The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
examining a tent-peg, discolored by weather, but intact, and still holding in the earth where it had been driven. It was but four yards from this to a place where two distinct piles of human bones were lying hidden in the rank grass.
Seth was on his knees pulling the grass aside, but he did not touch the bones. The skeletons were far from complete. Fortunately the skulls were there, and he saw that they were those of a man and a woman. While he contemplated the ghastly remains his thoughts conjured up many scenes. He saw the bullet hole through the woman's skull, and the horrid rift in the man's. The absence of many of the bones of the extremities made him think of the coyotes, those prairie scavengers who are never far off when death stalks the plains.
After a few moments he was searching the long grass in every direction. He looked for remnants of clothing; for anything to give him a sign. In his search he was joined by the scout who had returned from the water, where he had discovered further traces of an encampment.
At last the examination was completed. There was nothing left to indicate the identity of the bones.
The two men now stood by the bones of the unfortunate man and woman. Seth was staring out at the surrounding brush.
"I guess the Injuns cleaned things up pretty well," he said, while his eyes settled on one little bush apart from the rest.
The scout shook his head.
"That's not Injuns' work," he said.
"No?" Seth queried casually.
"No. Everything gone. So. That not like Injun."
Seth made no response, but walked over to the bush he had been looking at. The scout saw him thrust a hand in amongst the branches and withdraw it holding something.
"What you find?" he asked, when Seth came back.
"Only a rag."
Then, a moment later, Seth asked suddenly: "How far from here to--Jason's old place?"
"Six--eight--nine hour," Jim Crow said, with his broad smile that meant nothing.
Seth looked long and thoughtfully at the split skull on the ground. Then his eyes sought the bullet hole in the woman's skull. But he said nothing.
A little later the two men went back to the horses and mounted.
"Guess I'll git on to see the Agent," Seth observed, while the horses moved away from the bluff.
"You go by Reservation?"
"Yes."
Jim Crow surveyed the prospect in silence. They reached the trail, and their horses stood preparatory to parting company.
"S'long," said Seth.
The Indian turned and looked away to the north. It was the direction in which lay the great Reservations. Then he turned back, and his black, slit-like eyes shot a sidelong glance at his companion.
"You go--alone?" he asked.
The other nodded indifferently.
"Then I say sleep little and watch much--I, Jim Crow."
The two men parted. The scout moved off and his hand went to the pocket of his trousers where his fingers crumpled the crisp five-dollar bill he had received for his services. Nothing else really mattered to him. Seth rode away humming a tune without melody.
All the way to the Agent's house he carried out the scout's advice of watchfulness; but for a different reason. Seth had no personal fear of these stormy Indians. His watchfulness was the observation of a man who learns from all he sees. He slept some hours on the prairie while his horse rested, and arrived at the Agency the next day at noon.
Jimmy Parker, as he was familiarly called, greeted him cordially in his abrupt fashion.
"Ah, howdy," he said. "Prowling, Seth?" His words were accompanied by a quick look that asked a dozen questions, all of which he knew would remain unanswered. Seth and he were old friends and understood one another.
"Takin' a spell off," replied the farmer.
"Ah. And putting it in on the Reservation."
The Agent smiled briefly. His face seemed to have worn itself into a serious caste which required effort to change.
"Many huntin' 'passes' these times?" Seth inquired presently.
"None. Only Little Black Fox says he's going hunting soon." The Agent's eyes were fixed on the other's face.
"See you've got Jim Crow workin' around--south." Seth waved an arm in the direction whence he had come.
"Yes." Again came the Agent's swiftly passing smile. "We're a good distance from the southern boundary. Jim Crow's smart enough. How did you know?"
"Saw his tepee."
"Ah. You've been south?"
"Yes. There's a fine open country that aways."
They passed into the Agency, and Parker's sister and housekeeper brought the visitor coffee. The house was very plain, roomy, and comfortable. The two men were sitting in the office.
"Seen anything of Steyne around?" asked Seth, after a noisy sip of his hot coffee.
"Too much. And he's very shy."
Seth nodded. He quite understood.
"Guess suthin's movin'," he said, while he poured his coffee into his saucer and blew it.
"I've thought so, too, and written to the colonel at the fort. What makes you think so?"
"Can't say. Guess it's jest a notion." Seth paused. Then he went on before the other could put in a word. "Won't be just yet. Guess I'll git on."
The two men passed out of the house, and Seth remounted.
"Guess you might let me know if Black Fox gits his 'pass,'" he said, as he turned his horse away.
"I will."
Parker watched the horseman till he disappeared amongst the bushes. A moment later he was talking to his sister.
"Wish I'd telegraphed to the fort now," he said regretfully. "I can't do it after writing, they'd think--I believe Seth came especially to convey warning, and to hear about Black Fox's pass. It's a remarkable thing, but he seems to smell what these Indians are doing."
"Yes," said his sister. But she felt that when two such capable men discussed the Indians there was no need for her to worry, so she took out Seth's cup and retired to her kitchen.
In the meantime Seth had reached the river. Here he again dismounted, but this time for no more significant reason than to wash out the rag he had rescued from the bush south of the Reservations. He washed and rewashed the cotton, till it began to regain something of its original color. Then he examined it carefully round the hem.
It was a small, woman's handkerchief, and, in one corner, a name was neatly written in marking ink. The name was "Raynor."
CHAPTER IX
THE ADVENTURES OF RED RIDING HOOD
It is Sunday. The plaintive tinkle of the schoolroom bell at the Mission has rung the Christianized Indians to the short service which is held there.
"Indian Mission." The name conveys a sense of peace. Yet the mission histories of the Indian Reservations would make bloody reading. From the first the Christian teacher has been the pitiable prey of the warlike savage. He bears the brunt of every rising. It is only in recent years that his work has attained the smallest semblance of safety. The soldier fights an open foe. The man in charge of an Indian mission does not fight at all. He stands ever in the slaughter-yard, living only at the pleasure of the reigning chief. He is a brave man.
The service is over. It is perforce brief. The grown men and women come out of the building. The spacious interior is cleared of all but the children and a few grown-up folk who remain to hold a sort of Sunday-school.
There are Wanaha and Seth. Rosebud, too, helps, and