One bright warm afternoon in October two years later,Brick Willock sat smoking his pipe before the open door of his dugout,taking advantage of the mountain-shadow that had just reached that spot.In repose,he always sat,when in the cove,with his face toward the natural roadway leading over the flat hill-island into the farther reach of the horseshoe.It was thus he hoped to prevent surprise from inimical horsemen,and it was thus that,on this particular afternoon,he detected a shadow creeping over the reddish-brown stone passage before its producing cause rode suddenly against the background of the blue sky.
At first glimpse of that shadow of a feathered head,Willock flung himself down the dirt steps leading to the open door;now,lying flat,he directed the barrel of his gun over the edge of the level ground,covering an approaching horseman.As only one Indian came into view,and as this Indian was armed in a manner as astounding as it was irresistible,Willock rose to his height of six-foot-three,lowered his weapon,and advanced to meet him.
When he was near,the Indian--the same chief from whom Willock had fled on the day of his intended housewarming--this Indian sprang lightly to the ground,and lifted from the horse that defense which he had borne in front of him on penetrating the cove;it was the child for whose sake Willock had separated himself from his kind.
At first,Willock thought he was dreaming one of those dreams that had solaced his half-waking hours,for he had often imagined how it would be if that child were in the mountains to bear him company.But however doubtful he might he regarding her,he took no chances about the Indian,but kept his alert gaze fixed on him to forestall any design of treachery.
The Indian made a sign to the little girl to remain with the horse;then he glided forward,holding somewhat ostentatiously,a filled pipe in his extended hand.He had evidently come to knit his soul to that of his white brother while the smoke from their pipes mingled on the quiet air,forming a frail and uncertain monument to the spirit of peace.
Was it you that left a pipe and tobacco on my stove two years ago?Willock asked abruptly.
Yes.You got it?We will smoke.He seated himself gravely on the ground.
Willock went into the cabin,and brought out the clay pipe.They smoked.Willock cast covert glances toward the girl.She stood slim and straight,her face rigid,her eyes fixed on the horse whose halter she held.Her limbs were bare and a blanket that descended to her knees seemed her only garment.The face of the sleeping child of five was the same,however,as this of the seven-year-old maid,except that it had grown more beautiful;the wealth of glowing brown hair made amends for all poverty of attire.
Willock was wonderfully moved;so much so that his manner was harsh,his voice gruff in the extreme.What are you going to do with that girl?he demanded.
You take her?inquired the chief passively.Yes--I take her.
Good!The Indian smoked serenely.Where'd you find her?
Not been lost.Her safe all time.Sometime in one village--here,then there,two,three--move her about.Safe all time.I never forget.There she is.You take her?
I said so,didn't I?Where's her daddy?
The Indian said nothing,only smoked,his eyes fixed on space.Willock raised his voice.Must I ask HER where he is?
Her not know.Her not seen him one,two year.She say him dead.Oh,he's dead,is he?
Him safe,too.He looked at the sun.Long trail before me.Then I leave her.I go,now.
Not much you don't go!Not THIS minute.Where is that girl's daddy?
No answer.
If he's safe,why hasn't she been with him all this time?
Me big chief.
Oh,yes,I judge you are.But that's nothing to me.I'm big chief,too.I own this corner of the universe--and I want to know about that girl's daddy.
Him great man.
Well--go ahead;tell the rest of it.
Him settle among my tribe;him never leave our country.'Big country,fat country,very rich.Him change name--everything;him one of us.Marry my daughter.THAT girl not his daughter--daughter of dead woman.Keep her away from him all time,so him never see white man,white woman,white child,forget white people,be good Indian.The girl make him think of dead woman.When a man marry again,not good to remember dead woman.Him think girl dead,but no care,no worry,no sad.SHE never his daughter--dead woman's daughter.All his path is white,no more blue.Him very glad,every day--my daughter his wife.She keep scalp-knife from his head.My braves capture--they dance about fire,she say 'No.'She marry him.Their path is white;the sky over them is white.
He rose,straight as an arrow,and turned his grim face toward the horse.
I see.And you don't want to tell me where he is,because you want him to forget he is a white man?
Him always live with my people;him marry my daughter.Tell me this;is he far away?
Very far.Many days.You never find him.You stay here,keep girl,and me and my people your friends.You come after him--not your friends!
Why,bless your heart,I never want to see that man again;your daughter is welcome to him,but I'm afraid she's got a bad bargain.This girl's just as I'd have her--unencumbered.I'm AWFUL glad you come,pardner!Whenever you happen to be down in this part of Texas,drop in and make us a visit!
With every passing moment,Willock was realizing more keenly what this amazing sequel to the past meant to him.He would not only have company in his dreary solitude,but,of all company,the very one he yearned for to comfort his heart.Give us your paw,old man--shake.You bet I'll take her!
He strode forward and addressed the girl:Are you willing to stay with me,little one?
