CHAPTER XXVI

Jim waited anxiously for Tabywana, to enlist his services in protecting Nat-u-ritch. Impatient of delay, he started towards the bunk-house. On his way he met Bill, who informed him that Bud and his men had gone. Tactfully, Bill avoided any reference to Bud's last threats, and Jim was comforted with the news of the Sheriff's departure. It only remained now for him to send Tabywana in search of Nat-u-ritch. He found the Chief and Baco, and in a few words told Tabywana that Nat-u-ritch had gone into the hills because he had decided to send the child away, that she was very unhappy, and that he wished him to go to her. Unmoved, the Indian listened, and only at the end of the words that Baco was translating for him made answer that Jim had spoiled Nat-u-ritch, that she must obey her master, and that he would insist upon her returning at once. But Jim explained that he wished her to remain hidden a little longer, until he was sure that the Sheriff had really left the neighboring country, as he was fearful that Bud Hardy meant mischief. Through Baco and Tabywana he would send her food and clothing, he added. Gradually he made the Chief see that this way was the wisest, and Tabywana left, breathing vengeance on Bud, and swearing that a war should follow if the Sheriff dared to arrest Nat-u-ritch.

Jim found the boys assembled before the cabin on his return, while Bill was directing the hitching of the horses to a wagon that was to carry Diana and Hal to Fort Duchesne.

"Everything ready, Bill?" he said, bravely.

"Yes, sir, everything ready."

Jim called to Hal and Diana, who came from the house. He picked the boy up in his arms and a sudden terror overcame him. He must be alone a moment, to gain the courage necessary to face this last ordeal.

"Take him, Bill," he said, "while I go and get his bag," and he went into the cabin.

The foreman nodded. He held the boy high up in his strong arms while the men crowded around him. He must try to make it easy for the boss; there must be no tears. Diana and Sir John, from under the porch where they were standing, watched the men with the child, and during the years that followed it was a memory that often recurred to them.

"Fellers," Bill began, as he enthroned Hal on his shoulder—"fellers, he's agoin' to Duchesne—savvy? Gee whiz, don't I wish I was goin' to see the soldiers and flags and drums and brass bands and everything! Ain't he goin' for a fine time!"

The child answered with glee, "Sure," and the men's laughter rang out at the child's use of their own mode of expression.

Carrying the bag, Jim came from the house. "It won't hurt anybody to carry his belongings; it's almost empty."

Shorty sniffed as he peered into it. "'Tain't very full." Then he threw into it the old jewel-box with the trinket which Jim had given him. Jim saw and understood. The men had come for their final leave-taking of the boy; they wished to prove that their animosity was over, that they recognized that misfortune had come to them through no fault of his.

"Hold on, Shorty." Jim tried to prevent the little fellow from getting the valise, but Shorty took the bag out of his hand as he snapped:

"That's Hal's trunk, ain't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"It ain't yourn." Ever aggressive, Shorty finished, "You don't want to fight the outfit the day your boy's agoin' away." And he pushed Jim aside as he carried the valise over to Grouchy, who was holding up a villainous-looking jack-knife to the child.

"Say, old man," the slow, lumbering ranchman labored, "you wanted this for a long time. I wouldn't give it to you, 'cause I was afraid you might cut yourself, but I've been a-savin' it for you. When you get bigger, you can make things with it."

Grouchy threw the knife into the bag, while Shorty, deeply touched, muttered, "That's the longest speech Grouchy ever pulled off." After all, the box with its trinket had been a gift to him; he must give something to the child that had been his very own.

"Say," he began, "I'm in on this; he's admired my saddle for a long time."

But Jim protested, "Shorty, what on earth is he to do with it?"

And Shorty answered, as he flung his saddle into the wagon. "I'll bet they 'ain't got nothin' to touch it in England."

Bill approvingly observed, "That's right; he's a cow-boy and needs a real saddle."

Quietly Andy pressed forward and diffidently began, "Und say—und say—und sure—the boy you know—und, by golly, he's got to have something to remember old Andy by—fadder or no fadder." As he spoke he drew from his belt his revolver, carefully emptied it, and held it up to Hal, whose eyes gleamed with joy at this especially desired gift. "Maybe dot don'd tickle him, eh?"

"Andy, is that sure for me?" Hal gasped.

"Sure," Andy said. "Und say, old man, it's a good one—und say, it's the best ever; und, by golly, been a good frient to me, und come in handy some day for you; und you remember old Andy by dot better than anything."

Shorty opened the bag and dropped the revolver in. The German held out his arms and in a trembling voice said, "Kiss me, you rascal," and the boy jumped into his arms.

Bill, who had been listening and watching the men, was tugging at his waistcoat. "And here's an old watch with a horse-hair chain—he's had his eye on it for some moons. He'd 'a' had it before," he explained confidentially to Jim, who was trying to prevent Bill from loosening it, "only it belonged to my mother." He knelt down on the ground and opened his arms. "And now, old man, give me a long hug. Don't ever forget your side-partner." Bill felt he must be careful. The men were beginning to move away, and surreptitiously to dig their knuckles into eyes that were showing their emotion.

Elated and excited by what seemed play to him, Hal said, as he patted the foreman, "Be good, Bill," and the men laughed as Bill answered:

"Sure I will—sure—sure."

The horses began to stamp impatiently as they grew restive under the attack of the flies. Diana looked at Sir John. They must start shortly, she knew; but who would make Jim realize that the final farewell to the child must be spoken. Petrie, who through a feeling of delicacy had kept away from Jim and the boy all morning, came to Sir John and Diana with a whispered message from the driver, who was anxious to make a start.

As though divining their thoughts, Jim went to Bill, who was still holding Hal. He threw his arm around the big fellow's shoulder. "Aren't you goin' to drive to the fort, Bill?"

"No, I think you need me more than he does."

"Oh, I'll be all right."

Jim's eyes searched the child's face. For the boy's sake he must control the aching sense of desolation that beset him.

The cow-punchers silently made their way up to the wagon and began adjusting its contents. No one noticed the dark, tragic face of Nat-u-ritch peering out of the loft door down at the child and the strangers that stood prepared to carry him away. Returning a short time before from her hiding-place by another trail, she had eluded her father, and crept into the barn while the men were absorbed in bestowing their farewell gifts on the child. Hidden among the bales of straw, she looked down on the scene. In her eyes was an almost fanatical calm, so stoically did she watch the child. She seemed in some dumb way to have reached a solution of her problem, but in conquering herself she had paid heavily, and this abnormal expression of hopeless resignation which her eyes held betrayed a terrible possibility.

Bill waited for Jim to speak. As he held the dark little face between his hands, Jim softly whispered, "I wish his mother could see him once before he goes; but nothing would ever reconcile her to it, I suppose.

"It's a heap sight better for her as it is," Bill brusquely said. "I told Charley to drive like hell; the quicker they're out of sight the better." Bill turned to the porch, where Sir John Applegate, Malcolm Petrie, and Diana stood, and his glance told them that they must end the strain and get away at once.

"Well, Jim," Sir John said, "our horses are tied to the corral; everything is ready." He took Jim's hand in both of his. "Good-bye, Jim; sorry you're not going with us."

"Good-bye, John," was all that Jim said.

Jim was conscious that the last moments he had dreaded were becoming a tragic reality. There stood Diana ready to start on her journey; on the other side of him Petrie advanced with out-stretched hand; while at the back of the yard he could see the boys clustered around the wagon waiting for the final moment. He realized that the sun was rising higher and higher in the heavens and that it was growing hotter. He must send them away. A strange veil, that dimmed all about him, seemed to hang between him and his surroundings. Finally he turned to Petrie, who stood on the other side of Bill. "Good-bye, Mr. Petrie." Jim held his hand out to the lawyer, in front of the child, and in a low voice said, "You've won your case against me; see that my boy gets all that is coming to him."

Petrie gravely answered, "You may trust me, sir." Then he joined the others at the wagon.

Jim stretched out his hands in silence to the boy. The child jumped from Bill's shoulder and nestled against his father. Bill left them; only Diana remained near Jim.

"And now, old man, kiss your daddy."

A troubled look crept over the child's face. It had all been great fun, but now—he was growing frightened. His hold tightened around his father's neck. Jim quickly saw that he must divert the boy's mind.

"Take good care of Cousin Diana, won't you?"

At this appeal the child, who was a masterful little fellow, used to being treated as an equal by the men on the ranch, answered, "Sure." And as Diana came to him he leaned down, smiled, and said, "I like you."

Diana smiled as she kissed him, and said, "And I love you, God bless you!"

She could scarcely bear the look of pain in Jim's eyes as they went from the boy's face to hers, then back again to the boy. In silence they grasped each other's hands, then Diana walked over to Bill, who tenderly helped her into the wagon.

Jim was alone with his boy. There was much that he wished to say, but he dare not speak. He could see the wistful look beginning to return to the child's face.

"Good," he said, lightly. "And now be off." Close he pressed the child's face to his lips. "There's a brave boy—with a smile and hurrah!"

How could he place the child in the wagon beside the waiting woman, whose face was turned away to hide her pain! His voice dropped low and almost broke. "Some day, when you have a son of your own, you'll know what this means," they heard him whisper. "But no Wynnegate ever was a quitter, and so we'll take things as they come."

Still no one turned to him. Diana felt the child being lifted in beside her and the baby fingers fasten around hers. She turned her face to Jim, but almost savagely he called:

"Drive on, and never look back."

And Charley, who had remembered Bill's words "to drive like hell," with a crack and a slap let the impatient animals go. The men started after the wagon.

"Give 'em a cheer, boys," Jim cried, and the place rang with their shouts.

Petrie and Sir John galloped alongside the wagon, with Grouchy, Andy, Shorty, and Bill following as fast as they could run. Cheer after cheer sent back its echo, while Jim stood alone listening as he watched the swaying, rumbling cart raise its cloud of dust, through which he could barely see the men still running and hear the faint echoes of their cries of "Good-bye, Hal."

Like a symbol of broken hope, he stood, a solitary figure in the dreary, deserted place. His hands were still out-stretched towards the receding wagon. The deep-tinted, rose-colored rocks glowed more and more radiantly, until the blinding glare from the plains made Jim shield his eyes.

"There they go"—he strained forward closer to watch the wagon—"down into the ravine—out of sight—and out of my life forever."

As the dip in the land engulfed and shut out his last glimpse of the travellers, he dropped inert and clinched his arms over his head, while his heavy, dragging steps were the only sounds that broke the terrible stillness that had fallen over the yard. Almost mechanically he reached the bench and sank down upon it. Nat-u-ritch, from her hiding-place above, could hear the sobs that came from the crushed and broken man.