The Plow-Woman Part 47

It was then that a change in his plan came to his mind. Why wait until the Indians were sent, if----

The more he thought of the change, the better he liked it. "One deal, and everybody fixed. Land'll be mine, and there'll be some court-martiallin'."

He determined to get into the stockade for a last talk with the hostages. If they approved what he proposed, he would promise them his services. Yes, he would. The value of the quarter-section had made him fight for the Bend. But this was a horse of another colour. His pride had been outraged--for that he would have his quits.

His conduct earlier in the day, and the fight at the sutler's, gave place, that afternoon, to other and more direful news. A steamer touched on its way down the river and told of the Custer ma.s.sacre. Not a trooper at Brannon but had lost a friend; not an officer but had lost several.

Gloom settled upon the post, and Matthews was forgotten.

He took advantage of that. Before an order went out to prevent him, he went through the wicket of the sliding-panel and gathered around him the four chiefs named in c.u.mmings' ultimatum. They were more sullen, unhappy, and discouraged than ever. A few words, and he had them breathless with interest

"You must look to me alone for freedom now," he said. "There has been a great battle in the Valley of the Greasy Gra.s.s. Custer, the Long Hair, met Sitting Bull and his allies. And Custer and all his men are dead."

"Ho, hos," of joy greeted the announcement.

"Yet this is not good for you. There will be other battles. Your brothers will have no time to come and rescue you. Even your friends, the Scarred-Arms, will not help. For it is said that the Cheyenne warriors are gone to join the Sioux----"

"What of the two white squaws that were captured?" asked Shoot-at-the-Tree anxiously. "And what of us--is there danger?"

"The women are still with your people. And who knows what may happen soon? So I come to speak of your delivery. I shall get you free--you shall free my land."

"But our women," suggested Standing Buffalo, his eye straying toward a tent at the stockade's centre; "they go free, too?"

"That is impossible. But what does it matter? When you are gone, your women and children will be cared for--put upon a reservation. From there, you can steal them back."

"But how can we get free?" inquired Lame Foot. "Tell us quickly."

Matthews drew the four chiefs' heads together and whispered to them.

After a time, all rose.

"Shall we have guns?" inquired Canada John.

"No--bows and arrows. I can get them, and hide them in my board lodge across the river."

Lame Foot pouted. "Our brothers who are fighting have fine new rifles from Standing Rock."

"Rifles I cannot get," said Matthews.

"But," said Standing Buffalo, "if we cross to your lodge and get our bows and arrows, will not the pony soldiers follow in their smoking-canoe?"

"Bah!" retorted the interpreter. "Am I like a pig for sense? The smoking-canoe shall be gone."

The chiefs nodded.

"I must go," added Matthews. "There is no time for the pipe. Remember, if you are discovered trying to escape, I know nothing of it. Then, I shall try another plan. And keep everything from The Squaw. He is a friend to the pony soldiers. He may tattle."

"And your reward," said Canada John, softly: "It is that The Plow-Woman and her sister shall be----"

Matthews put a finger to his lips. "You will free my land," he said.

"When the night comes?" whispered Lame Foot. They pressed about Matthews, taking his hands.

"When the night comes," he answered, "you will know by a sign. Let a warrior keep watch. For it shall come when the moon dies. It shall be the call of a mourning dove."

CHAPTER XXIX

LOUNSBURY'S RETURN

Bismarck nearing at last! Since dawn, Lounsbury's head had been poked from a window of the forward car. Now, he followed it with a wedge of shoulder, and muttered a fervent "Thank G.o.d!" His face was blackened by the breath of the engine, his hair was roughed by the tugging wind. So that he bore not a trace of the past month's careful grooming. Outside of Chicago, he had shed his Eastern garb for blue flannel s.h.i.+rt, dark breeches, and tall boots. Again he was a frontiersman.

A brakeman entered to call out the final stop. Cramped bulks, here and there, slowly unwound their sleepy lengths and gazed around. A slim recruit in a front seat, who was outward-bound to fight Indians, wakened with a protesting oath. Other occupants of the car grudgingly put away their card packs, but cheerfully clapped on their hats. A long, hot journey was done.

But Lounsbury, when he drew in his head and shoulder, delayed his preparations to alight. He reached down to a boot-leg and fished out a letter, one paragraph of which he carefully re-read.

"As I say, if you look for that rascal, you'll find the right man. He was here, for Charley saw him. 'Who was it?' I asked the Indian. What do you think he did--he crossed his fingers on his nose!"

Lounsbury took a deep breath. "It's likely," he said aloud. "It don't take courage to kill a cripple."

The wheels were yet turning when Lounsbury swung off. His looped belt had been buckled on, and once more his revolver hung handily upon his thigh. As he tossed his satchel to the ticket-agent, he gave the ".45" a swift look over. Then, with the expression that the Clark outfit respected showing through the grime of the train, he started on a tour of saloons.

In a square-fronted groggery, his hunt ended. An a.s.sortment of adventurers packed the place--mule-skinners, soldiers, gamblers, settlers. Among them was a sprinkle of women. He pushed his way through the crowd until he reached the bar. There, officiating in pink s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, was the "Babe."

A moment Lounsbury faced him in silence, his cheeks puffing and his chest swelling in an effort at self-control. Then, dropping his hand to the ".45," he gave a jerk of the head. "Come out," he ordered.

The "Babe's" squint eyes made separate inspections of the room. He was in the act of pouring from a bottle to a gla.s.s. Now, as he held them before him, they tinkled together.

His customer backed away to the door, where it was cooler. The women cluttered at the farther bar-end. The other loungers rotated to a position behind Lounsbury, and waited, all a-grin.

He came loafing out, the sweat standing in huge beads upon his nose.

Lounsbury advanced to him, playing a tattoo along the bar with his left hand.

"'Babe,'" he said quietly, "the train goes back Chicago-way in the morning."

The other blinked and gulped. "W'y, w'y----" he began.

"You take it," continued Lounsbury. "Your family's getting darned unpopular here."

The "Babe's" diverging orbs popped from his face and again played from side to side.

"Y-e-e-s," drawled Lounsbury. He ripped open the other's vest. Two pistols were displayed, snuggling head to head. He plucked them out and kicked them across the room. "The morning train," he repeated. "So long."

"Babe" gave a weak nod. Lounsbury walked out. "Howdy, boys, howdy," he said pleasantly as he went. The admiring crowd returned his salute, and rotated back to the bar.

He wasted no further time, but hurried to his store, a saddle-roofed building farther along the street. Before it paced a Fort Lincoln officer. Lounsbury stopped him for news.