had gone?
Miss Lady, with one vague thought or another in her mind, wandered idly back to the great drawing-room where but an hour ago she had last seen Henry Decherd. He was not there as she peered in at the door; wherefore she needed no excuse, but stepped in and dropped into a chair which offered invitation in the depths of the half-darkened room.
A beautiful girl was Miss Lady, round of throat and arm, already stately, quite past the days of flat immaturity. A veritable young goddess one might have called her, with her high, short mouth and upright head, and her shoulders carried back with a certain haughtiness. Yet only a gracious, pensive goddess might have had this wistfulness in the deep eyes, this little pensive droop of the mouth corners, this piteous quality of the eye which left one saying that here, after all, was a maiden most like to the wild deer of the forest, strong, beautiful, yet timid; ready to flee, yet anxious to confide.
As she sat thus, the idle gaze of Miss Lady chanced upon an object lying on the floor, fallen apparently by accident from the near-by table. She stooped to pick it up, examining it at first carelessly and then with greater interest. It was a book, a little old-fashioned book, in the French language, the covers now broken and faded, though once of brave red morocco. The type was old and quaint, and the paper yellow with age. Miss Lady had never seen this book before, and now, failing better occupation, fell to reading in it. Presently she became so absorbed that once more she was surprised by the quiet approach of Mrs. Ellison. The latter paused at the door, looked in and coughed a second time. Miss Lady started in surprise.
"You frightened me, mamma," said she, "coming up so close. You are always frightening me that way. Do you think I need watching all the time?"
"Well, you know, my child, we must not keep Colonel Blount waiting for his dinner."
"But tell me, what book is this, mamma?" said Miss Lady to her. "It's French. See, I can read some of it. It is about people in St. Louis years and years ago. It tells about a Louise Loisson — isn't that a pretty name! — who was a captive among the Indians, or something of that sort. She was an heiress, like enough, too, I can't make out just what, but certainly well-born. I think her father was a count, or something. Mamma, you should have insisted upon my taking up French more thoroughly when I was at the Sisters'. Now, this is the strangest thing."
"Nonsense, child. Can't you spend your time better than fooling with such trash?"
"It isn't trash, mamma. The girl went to France, to Paris, and she danced — she was famous."
Mrs. Ellison shifted uneasily. "You are old enough to begin reading books of proper sort. I don't know how you pick up such notions as this," said she.
"Is not the book yours, mamma?"
"Why,