John Ermine of the Yellowstone (26 page)

“Well, I think he has,” observed the mother, catching this idea, which was at least tangible to her. “Is that all, Katherine?”

“Is that all, mother? Why, isn’t that enough?”

“I mean, he simply asked you to marry him—properly—he wasn’t insulting—insistent beyond—”

“No, he did nothing else, though he went about it in a most alarming way.”

“You said, No!”

“I most emphatically did, mother.”

“What then?”

“Then he began mumbling Indian and scared me nearly to death. I ran to Mary.”

“Dade an’ she did, mum; an’ I’m afther loosin’ my sinses thinkin’ thim rid-divils what do be ploughin’ the land down be the river was devastating the
cantonmint for to pass the time. An’ ets only some bye afther wantin’ to marry her—the swate thing.”

Mrs. Searles interposed, “Mary!” and the domestic retired to the sable silences of the rear steps, to split a joke with one Private O’Shane, should he venture to return.

“The social savagery of this place is depressing. To think of my daughter living in a log-cabin, cooking bear meat for a long-haired wild man. In the future, Benjamin Searles, I trust you
will not feel called upon to introduce your fantastic acquaintances to this house. You can sit on the corral fence to entertain them. That is where they belong. I suppose next, an out-and-out
Indian will want to be my son-in-law.”

“I certainly will see that the man does not again obtrude himself. I do not understand his nerve in this matter. Lewis thinks the boy’s ridgepole is crooked; but he is harmless and
has done many good and gallant deeds. As for his proposing, I simply think he doesn’t know any better. For my part, I think it is about time that the engagement to Mr. Butler is announced; it
will put an end to this foolishness all round,” added the father. “I am going out to see Lewis about this fellow now.”

“Ben Searles, I hope you are not going to do anything rash,” pleaded the mother.

“Of course not, my dear; the situation doesn’t call for any temperature beyond blood-heat. I only want to put a cooling lotion on the base of that scout’s brain. He must stop
this dreaming habit.”

Having found Lewis at his quarters and seated himself, the Major began, “Now, Captain, what do you think of this Ermine of yours—is he crazy?”

“Is he crazy? Why, what has he done now?”

“Well, by Gad, he came to my house this evening, and when I stepped out for a minute he proposed marriage to my daughter—wanted her to marry him! Now, how’s that strike you? Is
it just gall, or does he need a physician?”

“Well, I will be d——d; proposed marriage, hey! Looks like he ought to have an opiate,” concluded Lewis. “You know, now that I think of it, I have a little
mistrusted him before. He has shown signs of liking your daughter, but I never regarded the matter seriously—didn’t ever credit him with being an entire fool. The boy’s queer,
Searles—mighty queer, but he never did anything wrong; in fact, he is a pretty good boy—a heap different from most of these double-belted, sagebush terrors. Then, of course, he was born
and raised in the wilderness, and there is a whole lot of things he don’t savvy. Probably he has lost his head over your daughter and he can’t see why he hasn’t a chance. I will
send for him, and we will make a big talk, and I’ll send him away to Harding.” Turning, the Captain yelled, “Orderly! Jones! Oh, Jones!”

“Yes, sir,” responded Jones, as he appeared in the doorway.

“Go find the scout Ermine, if you can, and tell him to report to me immediately. If you don’t find him in half an hour, let it go until tomorrow—understand?

“As I was saying, you see, Major, if this thing wasn’t vinegar, it would be sugar. When I think of him proposing—say, I have to laugh. There is one thing about him which kept
me guessing: it is the Indian reserve of the fellow. He goes round here like a blue-moon, and if you should hit him over the head with an axe, I don’t think he would bat an eye. He never
complains, he never questions, and when you are right up against it, as we were a half-dozen times last winter, he is Johnny-on-the-spot. So you see, if he fell in love, no one would hear the
splash. Now that he is in love, we want to tighten the curb chain; he might—well, he might take it into his head to do something, and that something might be just what we would never think
of.”

Thus the two speculated until the sandpaper grating of Ermine’s moccasins on the porch warned them, and looking up they beheld the scout, standing with his rifle in the hollow of his left
arm. This was unusual and produced several seconds of very bad silence. Captain Lewis held up his hand in mockery of the “peace sign,” and said: “I see you’re fixed for war,
Ermine. Sit down over there. I want to talk to you.”

The scout removed his hat and sat down, but with the ominous rifle in place. He had been told by the orderly whom he was to encounter; and it had come over him that wanting to marry Katherine
Searles might be some crime against the white man’s law. He had seen very natural actions of men punished under those laws during his sojourn in camp.

“Ermine, I understand that during the temporary absence of her father this evening, you asked Miss Searles to marry you.”

“I did, sir.”

“Very well. Don’t you think you took an unfair advantage of her father’s absence?”

“I don’t know, sir. A man doesn’t speak to a woman before other men,” replied Ermine, dubiously.

The Captain emitted a slight cough, for the blow had staggered him a little. He knew the law of convention, and he knew the customs of men; but they did not separate readily in his mind.

“In any event, Ermine, the young lady had given you no encouragement which would warrant you in going to the length of proposing marriage to her.”

This was an assertion which Ermine did not care to discuss. His views would not coincide, and so he fumbled his hat and made no reply.

“I may state that you are not warranted in aspiring to the hand of Miss Searles for many reasons; further, that she distinctly doesn’t want attention of any kind from you. To this I
will add, her father and mother forbid you all association in the future—do you understand?”

This, also, failed to break the scout’s silence.

“And,” interpolated the father, “I may add that my daughter is already engaged to be married to Lieutenant Butler, which will end the matter.”

If the evening’s occurrences had set the nerves of the Searles family on edge, it had torn the scout’s into shreds; but he managed his stoicism.

“Now, my boy,” continued Captain Lewis, with a sense of benevolence, “we do not mean to be hard on you. We all, including Miss Searles, feel a great pity for you in this
matter.”

“Pity—pity—what is pity?” saying which the boy’s eyes took on an unnatural glow and he rose to his feet. Lewis quickly added, “I mean that we feel for
you.”

“I know what you feel for me, Captain Lewis, and Major Searles,” and it was evident that Ermine was aroused. “You feel that I am an uneducated man, without money, and that I do
not wear a white shirt; that I tuck my pants in my leggings and that I sleep among the Indians. I know you think I am a dog. I know Miss Searles thinks I belong in the corral with the mules; but,
by G——, you did not think I was a dog when the Sioux had your wagon-train surrounded and your soldiers buffaloed; you did not think I was a dog when I stood beside the Colonel, and
neither did Sitting Bull. You did not think I was a dog when I kept you all from freezing to death last winter; but here among the huts and the women I am a dog. I tell you now that I do not
understand such men as you are. You have two hearts: one is red and the other is blue; and you feel with the one that best suits you at the time. Your blue heart pities me. Me, a warrior and a
soldier! Do you give pity with your coffee and sow-belly? Is that what you feed a soldier on? Hum-m—G——!” And the scout slapped his hat on his head.

“Steady, steady, my boy; don’t you go up in the air on us,” said Lewis, persuasively. “I did not mean to offend you, and we want to be friends; but you keep your feet on
the ground and don’t go raring and pitching, or we may forget you.”

“Yes; that is it—forget me; you may forget me. What’s more, you can do it now. I am going far away, so that your eyes will not remind you.”

“You are going to make your word good to Mr. Harding, are you not?” asked the chief of scouts.

“What good is a dog’s word?” came the bitter reply.

The Major said little, but remained steadily studying the face of the scout; rising, he approached him with extended hand. “If you are going away, let us part friends, at least. Here is my
hand, and I shall not forget you; I shall not forget your services to me or mine, and I do not think you are a dog. When you calm down you may find that you have been unjust to Captain Lewis and
myself.”

The scout took the Major’s hand mechanically, and also that of Lewis, which the latter offered in turn, saying:

“In the morning I will see that you get your pay, and if you conclude to return, I will find you employment.”

“Thank you, sir; I care nothing for the pay. I did not come here for money; I came here to help you fight the Sioux, and to be a man among white men.” And once more the young man
relapsed into the quiet of his ordinary discourse.

“You certainly have shown yourself a man among men; no one has ever questioned that,” said the Major.

“Then why is it wrong for a man among men to want your daughter to be his wife?”

“It is not wrong, but you have gone about the matter wrong. I have tried to make it plain that her hand is promised to Mr. Butler.”

As this was said, two horses trotted up to Captain Lewis’ quarters. A man dismounted, gave his horse to the other, and Butler himself strode heavily into the room. He was quite gray with
dust, with a soiled handkerchief about his neck, unshaven, booted, and armed.

“Hello, Major! Hello, Lewis! I’m just in with my troop, and if you will pardon me, I will have a word with Mr. Ermine here.” His manner was strained, and knowing the situation
as they all did, the two older officers were alarmed.

“Hold up there, Butler; never mind your word tonight; wait until morning.”

Butler paid no attention, but addressed the scout with icy directness. “May I ask, Mr. Ermine, if you have in your possession a photograph of Miss Searles?”

“I have.”

“Have you it about your person at present?”

“I have, sir.”

“Then, Mr. Ermine, I have the word of Miss Searles for it, that the photograph in question was one she had taken, of which there is only one copy in the world; and which was given to me,
and lost by myself, somewhere on the road between here and Fort Ellis. It must be my property. If you will let me see it, I can soon identify it. In which case I demand that you hand it over to
me.”

“Mr. Butler, you will only get that photograph from off my dead body. You have Miss Searles; is not that enough?”

“I will then take it by force from you!” A tremendous bang roared around the room, and the little group was lost in smoke.

Butler turned half round, his six-shooter going against the far wall with a crash. He continued to revolve until caught in the Major’s arms. Lewis sprang to his desk, where his pistol lay,
and as he turned, the smoke lifted, revealing Butler lying against the Major’s chest, wildly waving his left arm and muttering savagely between short breaths. Ermine was gone.

“Fire on that man!” yelled Lewis to the orderly outside, taking one shot himself at the fleeing figure of the scout.

The soldier jerked his carbine and thrashed about the breech-block with a cartridge. “I can’t see him, Captain!” he shouted.

“Fire at him, anyway! Fire, I tell you!” And the man discharged his rifle in the direction in which Ermine’s figure had disappeared.

Simultaneously with the shots, the garrison bugles were drawling “Taps,” but they left off with an expiring pop. The lights did not go out in quarters, and the guard turned out with
much noise of shoe leather and rattle of guns. This body soon arrived, and Lewis spoke from the porch of his quarters.

“The scout, Ermine, has just shot Lieutenant Butler in the arm! He ran that way! Chase him! Go quickly, or he will get away. Shoot instantly if he resists; and he will, I think.”

The guard shuffled off in the darkness and beat up the camp to no purpose. The soldiers stood about, speculating in low voices and gradually quieting as the word passed about on the uneasy wings
of gossip that Ermine had shot Butler in the arm, wounding him badly, and that the scout had gone into the earth or up in the air, for divil the hide nor hair of him could the guard find.

When the orderly had come for Ermine and told him who wanted to see him, the scout scented trouble ahead. According to the immemorial practices of the desert at such times, he had saddled his
pony, tying him in the darkest and most unlikely place he could find, which was between two six-mule wagons outside the corral. He armed himself and obeyed the summons, but he intended never to let
a hand be placed on his shoulder; and he chose death rather than the military court which sat so gravely around the long table at headquarters. He fully expected to depart for the mountains on the
morrow, but his hand was forced. The quick episode of Butler, ending in the shot and his flight, had precipitated matters. Shortly he found himself seated on his horse between the wagons, while the
denizens of the cantonments swarmed around. A group searched the corral with lanterns, and he heard one soldier tell another what had happened, with the additional information that Butler was not
seriously injured. Armed men passed close to him, and he knew that discovery meant probable death, because he would not hold up his hands. Despite the deadly danger which encompassed him, he found
time for disappointment in the news that Butler was only wounded. Even now he would go to his enemy and make more sure, but that enemy was in the hospital surrounded by many friends. She, too, was
probably there, weeping and hating the responsible one—a fugitive criminal driven into the night. The silken robes of self-respect had been torn from Ermine, and he stood naked, without the
law, unloved by women, and with the hand of all men turned against him. The brotherhood of the white kind, which had promised him so much, had ended by stealing the heart and mind of the poor
mountain boy, and now it wanted his body to work its cold will on; but it could have that only dead. This he knew as he loosed five cartridges, putting them between his teeth and clutching his
loaded rifle. Would the search never cease? The lanterns glided hither and yon; every garrison cur ran yelping; the dull shuffling of feet was coming directly to the wagons which stood apart from
other objects, and a dog ran under the wagon. With their eyes on the ground, an officer and two men towered above the light of a lantern. They were coming directly to the wagons. He kicked the pony
and galloped softly out. Instantly the men began calling, “Halt! Halt! G——d——you, halt!” but the ghostly pony only answered feebly the lantern light.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” came the shots, which “zee-weeped” about his ears. He doubled quickly in the dark and trotted to the edge of the camp, which buzzed loudly behind him. He
knew he must pass the sentries, but he took the chance. His apprehensions were quickly answered. “Halt!” the man was very near, but it was very dark. “Bang!” it missed, and
he was away. He stopped shortly, dismounted, and ran his hand completely over the body of the pony; it was dry. “Good!” For a half-hour he walked over the herd-grounds, crossing,
circling, and stopping; then back as near to the post as he dared. At last he turned and rode away. He was thoroughly familiar with the vicinity of the camp, and had no trouble so long as the post
lights guided him.