CHAPTER XXX
THEY TWAIN
Even as we were putting together our small belongings for the resumptionof our journey, I looked up and saw what I took to be a wolf, stalkingalong in the grass near the edge of our encampment. I would have shotit, but reflected that I must not waste a shot on wolves. Advancingcloser toward it, as something about its motions attracted me, I saw itwas a dog. It would not allow me to approach, but as Ellen came it laydown in the grass, and she got close to it.
"It is sick," she said, "or hurt," and she tossed it a bone.
"Quick," I called out to her, "get it! Tame it. It is worth more thanriches to us, that dog."
So she, coaxing it, at last got her hands upon its head, though it wouldnot wag its tail or make any sign of friendship. It was a wolfishmongrel Indian dog. One side of its head was cut or crushed, and itseemed that possibly some squaw had struck it, with intent perhaps toput it into the kettle, but with aim so bad that the victim had escaped.
To savage man, a dog is of nearly as much use as a horse. Now we had ahorse and a dog, and food, and weapons, and shelter. It was time weshould depart, and we now were well equipped to travel. But whither?
"It seems to me," said I, "that our safest plan is to keep away from thePlatte, where the Indians are more apt to be. If we keep west until wereach the mountains, we certainly will be above Laramie, and then if wefollow south along the mountains, we must strike the Platte again, andso find Laramie, if we do not meet any one before that time." It may beseen how vague was my geography in regard to a region then little knownto any.
"My father will have out the whole Army looking for us," said EllenMeriwether to me. "We may be found any day."
But for many a day we were not found. We traveled westward day afterday, she upon the horse, I walking with the dog. We had a rude travois,which we forced our horse to draw, and our little belongings we carriedin a leathern bag, slung between two lodge poles. The dog we did not yetload, although the rubbed hair on his shoulders showed that he was usedto harness.
At times on these high rolling plains we saw the buffalo, and when ourdried meat ran low I paused for food, not daring to risk waste of ourscanty ammunition at such hard game as antelope. Once I lay at a pathnear a water hole in the pocket of a half-dried stream, and killed twobuffalo cows. Here was abundant work for more than two days, cutting,drying, scraping, feasting. Life began to run keen in our veins, inspite of all. I heard her sing, that day, saw her smile. Now our worldlygoods were increasing, so I cut down two lodge poles and made a littletravois for the dog. We had hides enough now for a small tent, needingonly sufficient poles.
"Soon," said she to me, "we will be at Laramie."
"Pray God," said I to myself, "that we never may see Laramie!" I havesaid that I would set down the truth. And this is the truth; I wasbecoming a savage. I truly wanted nothing better. I think this mighthappen to many a man, at least of that day.
We forded several streams, one a large one, which I now think must havebeen the North Platte; but no river ran as we fancied the Platte mustrun. So we kept on, until we came one day to a spot whence we sawsomething low and unmoving and purple, far off in the northwest. This westudied, and so at length saw that it was the mountains. At last ourjourneying would change, at least, perhaps terminate ere long. A fewmore days would bring us within touch of this distant range, which, as Isuppose now, might possibly have been a spur of what then were stillcalled the Black Hills, a name which applied to several ranges far tothe west and south of the mountains now so called. Or perhaps these werepeaks of the mountains later called the Laramie Range.
Then came a thing hard for us to bear. Our horse, hobbled as usual forthe night, and, moreover, picketed on a long rope I had made frombuffalo hides, managed some time in the night to break his hobbles andin some way to pull loose the picket pin. When we saw that he was gonewe looked at each other blankly.
"What shall we do?" she asked me in horror. For the first time I saw hersit down in despair. "We are lost! What shall we do?" she wailed.
I trailed the missing horse for many miles, but could only tell he wasgoing steadily, lined out for some distant point. I dared not pursue himfarther and leave her behind. An hour after noon I returned and sullenlythrew myself on the ground beside her at our little bivouac. I couldnot bear to think of her being reduced to foot travel over all thesecruel miles. Yet, indeed, it now must come to that.
"We have the dog," said I at length. "We can carry a robe and a littlemeat, and walk slowly. I can carry a hundred pound pack if need be, andthe dog can take twenty-five--"
"And I can carry something," she said, rising with her old courage. "Itis my part." I made her a pack of ten pounds, and soon seeing that itwas too heavy, I took it from her and threw it on my own.
"At least I shall carry the belt," she said. And so she took my belt,with its flask and bullet pouch, the latter now all too scantily filled.
Thus, sore at heart, and somewhat weary, we struggled on through thatafternoon, and sank down beside a little water hole. And that night,when I reached to her for my belt that we might again make our fire, shewent pale and cried aloud that she had lost it, and that now indeed wemust die!
I could hardly comfort her by telling her that on the morrow I wouldcertainly find it. I knew that in case I did not our plight indeed wasserious. She wept that night, wept like a child, starting and moaningoften in her sleep. That night, for the first time, I took her in myarms and tried to comfort her. I, being now a savage, prayed to theGreat Spirit, the Mystery, that my own blood might not be as water, thatmy heart might be strong--the old savage prayers of primitive manbrought face to face with nature.
When morning came I told her I must go back on the trail. "See, now,what this dog has done for us," I said. "The scratches on the ground ofhis little travois poles will make a trail easy to be followed. I musttake him with me and run back the trail. For you, stay here by the waterand no matter what your fears, do not move from here in any case, evenif I should not be back by night."
"But what if you should not come back!" she said, her terror showing inher eyes.
"But I will come back," I replied. "I will never leave you. I would risefrom my grave to come back to you. But the time has not yet come to liedown and die. Be strong. We shall yet be safe."
So I was obliged to turn and leave her sitting alone there, the graysweep of the merciless Plains all about her. Another woman would havegone mad.
But it was as I said. This dog was our savior. Without his nose I couldnot have traced out the little travois trail; but he, seeing what wasneeded, and finding me nosing along and doubling back and seeking on thehard ground, seemed to know what was required, or perhaps himselfthought to go back to some old camp for food. So presently he trottedalong, his ears up, his nose straight ahead; and I, a savage, dependedupon a creature still a little lower in the order of life, and thatcreature proved a faithful servant.
We went on at a swinging walk, or trot, or lope, as the ground said, andate up the distance at twice the speed we had used the day before. In acouple of hours I was close to where she had taken the belt, and so atlast I saw the dog drop his nose and sniff. There were the missingriches, priceless beyond gold--the little leaden balls, the powder, dryin its horn, the little rolls of tow, the knife swung at the girdle! Iknelt down there on the sand, I, John Cowles, once civilized and nowheathen, and I raised my frayed and ragged hands toward the Mystery, andbegged that I might be forever free of the great crime of thanklessness.Then, laughing at the dog, and loping on tireless as when I was a boy, Iran as though sickness and weakness had never been mine, and presentlycame back to the place where I had left her.
She saw me coming. She ran out to meet me, holding out her arms.... Isay she came, holding out her arms to me.
"Sit down here by my side," I commanded her. "I must talk to you. Iwill--I will."
"Do not," she implored of me, seeing what was in my mind. "Ah, whatshall I do! You are not fair!"
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p; But I took her hands in mine. "I can endure it no longer," I said. "Iwill not endure it."
She looked at me with her eyes wide--looked me full in the face withsuch a gaze as I have never seen on any woman's face.
"I love you," I said to her. "I have never loved any one else. I cannever love any one again but you." I say that I, John Cowles, had atthat moment utterly forgotten all of life and all of the world exceptthis, then and there. "I love you!" I said, over and over again to her.
She pushed away my arm. "They are all the same," she said, as though toherself.
"Yes, all the same," I said. "There is no man who would not love you,here or anywhere."
"To how many have you said that?" she asked me, frowning, as thoughabsorbed, studious, intent on some problem.
"To some," I said to her, honestly. "But it was never thus."
She curled her lip, scorning the truth which she had asked now that shehad it. "And if any other woman were here it would be the same. It isbecause I am here, because we are alone, because I am a woman--ah, thatis neither wise nor brave nor good of you!"
"That is not true! Were it any other woman, yes, what you say might betrue in one way. But I love you not because you are a woman. It isbecause you are Ellen. You would be the only woman in the world, nomatter where we were nor how many were about us. Though I could choosefrom all the world, it would be the same!"
She listened with her eyes far away, thinking, thinking. "It is the oldstory," she sighed.
"Yes, the old story," I said. "It is the same story, the old one. Thereare the witnesses, the hills, the sky."
"You seem to have thought of such things," she said to me, slowly. "Ihave not thought. I have simply lived along, enjoying life, notthinking. Do we love because we are but creatures? I cannot be lovedso--I will not be! I will not submit that what I have sometimes dreamedshall be so narrow as this. John Cowles, a woman must be loved forherself, not for her sex, by some one who is a man, but who is beside--"
"Oh, I have said all that. I loved you the first time I saw you--thefirst time, there at the dance."
"And forgot, and cared for another girl the next day.' She argued thatall over again.
"That other girl was you," I once more reiterated.
"And again you forgot me."
"And again what made me forget you was yourself! Each time you were thatother girl, that other woman. Each time I have seen you you have beendifferent, and each time I have loved you over again. Each day I see younow you are different, Ellen, and each day I love you more. How manytimes shall I solve this same problem, and come to the same answer. Itell you, the thing is ended and done for me."
"It is easy to think so here, with only the hills and skies to see andhear."
"No, it would be the same," I said. "It is not because of that."
"It is not because I am in your power?" she said. She turned and facedme, her hands on my shoulders, looking me full in the eye. The act abrave one.
"Because I am in your power, John Cowles?" she asked. "Because byaccident you have learned that I am a comely woman, as you are a strongman, normal, because I am fit to love, not ill to look at? Because acruel accident has put me where my name is jeopardized forever--in asituation out of which I can never, never come clean again--is _that_why? Do you figure that I am a woman because you are a man? Is that why?Is it because you know I am human, and young, and fit for love? Ah, Iknow that as well as you. But I am in your hands--I am in your power.That is why I say, John Cowles, that you must try to think, that youmust do nothing which shall make me hate you or make you hate yourself."
"I thought you missed me when I was gone," I murmured faintly.
"I did miss you," she said. "The world seemed ended for me. I neededyou, I wanted you--" I turned toward her swiftly. "Wanted me?"
"I was glad to see you come back. While you were gone I thought. Yes,you have been brave and you have been kind, and you have been strong.Now I am only asking you still to be brave, and kind, and strong."
"But do you love me, will you love me--can you--"
"Because we are here," she said, "I will not answer. What is right, JohnCowles, that we should do."
Woman is strongest when armored in her own weakness. My hands fell tothe ground beside me. The heats vanished from my blood. I shuddered. Icould not smile without my mouth going crooked, I fear. But at last Ismiled as best I could, and I said to her, "Ellen! Ellen!" That was allI could find to say.