Judith of the Plains Part 25

"Do anything you blame please," he said, more by way of humoring her than from faith in her stratagem. He felt strong enough to face his destiny, to meet it in a way worthy of his mother's people.

Alida seemed under a spell in her preparations for the night. Each thing she did as she had done it in her dream the night before; it was as if she were constrained by a power greater than her will to fulfil a sinister prophecy. Yet now and then she would stop and wonder if she might not break the spell by doing things differently from the way she had dreamed them. Her hand grasped the k.n.o.b of the door uncertainly, and she swung it to and fro on its creaking hinges, while her mind seemed likewise to sway hither and thither. Should she fasten the door and push the bureau against it, as it had been in the dream, or should she leave door and windows gaping wide for them? And then, as one who walks and does familiar things in sleep, she shut the door and turned the key. Jim smiled at her, but she could no longer look at him. One of the children wailed fretfully from the room beyond. Sleep had become a scourge in the stifling heat. One by one she lowered the windows and nailed them down; then she dragged the brown bureau against the door, took the brace of six-shooters from the wall, and sat down with Jim to wait.

"What are you going to do with them toys?" he asked, as he saw her examine the chambers of one of the six-shooters.

"You ain't going to let yourself be caught like a rat in a hole, are you?"

she reproached him.

"'Ain't we agreed that it's best to keep onpleasant family matters from the kids?" He smiled at her bravely. "The remembrance of what we're antic.i.p.atin' ain't going to help young Jim to get to Congress when his time comes, nor it ain't going to help the girls get good husbands, either. This here country ain't what it was in the way of liberality since it's got to be a State."

"Sh-sh-s.h.!.+" she said. "Is that the range-cattle stampedin' after water, or is it-" They listened. The furniture in the room crackled; there was not a fibre of it to which the resistless heat had not penetrated. On the range the cattle bellowed in their thirst-torture; in the intervals of their cries sounded something far off, but regular as the thumping of a s.h.i.+p's screw. The woman did not need an answer to her question. The steady trampling of hoofs came m.u.f.fled through the dead air, but the sound was unmistakable. She put her arms about the man's neck and crushed him to her with all her woman strength. "Oh, Jim, you've been a good man to me!"

"Steady-steady." He strained her close to him. "They'd be, by the sound of them, on the straight bit of road now, before the turn. Soon we'll hear their hoofs ring hollow as they cross the plank bridge."

His plainsman's faculty was as keen as ever; his calculation of the hors.e.m.e.n's distance was made as though he were the least concerned. All Alida's courage had gone, with the dread thing at hand. She clung to him, dazed.

"They're sober, all right enough."

"How do you know?"

"They'd be cursing and bellowing if they were drunk."

The hoofs rang hollow on the little plank bridge that crossed the ditch about a stone's-throw from the door. Not a word was said either within or without. The lynchers seemed to have drilled for their part; there was no whispering, no deferring to a leader. On they came, so close that Jim and Alida could hear the creaking of their saddles. There was the clank of spurs and the straining of leather as they dismounted, then some one knocked at the door till the warped boards rattled.

Jim could feel the thudding of Alida's heart as she clung to him, but when the knock was repeated a new courage came to her, and she left Jim and went on her knees close to the outer wall.

"Jim, is that you?" she called, and now every sense was trained to battle; her voice had even a sleepy cadence, as if she had been suddenly roused.

"That won't do at all, Miz Rodney. We know you got Jim in there, just as certain as we're out here, and we want him to come out and we'll do the thing square, otherwise he can take the consequences."

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but she, still on her knees beside the wall, gained his silence by one supplicating gesture. There was a sleepy, fretful cry from the room beyond-the noise had roused one of the children.

"Sh-sh, dear," she called. "It's only a bad dream. Go to sleep again; mother is here."

Through the warped door came sounds of the whispering voices without, drowned by the shrieking bellow of the cattle. There was not a breath of air in the suffocating room. Jim bent towards Alida:

"I'm goin out to 'em. They'll do it square, over on the cotton-woods; this rumpus'll only wake the kids."

But she shook her head imploringly, putting her finger to her lips as a sign that he was not to speak, and he had not the heart to refuse, though knowing that she made a desperate situation worse.

"Gentlemen"-she spoke in a low, distinct voice-"Jim ain't here. He's been away from home five days. There's no one here but me and the children; you've woke them up and frightened them by pounding on the door. I ask you to go away."

"If he ain't in there, will you let us search the house?" It was Henderson that spoke, Henderson, foreman of the "x.x.x" outfit.

"I can't have them frightened; please take my word and go away."

"Whas er matter, muvvy?" called Judith, sleepily. Young Jim was by this time crying l.u.s.tily. Only Topeka said nothing. With the precocity of a frontier child, she half realized the truth. She tried to comfort little Jim, though her teeth chattered in fear and she felt cold in the hot, still room. Then Judith called out, "Make papa send them away."

"Your papa ain't here, Judith." But the fight had all gone out of Alida's voice; it was the groan of an animal in a trap.

"Where's papa gone to?"

"Sh-sh, Judith! Topeka, keep your sister quiet."

It was absolutely still, within and without, for a full minute. Then Alida heard the shoving of shoulders against the door. Once, twice, thrice the lock resisted them. The brown bureau spun across the room like a child's toy. The lynchers, bursting in, saw Alida with her arms around Jim. When the last hope had gone it was instinct with her to protect him with her own body.

"Go into the kids, old girl, this is no place for you." And there was that in his voice that made her obey.

Something of the glory of old Chief Flying Hawk, riding to battle, was in the face of his grandson.

"Remember, the children ain't to know," he said to his wife; and to the lynchers, "Gentlemen, I'm ready."

XIX

"Rocked By A Hempen String"

Alida heard the mingled sounds of footsteps and hoofs grow fainter on the trail. The children looked at her to tell them why this night was different from all others-what was happening. But she could only cower among them, more terrified than they. She seemed to be shrunken from the happenings of that day. They hardly knew the little, shrivelled, gray woman who looked at them with unfamiliar eyes. Alida gazed at the little Judith, and there was something in her mother's glance that made the little one hide her face in her sister's shoulder. Young Judith it was who all unwittingly had told the lynchers that her father was at home, and in Alida's heart there was towards this child a blind, unreasoning hate.

Better had she never been born than live to do this thing!

It was the wee man, Jim, who first began to reflect resentfully on this intrusion on his slumbers. He had been sleeping well and comfortably when some grown-ups came with a lot of noise, and his father had gone away with them. It had frightened him, but his mother was here, and why should she not put him to sleep again?

"Muvvy, sing 'Dway Wolf.'" And as she paid no heed, but looked at him, white-faced and strange, he again repeated, with his most insinuating and beguiling tricks of eye and smile:

"Muvvy, sing 'Dway Wolf' for Dimmy."

The child put his head in his mother's lap, and Alida began, scarce knowing what she did:

"'The gray wolves are coming fast over the hill, Run fast, little lamb, do not baa, do not bleat, For the gray wolves are hungry, they come here to kill, And the lambs shall be scattered-'

"No, no, Jimmy, muvvy cannot sing. Oh, can't you feel, child? Judith, Judith, why were you ever born?"

It was still in the valley. Had they come to the dead cotton-woods yet?

Had they begun it? The children shrank from this gray-faced woman whom they did not know and but yet a little while had been their mother. An awful silence had fallen on the night. The range-cattle no longer bellowed in their thirst; the hot wind no longer blew from the desert. A hush not of earth nor air nor the things that were of her ken seemed to have fallen about them, m.u.f.fing the dark loneliness as by invisible flakes. The children had crouched close together for comfort. They feared the little, gray-faced woman who seemed to have stolen into their mother's place and looked at them with strange eyes.

Jimmy looked at the woman who held him, hoping his mother would come, and he could see them both. And while he waited he dropped off to sleep; and little Judith, hiding her head on Topeka's shoulder, that she might not see the look in those accusing eyes, presently dreamed that all was well with her again; and Topeka reflected that if her mother should ask her in the morning whether she had dreamed last night, she would have a fine tale to tell of men riding up, and loud voices, and trying of the door, and father going away with them. Her mother had questioned her this morning when nothing had happened to warrant it. Surely she would ask again to-morrow, and Topeka could tell-she could tell-all.

Alida looked at her three sleeping children-his children, and yet they could sleep. Into her mind came that cry of utter desolation, "Could ye not watch with me one hour?" And G.o.d had been deaf to Him, His son, even as He was deaf to her.

The children were sleeping easily. The hush that had hung like a pall over the valley had not lifted. Had they done it? Was it over yet? She went to the door and listened. Surely the silence that wrapped the valley was a thing apart. It was as no other silence that she could remember. It was still, still, and yet there was vibration to it, like the m.u.f.fled roar within a sh.e.l.l. She strained her ears-was that the sound of hors.e.m.e.n going down the trail? No, no, it was only the beating of her foolish heart that would not be still, but beat and fluttered and would not let her hear.

Yes, surely, that was the sound of hoofs. It was over then-they were going.

She would go and look for him. Perhaps it would not be too late-she had heard of such things. A dynamic force consumed her. She had no consciousness of her body. Her feet and hands did things with incredible swiftness-lighted a lantern, selected a knife, ran to the corral for an old ladder that had been there when they took possession of the deserted house; and through all her frantic haste she could feel this new force, as it were, lick up the red blood in her veins, burn her body to ashes as it gave her new power. She felt that never again would she have need of meat and drink and sleep. This force would abide with her till all was over, then leave her, like the whitened bones of the desert.