John Ermine of the Yellowstone (24 page)

“That’s so! Don’t know; had a slow horse; by Gad, we must look this up.” And the now anxious father galloped his mount. The others followed sympathetically. Rounding the
bluffs, they saw Ermine’s pony quietly feeding.

“Where is Ermine?” came a hail of questions, and presently they almost ran over the girl’s horse, now lying on its side, breathing heavily, and no longer trying to disengage
his leg from the gopher-hole.

“The horse is in a gopher-hole,” said some one; “and see here—look at the dirt; he has thrown Miss Searles; here is where she struck.”

“Yes, but where is she? Where is she?” ejaculated the Major, in a nervous tremor of excitement. “Where is my girl?”

Wolf-Voice had dismounted and found Ermine’s trail, which he followed toward the river.

“Come!” he called. “Am show you dose girl!”

While an orderly stayed behind, to shoot the horse and get the empty saddle, the group followed hard on the half-breed.

“Done you ride on de trail, you was keep behine. Dey girl was broke his neck, an’ Ermine am pack him.”

Stepping briskly forward, the plainsman made quick work of empty moccasin tracks and burst through the brush. A pistol-shot rang in the rear; an orderly had shot the horse. A cry of “Help,
help!” responded from the river beyond the cottonwoods, and the horses ploughed their way to the sands. The people all dismounted around the limp figure and kneeling scout. Her pale face, the
hat with the water in it, and the horse in the gopher-hole made everything clear.

“Here, Swan, ride to the post for an ambulance,” spoke the Major, as he too knelt and took his daughter in his arms. “Ride the horse to death and tell the ambulance to come
running.” Some of the women brought their ministering hands to bear and with more effect.

“What happened, Katherine?” whispered her father amid the eager silence of the gathered people.

“What did I do?” she pleaded weakly.

“How was it, Ermine?”

“Her horse put his foot in a hole; he is out there now. I saw her go down. Then I tried to save her. Will she live?”

Ermine’s eager interest had not departed because of the advent of so many people. He still continued to kneel and to gaze in rapture at the creature of his hopes and fears. No one saw
anything in it but the natural interest of one who had been left with so much responsibility.

“If you men will retire, we will endeavor to find her injuries,” spoke one of the older ladies; so the men withdrew.

Every one asked eager questions of the scout, who walked hat in hand, and had never before shown perturbation under the trying situations in which he and the soldiers had been placed.

“I knew that wolf would get away in the timber, and I wasn’t going to ride my pony for the fun of seeing it, so I was behind. Miss Searles’ horse was slow, and I noticed she
was being left; then she went down and I didn’t know what to do”—which latter statement was true.

He had done as well under the circumstances as any man could, they all admitted. A magpie on an adjoining limb jeered at the soldiers, though he made no mention of anything further than the
scout had admitted.

In due course the ambulance came bounding behind the straining mules. Mrs. Searles was on the seat with the driver, hatless, and white with fear. The young woman was placed in and taken slowly
to quarters. Being the only witness, Ermine repeated his story until he grew tired of speech and wanted only silence which would enable him to think. The greatest event of his life had happened to
him that morning; it had come in a curious way; it had lasted but a few moments, but it had added new fuel to his burning mind, which bade fair to consume it altogether.

Miss Searles’ injuries consisted of a few bruises and a general shock from which she would soon recover, said the doctor, and the cantonment slowly regathered its composure, all except
Shockley, who sat, head down, in most disordered thought, slowly punctuating events as they came to him, by beating on the floor with his scabbard.

“And she gave him her glove and she never gave me any glove—and she never gave Butler her glove that I know of; and he gave her a wolf and he was with her when this thing happened.
Say, Shockley, me boy, you are too slow, you are rusty; if you saw an ancient widow woman chopping wood, you would think she was in love with the woodpile.” And thus did that worthy arrive at
wrong conclusions. He would not give himself the credit of being only a man, whom God in the wisdom of His creation did not intend to understand women and thus deaden a world.

The camp was in ignorance of the points of contact between Katherine Searles and the scout; it felt none of the concern which distressed Shockley.

Miss Searles had known Butler back in the States; they were much together here on the Yellowstone, and it was pretty generally admitted that insofar as she was concerned Lieutenant Butler had
the biggest pair of antlers in the garrison. That young officer was a fine soldier—one of the best products of West Point, and was well connected back East, which was no small thing in an
affair of this nature. Also his fellows easily calculated that he must have more than his pay. Shockley, however, continued to study the strategy of the scout Ermine, and he saw much to fear.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A P
ROPOSAL

“O
H!
I
SAY
, C
APTAIN
L
EWIS
, I
AM ALL
ready to
start. I have Ramon, a cook, and Wolf-Voice, together with pack-animals, but I can’t get your man Ermine to say when he will go.”

“That’s odd, Harding; I don’t know of anything to detain him. But go slow; he’s like all these wild men up here; when they will they will, and when they won’t,
they’ll lay down on you. I’ll go round and scout him up. What is the matter so far as you can determine?”

“I can’t determine. He says he will go, but will not name any exact time; tells me to push on and that he will catch up. That is a curious proposition. He is willing to take my
money—”

“Oh! Whoa up, Mr. Harding! That fellow doesn’t care anything about your money—make no mistake about that. Money means no more to him than to a blue jay. He wanted to go back to
his own country and was willing, incidentally, to take you. I’ll see; you wait here awhile”; saying which, Captain Lewis went in search of his man, whom he found whittling a stick
pensively.

“Hello, my boy, you don’t seem to be very busy. Suppose your heart is out in the hills chasing the elk and bear.”

“No, Captain; I don’t care much about the hills.”

“Or the Crow squaws?”

“D——the Crow squaws!” And Ermine emphasized this by cutting his stick through the middle.

“Want to stay here?”

“Yes, I am getting so I like this camp; like the soldiers—like the wagons—kind of like the whole outfit.”

“Like to chase wolves?” interrupted the officer.

Ermine slowly turned up his head and settled his fathomless blue eyes on Lewis, but he said nothing.

“Well, Mr. Harding is all set. You said you would go with him; a soldier must keep his word.”

“I will go with him.”

“When?”

Again Ermine shaved some delicate slivers off the stick; suddenly he threw it away, shut up his knife, and arose. “If Mr. Harding will pull out now, Wolf-Voice will show him the way. I
shall know where the Indian takes him, and in four days I will walk into his camp. The pack-ponies travel slowly, I do not care to punch packhorses; that will do for Ramon and the cook.”

“Does that go?”

“I have said it. Did I ever lie, Captain Lewis?”

“All right. Mr. Harding will go now. I will attend to that.” With this Lewis left him, and in two hours the little cavalcade trotted westward, out into the hot, sunlit plains,
carrying faith in Ermine’s word. The scout, leaning on a log stable, saw them go.

Three days took their slow departure, and on the morrow Ermine would have to make good his word to follow the Englishmen. He would have liked to stay even if his body suffered slow fire, but
excuses would not avail for his honor. A soldier’s honor was something made much of in these parts; it pegged higher than the affairs of the flesh.

He had not been able to see Miss Searles, and he wondered what she would feel, or think, or say. He was a thief when he remembered the stolen kisses, and he dared not go to the Searleses’
home to inquire after her. All this diffidence the public put down to apathy; he had done his duty, so why further concern himself?

After supper he strolled along the officers’ row, desperately forlorn, but hoping and yearning, barely nodding his head to passersby.

Major Searles approached him with the nervous stride habitual to a soldier, and held out his hand, saying bluffly: “Of course, I can’t thank you enough for your attention to my
daughter, Ermine. But for your fortunate presence there at the time of the accident, things might have been bad; how bad I fear to contemplate. Come to my quarters, my boy, and allow my daughter to
thank you. She is quite recovered. She is sitting out-of-doors. She hasn’t been abroad much. Such a fall would have killed an older woman.”

Together they made their way to the house, and Ermine passed under the
ramada
with his hat off. Mrs. Searles shook his hand and said many motherly things due on such occasions.

“Please forgive me if I do not rise; it is the doctor’s orders, you know.” And Miss Searles extended her hand, which the scout reverently took. To have seen him one would have
fancied that, after all, manners must have been made before men; which idea is, of course, absurd.

In response to their inquiries, he retold the story of the accident and of his ministrations and perplexities. He did not embellish, but left out very important details, wondering the while if
they were dead to all but his memory.

“She should not ride so poor a horse,” ventured Ermine.

“She should not have been left unattended.” And this severity was directed at Major Searles by his wife, to which he feebly pleaded vain extenuations, without hope of their
acceptance.

“No, no, my dear; you were always a careless person; one is never safe to place dependence on you in minor matters. I declare, all men are alike—leastwise soldiers are. A blanket and
a haversack, and the world may wag at will, so far as they concern themselves.” Rising, she adjusted her hat, saying: “I must run down to Mrs. Taylor’s for a minute. Her baby is
very ill, and she has sent for me. You will stay here, Major,” and she swept out.

“When do you depart for your hunting with Mr. Harding, Ermine?” asked Searles.

“I must go soon. He left camp three days ago, and I have promised to follow.”

“I should think you would be delighted to hunt. I know I should if I were a man,” cheerfully remarked the young woman.

“I have always hunted, Miss Searles. I think I should like to do something else.”

“What, pray?”

“Oh, I don’t know, something with a white shirt in it.”

“Isn’t that foolish? There is no more fun in a white shirt than there is in a buckskin one, and there is no fun in either when it rains, I am told.”

A passing officer appealed to the Major to come out; he was needed, together with other requests to follow, with reasons why haste was important.