The “girls” were to remain in camp, while Mr. George and “Uncle Jim” drove the horses to a ranch to have them re-shod. A trip to Sullivan Creek had been planned, and it was necessary that the team and wagon be in good condition to cover the long distance over a rough, hilly road. The dogs were in need of a rest to recuperate for the next chase. The good-byes were called and re-answered till the men were out of sight.
“Oh! let’s gather these red thorn-apples and buck-brush berries and make bracelets and strings of beads, and then dress up in blankets and play we are squaws,” suggested “Peter Pan,” as she began to fill her many pockets with the berries within her reach. Each one seemed bent on plucking the most and soon hats were brimming over.
They sat in a bright, sunny exposure near the edge of the water and strung the red and white berries on long, stout threads, the while happy jokes were made, stories told or snatches of familiar songs were sung. As Bess began to sing again one of the familiar verses, “Peter Pan” checked her rather unceremoniously with, “Oh! please—Miss Bess, we have sang that so many times already.”
“My dearie, you mean to say—have—what?” corrected her mother.
“I can’t tell, mother—I’m not that far yet in my book,” came the ever ready answer of the little grammarian.
Bess had quietly slipped away while the others were still industriously threading their beads. Presently the three dogs, who were stretched out in the glorious warmth of the sunshine near the busy workers, suddenly came to their feet with a bound and ran barking savagely at a form approaching through the trees. As suddenly did they drop their tails between their legs and fawned at the feet of the blanketed intruder, as a familiar voice said softly yet commandingly, “Boys! Gladstone! Jack! What’s the fuss? Don’t you know me?”
They could scarcely be blamed for their mistake, for Bess looked a veritable Indian. About her was a vivid blanket, a red cloth wound her forehead nearly concealing her hair which had been braided and hung down either side of her neck. A pair of moccasins (which Mrs. West had urged her to bring in case the nights might prove cold) and the coils of red and white beads completed her costume.
“You look just like a really Indian girl,” cried “Peter Pan,” clapping her hands gleefully. “Why, even the dogs thought you were one too, didn’t they?” she added, with her deep blue eyes glowing with appreciation.
“Here Bess, go down by the road and get us a few more of the thorn-apples; my string is not yet long enough,” said Mrs. Bland, as she and the others kept on with their task.
“Oh, there are some splendid large ones!” said Bess to herself, as she caught sight of a clump of the brush, with shiny, red fruit a little way down the road. She wandered aimlessly on, watching the dust puff out as she made “toed-in” tracks with the moccasins. The choice place for thorn-apples had been passed, but then, that did not matter, as here were more directly ahead of her.
The sound of approaching horses and their riders’ voices came to her ears. The delay of indecision, whether to flee to camp, or whether to conceal herself in the near-by thicket, made either impossible, for already directly in front of her came two horsemen, and she knew that she had been seen. Turning her back toward the approach, and concealing her face in a fold of the blanket, she stood aside, hoping that they might pass without giving her any especial attention.
One had passed, and peeping from her cover she saw that he wore the Indian police uniform. A soft chuckle reached her ear, and she knew that he knew he saw a masquerader. But her heart stood still, as a voice so familiar, yet just now so foreign said, “You ride on ahead and see if you can locate their camp. I’ll be there presently.”
She heard the horse stop and felt his nose brush her blanket, so near had he come to her.
“Klah-on-ya-Mary—are you here alone?” and the end of a quirt touched her none too gently on the head. She heard a stirrup squeak and felt that the man was dismounting.
“Come here—I want to talk to you. You know me—I am the Agent—I want to look at you;” but the instant the silent figure felt the touch of his eager fingers upon her arm, Bess sprang forward like a frightened deer, and ran swiftly into the bushes and was soon out of sight. It was all the man could do to restrain the frightened horse, and when he again looked to where he had seen the bushes part to enfold a brightly-hued fleeing creature, they had folded their branches as meekly as if they had nothing to conceal.
“Damn these squaws; they are not usually so touchy,” said the man, as he gave his horse an unnecessary jerk at the reins as he remounted and started on. A thin, blue, curling smoke through the trees revealed to him the campers’ location, while awaiting him at the trail was his escort. The police continued on his journey upon receiving a few minute instructions, and the Agent reined his horse into the path leading to the camp. At first he saw no one except the white-aproned man busy preparing lunch, then his advent was seen by the ladies, still busy with their beads.
Mrs. Bland came forward to receive the visitor.
“I am very much pleased to meet you, Mr. Davis,” she said, as he introduced himself. “I am sorry that the men are away from camp just at present. They are to be back in time for luncheon. Won’t you dismount and help us enjoy a few of the birds which you so kindly permitted us to kill?”
“Thank you—I am sure it will be a treat,” he answered as he slid from the saddle.
“Er—I—I had hoped to meet Miss Fletcher here also,” he added, as he hesitatingly glanced about.
“Oh, yes, she is here—that is, she will be here presently. She just now went down to the road after some more thorn-apples for our chains. We are going to play Indian,” she laughed.
“Even the dogs thought Miss Bess was a really squaw when they saw her all wrapped in a blanket,” put in “Peter Pan” as she came inquisitively forward to see their visitor.
Slowly the explanation of the squaw by the road-side forced itself into his brain. For a moment he held his breath wondering if he had made a fool of himself. Perhaps she did not recognize him, but if she did he would easily convince her it was a joke—that he had known it was she all the while.
What could be keeping Bess so long? Why did she not return to camp with the gathered thorn-apples? Each moment a glance went up the trail, hoping that she would soon be coming. No one saw the silent pseudo squaw as she crept softly on her hands and knees in the shadow of the logs and the close covering of the brush. No one saw her now as she lay flat on the ground securely concealed by the thick leaves and the tall grasses, watching the occupants of the camp with glowing eyes. No one? Yes, one alert pair of ears had heard a twig snap; one keen nose had sniffed the air, and now a pair of appealing eyes were looking into hers.
“Charge Gladdy!” she said to the dog with a wriggling tail, as emphatically as she could in a whisper. Then she flung her arm about him holding him close lest he betray her concealment. Would the visitor never go? Should she be compelled finally to come forth and rejoin the others at the camp? If she could only convince herself that the Agent had recognized her in the road and had not really thought she was a squaw she would not now hesitate in meeting him. But somehow a feeling of uncertainty crept into her heart and for the moment made her fairly hate him. The approach of horses along the highway caused her to sit upright and listen. Gladstone, too, heard the sound and before he could be checked, began a vigorous barking. She could hear the horses coming through the tangled brush, and in a moment more she stood face to face with James Fletcher and Henry West.
“Great guns! Bess; you are a regular Pocahontas! How’s that for a ‘peachy’ squaw?” he said to West, as he nearly tumbled from his saddle and gave his sister a vigorous hug. Henry West had also dismounted and caught his horse’s bridle over his arm. In his glance was a look of questioning approval which caused Bess to ask:
“I am wondering, Henry, if you like me this way?”
“If all squaws looked as well, a man wouldn’t mind being an Indian,” he said significantly, walking by her side.
“Oh! here you are; where did you hide?” cried little “Peter Pan,” as she ran forward to meet her favorite.
“Put ‘Peter Pan’ on the horse and let her ride,” said Bess, in the way of an introduction to Henry West. He lifted the child gently and placed her in the saddle, carefully guarding her lest she fall. The child was watching the dark features of her companion with an apprehensive look. As he held her for a moment in his arms when she dismounted, she softly touched the bronze cheek with her fingers, and said: “I like you, even if you are—so much darker—than my Uncle Jim,” and slid, half afraid, out of his clasp and ran to her mother’s side, her eyes following him.
As soon as Mr. Davis found an opportunity amid all the confusion of introductions and greeting and clamorous talk, he stood near Bess and said: “Really, I had begun to think you had fled to your ‘wick-i-up’ and were not coming to see me at all. Your disguise was scarcely sufficient, for I knew you instantly and tried to carry out your joke, but you were too hasty.”
Bess suddenly let the blanket fall from her shoulders to the ground and faced Mr. Davis squarely. She looked into his eyes searchingly; beyond them she gazed till her accusing glance penetrated his very soul. Without the tremor of an eyelash her search was answered by a look as steady and firm as her own. At last a smile broke upon her lips as she said: “I did—did half imagine that you really thought—you were talking to an Indian.”
“They are too uninteresting to me even to stop to speak to,” he reassured her, and was glad that further explanation was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. George and “Uncle Jim.”
Soon all were enjoying the delicious birds, done to a turn by the efficient chef. Perhaps no one of the merry company, except Bess, noticed the reticence of Henry West, who sat beside her. She quietly gave his hand a little squeeze as she passed him the salt, which sent the blood pounding through his heart till he felt it could surely be heard by the others.
In spite of the many earnest requests to remain, James and Henry declared that they must hurry on to rejoin the rest of the bunch who were on the round-up. Dave Davis, the Indian agent, also took his departure after several futile attempts to speak with Bess alone.
The rest of the day was busy with cleaning guns, greasing the wheels and loading the wagon, preparatory for the long trip to Sullivan Creek on the morrow, which would in all probability take two or three days.