John Ermine of the Yellowstone (28 page)

“What for you waas come to de King George Man, anyhow?”

“I wanted coffee and tobacco and a fresh pony and more cartridges, and it will be many moons before John Ermine will dare look in a trader’s store. If the white men come, I will soon
leave you; and if I do, you must stay and guide Mr. Harding. He is a good man and does what is right by us.”

“Ah!” hissed the half-breed, “old Broken-Shoe and White-Robe, she ain’ let dose Engun follar you. You spose dey let dose Crow tak de ack-kisr-attah to
Crooked-Bear’s boy? Humph, dey ’fraid of hees medecin’.”

“Well, they will pile the blankets as high as a horse’s back, and say to the Shoshone, ‘Go get the yellow-hair, and these are your blankets.’ What then?”

“Ugh! Ugh! A-nah,” grunted the half-breed; “de————Shoshone, we will leek de pony—come—come!”

The energy of the march, the whacking ropes, and scampering horses passed from satisfaction to downright distress in Mr. Harding’s mind. He pleaded for more deliberation, but it went
unheeded. The sun had gone behind the hard blue of the main range before they camped, and the good nature of the Englishman departed with it.

“Why is it necessary to break our cattle down by this tremendous scampering? It does not appeal to my sense of the situation.”

“Wael, meester, wan more sun we waas en de hiell—den we have long smoke; all you waas do waas sit down smoke your pipe—get up—kiell dose grizzly bear—den sit down
some more.”

But this observation of the half-breed’s was offset by Ramon, who was cleaning a frying pan with a piece of bread, and screwing his eyes into those of Wolf-Voice. The matter was not clear
to him. “What good can come of running the legs off the ponies? Why can’t we sit down here and smoke?”

“You waas trader—you waas spend all de morning pack de pony—spend all the afternoon unpack heem—a man see your night fire from stan where you waas cook your
breakfast—bah!” returned Wolf-Voice.

This exasperated Ramon, who vociferated, “When I see men run the pony dat way, I was wander why dey run dem.” Wolf-Voice betook himself to that ominous silence which, with Indians,
follows the knife.

Ermine was lame in the big white camp, but out here in the desert he walked ahead; so, without looking up, he removed his pipe, and said in his usual unemotional manner, “Shut up!”
The command registered like a gong.

Wolf-Voice sat down and smoked. When men smoke they are doing nothing worse than thinking. The cook ceased doing the work he was paid for, and also smoked. Every one else smoked, and all watched
the greatest thinker that the world has ever known—the Fire.

The first man to break the silence was the Englishman. Whether in a frock coat, or a more simple garment, the Englishman has for the last few centuries been able to think quicker, larger, and
more to the purpose in hours of bewilderment, than any other kind of man. He understood that his big purpose was lost in this “battle of the kites and crows.” The oak should not wither
because one bird robbed another’s nest. As a worldwide sportsman he had seen many yellow fellows shine their lethal weapons to the discomfiture of his plans; and he knew that in Ermine he had
an unterrified adversary to deal with. He talked kindly from behind his pipe. “Of course, Ermine, I am willing to do what is proper under any and all circumstances, and we will continue this
vigorous travel if you can make the necessity of it plain to me. Frankly, I do not understand why we are doing it, and I ask you to tell me.”

Ermine continued to smoke for a time, and having made his mind up he removed his pipe and said slowly: “Mr. Harding, I shot Butler, and the soldiers are after me. I have to go
fast—you don’t—that’s all.”

The gentleman addressed opened wide eyes on his guide and asked in low amazement, “D——me—did you? Did you kill him?”

“No,” replied Ermine.

Rising from his seat, Mr. Harding took the scout to one side, out of reach of other ears, and made him tell the story of the affair, with most of the girl left out.

“Why did you not give him the photograph?”

“Because he said he would make me give it and drew his pistol, and what is more, I am going back to kill the man Butler—after a while. We must go fast tomorrow, then I will be where
I am safe, for a time at least.”

All this gave Harding a sleepless night. He had neither the power nor the inclination to arrest the scout. He did not see how the continuance of his hunt would interfere with final justice; and
he hoped to calm the mood and stay the murderous hand of the enraged man. So in half-bewilderment, on the morrow, that staid traveller found himself galloping away from the arms of the law, in a
company of long-haired vagabonds; and at intervals it made him smile. This was one of those times when he wished his friends at home could have a look at him.

“Say, Wolf-Voice,” said he, “Ermine says he is going back to kill Lieutenant Butler sometime later.”

“He says dat—hey?”

“Yes, he says that.”

“Wiell den—she wiell do eet—var much, ’fraid—what for she wan kiell dose man Butler? She already waas shoot heem en the harm.”

“I think Ermine is jealous,” ventured Harding.

“What you call jealous?” queried the half-breed.

“Ermine wants Butler’s girl and cannot get her; that is the trouble.”

“Anah-a! A bag of a squaw, ees eet?” and Wolf-Voice ran out to head a packhorse into the line of flight. Coming back he continued: “Say, Meester Harding, dese woman he ver
often mak’ man wan’ kiell some ozer man. I have done dose ting.”

“Whew!” said Harding, in amazement, but he caught himself. “But, Wolf-Voice, we do not want our friend Ermine to do it, and I want you to promise me you will help me to keep
him from doing it.”

“’Spose I say, ‘Ermine, you no kiell Meester Butler’—he teel me to go to hell, mabeso—what den?”

“Oh, he may calm down later.”

“Na—Engun she no forget,” cautioned the half-breed.

“But Ermine is not an Indian.”

“Na, but she all de same Engun,” which was true so far as that worthy could see.

“If we do not stop him from killing Butler, he will hang or be shot for it, sooner or later, and that is certain,” said Harding.

“Yees—yees; deese white man have funny way when one man kiell ’nozer. Ermine ees brave man—he eese see red, an’ he wiell try eet eef he do hang. No one eese able
for stop heem but deese Crooked-Bear,” observed the half-breed.

“Is Crooked-Bear an Indian chief?”

“Na; she ain’ Enjun, she ain’ white man; she come out of the groun’. Hees head eet waas so big an’ strong eet were break hees back for to carry eet.”

“Where does this person live?” ventured Harding.

“Where she eese lieve, ah? Where Ermine an’ his pony can find heem,” was the vague reply. “You no wan’ Ermine for kiell deese Butler; weel den, you say,
‘Ermine, you go see Crooked-Bear—you talk wid heem.’ I weel take you where you wan’ go een de montaign for get de grizzly bear.”

“I suppose that is the only solution, and I suppose it is my duty to do it, though the thing plays havoc with my arrangements.”

Later the trail steepened and wound its tortuous way round the pine and boulders, the ponies grunting under their burdens as they slowly pushed their toilsome way upwards. When Ermine turned
here to look back he could see a long day’s march on the trail, and he no longer worried concerning any pursuit which might have been in progress. They found their beds early, all being
exhausted by the long day’s march, particularly the fugitive scout.

On the following morning, Harding suggested that he and Ermine begin the hunting, since fresh meat was needed in camp; so they started. In two hours they had an elk down and were butchering him.
The antlers were in the velvet and not to the head-hunter’s purpose. Making up their package of meat and hanging the rest out of the way of prowling animals, to wait a packhorse, they sat
down to smoke.

“Are you still intending to kill Mr. Butler?” ventured Harding.

“Yes, when you are through hunting, I shall begin—begin to hunt Butler.”

“You will find your hunting very dangerous, Ermine,” ventured Harding.

“It does not matter; he has got the girl, and he may have my life or I shall have his.”

“But you cannot have the girl. Certainly after killing Butler the young lady will not come to you. Do you think she would marry you? Do you dream you are her choice?”

“No, the girl would not marry me; I have forgotten her,” mused Ermine, as he patiently lied to himself.

“Does this maiden wish to marry Butler?” asked Harding, who now recalled garrison gossip to the effect that all things pointed that way.

“She does.”

“Then why do you kill the man she loves?”

“Because I do not want to think he is alive.”

The wide vacancy of the scout’s blue eyes, together with the low deliberation in his peaceful voice, was somewhat appalling to Harding. He never had thought of a murderer in this guise,
and he labored with himself to believe it was only a love-sickness of rather alarming intenseness; but there was something about the young man which gave this idea pause. His desperation in battle,
his Indian bringing-up, made it all extremely possible, and he searched in vain for any restraining forces. So for a long time they sat by the dead elk, and Harding sorted and picked out all the
possible reasons he could conjure as to why Ermine should not kill Butler, until it began to dawn upon him that he was not replying to his arguments at all, but simply reiterating his own
intentions despite them. He then recalled cases in England where fists had been the arguments under a rude lover’s code; only out here the argument was more vital, more insistent, and the
final effect left the lady but one choice should she care to interest herself in the affair.

Resuming his talk, Harding suggested that his guide go to his own friends, who might advise him more potently than he was able, and ended by asking pointedly, “You have friends, I
presume?”

“I have one friend,” answered the youth, sullenly.

“Who is he?”

“Crooked-Bear,” came the reply.

“Crooked-Bear is your friend; then you must listen to him; what he advises will probably be the thing to do.”

“Of course I will listen to him. He is the only person in the world I care for now. I have often heard him talking to himself, and I think he has known a woman whom he cannot
forget,” spoke Ermine. “He will not want me to seek my enemy’s life. I have talked too much, Mr. Harding. Talk weakens a man’s heart. I will make no more talk.”

“Well, then, my man, go to your friend; I can do nothing more,” and Harding arose. They tied their meat on the saddles, mounted, and sought their camp. On the following morning
Ermine had gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
HE
E
ND OF
A
LL
T
HINGS