John Ermine of the Yellowstone (19 page)

“That Ermine is such a tremendous man; do you not think so, Mr. Butler?”

“He seems a rather forceful person in his simple way,” coincided the officer. “You apparently appeal to him strongly. He is downright romantic in his address, but I cannot find
fault with the poor man. I am equally unfortunate.”

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Butler; I cannot stand it; you are, at least, sophisticated.”

“Yes, I am sorry to say I am.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Butler,” with a deprecating wave of her parasol, “but tell me, aren’t you afraid of them?”

“I suppose you mean the Indians. Well, they certainly earned my respect during the last campaign. They are the finest light-horse in the world, and if they were not encumbered with the
women, herds, and villages; if they had plenty of ammunition and the buffalo would stay, I think there would be a great many army widows, Miss Searles.”

“It is dreadful; I can scarcely remember my father; he has been made to live in this beast of a country since I was a child.” Such was the lofty view the young woman took of her
mundane progress.

“Shades of the vine-clad hills and citron groves of the Hudson River! I fear we brass buttoners are cut off. I should have been a lawyer or a priest—no, not a priest; for when I look
at a pretty girl I cannot feel any priesthood in my veins.”

Miss Searles whistled the bars of “Halt” from under the fortification of the parasol.

“Oh, well, what did the Lord make pretty women for?”

“I do not know, unless to demonstrate the foolishness of the line of Uncle Sam’s cavalry,” speculated the arch one. “Mr. Butler, if you do not stop, I shall
run.”

“All right; I am under arrest, so do not run; we are nearly home. I reserve my right to resume hostilities, however. I insist on fair play with your sagebrush admirer. Since we met in St.
Louis, I have often wondered if we should ever see each other again. I always ardently wished we could.”

“Mr. Butler, you are a poor imitation of our friend Ermine; he, at least, makes one feel that he means what he says,” she rejoined.

“And you were good enough to remind me that I was sophisticated.”

“I may have been mistaken,” she observed. She played the batteries of her eyes on the unfortunate soldier, and all of his formations went down before them. He was in love, and she
knew it, and he knew she knew it.

He felt like a fool, but tried not to act one, with the usual success of lovers. He was an easy victim of one of those greatest of natural weaknesses men have. She had him staked out and could
bring him into her camp at any time the spirit moved her. Being a young person just from school, she found affairs easier than she had been led to suspect. In the usual girl way she had studied her
casts, lures, and baits, but in reality they all seemed unnecessary, and she began to think some lethal weapon which would keep her admirers at a proper distance more to the purpose.

The handsome trooper was in no great danger, she felt, only she must have time; she did not want everything to happen in a minute, and the greatest dream of life vanish forever. Besides, she
intended never, under any circumstances, to haul down her flag and surrender until after a good, hard siege.

They entered the cabin of the Searles, and there told the story of the morning’s adventures. Mrs. Searles had the Indians classified with rattlesnakes, green devils, and hyenas, and
expected scenes of this character to happen.

The Major wanted more details concerning Ermine. “Just what did he say, Butler?”

“I do not know; he spoke in some Indian language.”

“Was he angry, and was the Indian who approached you mad?”

“They were like two dogs who stand ready to fight—teeth bared, muscles rigid, eyes set and just waiting for their nerves to snap,” explained Butler.

“Oh, some d——Indian row, no one knows what, and Ermine won’t tell; yet as a rule these people are peaceful among themselves. I will ask him about it,” observed the
Major.

“Why can’t you have Mr. Ermine removed from that awful scout camp, papa? Why can’t he be brought up to some place near here? I do not see why such a beautiful white person as
he is should have to associate with those savages,” pleaded the graceful Katherine.

“Don’t worry about Ermine, daughter; you wouldn’t have him rank the Colonel out of quarters, would you? I will look into this matter a little.”

Meanwhile the young scout walked rapidly toward his camp. He wanted to do something with his hands, something which would let the gathering electricity out at his finger-ends and relieve the
strain, for the trend of events had irritated him.

Going straight to his tent, he picked up his rifle, loaded it, and buckled on the belt containing ammunition for it. He twisted his six-shooter round in front of him, and worked his knife up and
down in its sheath. Then he strode out, going slowly down to the scout fire.

The day was warm; the white-hot sun cut traceries of the cottonwood trees on the ground. A little curl of blue smoke rose straight upward from the fire, and in a wide ring of little groups sat
or lounged the scouts. They seemingly paid no attention to the approach of Ermine, but one could not determine this; the fierce Western sun closes the eyelids in a perpetual squint, and leaves the
beady eyes a chance to rove unobserved at a short distance.

Ermine came over and walked into the circle, stopping in front of the fire, thus facing the young Indian to whom he had used the harsh words. There was no sound except the rumble of a far-off
government mule team and the lazy buzz of flies. He deliberately rolled a cigarette. Having done this to his satisfaction, he stooped down holding it against the coals, and it was ages before it
caught fire. Then he put it to his lips, blew a cloud of smoke in the direction of his foe, and spoke in Absaroke.

“Well, I am here.”

The silence continued; the Indian looked at him with a dull steady stare, but did nothing; finally Ermine withdrew. He understood; the Indian did not consider the time or opportunity propitious,
but the scout did not flatter himself that such a time or place would never come. That was the one characteristic of an Indian of which a man could be certain.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
N
L
OVE

J
OHN
E
RMINE LAY ON HIS BACK IN HIS TENT, WITH ONE LEG
crossed over the other. His eyes were idly attracted by the play of
shadows on the ducking, but his mind was visiting other places. He was profoundly discontented. During his life he had been at all times an easygoing person—taught in a rude school to endure
embarrassing calamities and long-continued personal inconveniences by flood and hunger, bullets and snow. He had no conception of the civilized trait of acquisitiveness whereby he had escaped that
tantalization. He desired military distinction, but he had gotten that. No man strode the camp whose deeds were better recognized than his, not even the Colonel commanding.

His attitude toward mankind had always been patient and kindly except when urged into other channels by war. He even had schooled himself to the irksome labor at the prophet’s mine, low
delving which seemed useless; and had acquiesced while Crooked-Bear stuffed his head with the thousand details of white mentality; but now vaguely he began to feel a lack of something, an effort
which he had not made—a something he had left undone; a difference and a distinction between himself and the officers who were so free to associate with the creature who had borrowed his mind
and given nothing in return. No one in the rude campaigning which had been the lot of all since he joined had made any noticeable social distinction toward him—rather otherwise; they had
sought and trusted him, and more than that, he had been singled out for special good will. He was free to call at any officer’s quarters on the line, sure of a favorable reception; then why
did he not go to Major Searles’? At the thought he lay heavier on the blanket, and dared not trust his legs to carry out his inclinations.

The camp was full of fine young officers who would trust their legs and risk their hearts—he felt sure of that. True, he was subject to the orders of certain officials, but so were they.
Young officers had asked him to do favors on many occasions, and he did them, because it was clear that they ought to be done, and he also had explained devious plains-craft to them of which they
had instantly availed themselves. The arrangement was natural and not oppressive.

Captain Lewis could command him to ford a rushing torrent: could tell him to stand on his head and be d——quick about it, and of course he would do anything for him and Major Searles;
they could ask nothing which the thinker would not do in a lope. As for Colonel Miles, the fine-looking man who led “ten thousand” in the great white battles, it was a distinction to do
exactly what he ordered—every one did that; then why did he not go to Major Searles’ quarters, he kept asking himself. He was not afraid of Colonel Miles or Captain Lewis or Major
Searles or any officer, but—and the thought flashed, he was wary of the living eyes of the beloved photograph. Before these he could not use his mind, hands, or feet; his nerves shivered like
aspen leaves in a wind, and the blood surged into his head until he could see nothing with his eyes; cold chills played up and down his spine; his hair crawled round under his sombrero, and he was
most thoroughly miserable, but some way he no longer felt contentment except while undergoing this misery.

He lay on the blanket while his thoughts alternately fevered and chilled his brain. So intense were his emotions that they did more than disorder his mind: they took smart hold of his very body,
gnawing and constricting his vitals until he groaned aloud.

No wild beast which roamed the hills was less conscious, ordinarily, of its bodily functions than Ermine. The machinery of a perfect physique had always responded to the vital principle and
unwound to the steady pull of the spring of life, yet he found himself now stricken. It was not a thing for the surgeon, and he gradually gave way before its steady progress. His nature was a rich
soil for the seeds of idealism which warm imagination constantly sprinkled, and the fruits became a consuming passion.

His thoughts were burning him. Getting up from his bed, he took a kettle and small axe, saddled his pony, and took himself off toward the river. As he rode along he heard the Englishman call out
to him, but he did not answer. The pony trotted away, leaving the camp far behind, until he suddenly came to a little prairie surrounded by cottonwoods, in the middle of which were numbers of small
wick-e-ups made by the Indians for sweat-baths. He placed his blankets and ponchos over one, made a fire and heated a number of rocks, divested himself of his clothing, and taking his pail of water
got inside, crouching while he dashed handfuls of water over the hot rocks. This simple remedy would do more than cleanse the skin and was always resorted to for common ills by the Indians. After
Ermine came out he plunged into the cold waters of the Yellowstone and dressed himself, but he did not feel any better. He mounted and rode off, forgetting his axe, blankets, and pail; such
furnishings were unconsidered now. In response to a tremendous desire to do something, he ran his pony for a mile, but that did not calm the yearning.

“I feel like a piece of fly blown meat,” he said to himself. “I think I will go to Saw-Bones and let him have a hack at me; I never was so sick before.” And to the cabin
of the surgeon he betook himself.

That gentleman was fussing about with affairs of his own, when Ermine entered.

“Say, doctor, give me some medicine.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked the addressed, shoving his sombrero to one side and looking up incredulously.

“Oh, I’m sick.”

“Well, where are you sick?”

Ermine brushed his hair from off his forehead, slapped his leggings with his quirt, and answered, “Sick all over—kind of low fever, like a man with a bullet in him.”

“Bilious, probably.” And the doctor felt his pulse and looked into his bright, clear eyes.

“Oh, nonsense, boy—you are not sick. I guess loafing around is bad for you. The Colonel ought to give you a hundred miles with his compliments to some one; but here is a pill which
will cure you.” Saying which, the physician brought out his box containing wheat bread rolled into small balls, that he always administered to cases which he did not understand or to patients
whom he suspected of shirking on “sick report.”