the stage station at white lodge was a temporary center of public interest every afternoon at three o'clock when charley hicks drove the passenger bus in from quaking-asp grove. after a due inspection of the passengers the crowd always shifted immediately to the post-office to await the distribution of mail.
a well-dressed, refined-looking woman of middle age was among the passengers on the second day after the hearing of fire bear and jim mcfann. she had little or nothing to say on the trip—perhaps for the reason that speech would have been difficult on account of the monopolizing of the conversation by the other passengers. these included two women from white lodge, one rancher from antelope mesa, and two drummers who were going to call on white lodge merchants. the conversation was unusually brisk and ran almost exclusively on the murder.
judge garford's action in releasing fire bear on the agent's promise to produce the prisoner in court was the cause of considerable criticism. the two women, the ranchman, and one of the drummers had voted that too much leniency was shown. the other drummer appealed to the stage-driver to support his contention that the court's action was novel, but entirely just.
"well, all i can say is," remarked the driver, "that if that injun shows up for trial, as per his agreement, without havin' to be sent for, it's goin' to be a hard lesson for the white race to swaller. you can imagine how much court'd be held if all white suspects was to be let go on their word that they'd show up for trial. detectives 'd be chasin' fugitives all over the universe. if that injun shows up, i'll carry the hull reservation anywheres, without tickets, if they'll promise to pay me at the end of the trip."
the driver noticed that the quiet lady in the back seat, though taking no part in the conversation, seemed to be a keenly interested listener. no part of the discussion of the murder escaped her, but she asked no questions. on alighting at white lodge, she asked the driver where she could get a conveyance to take her to willis morgan's ranch.
the driver looked at her in such astonishment that she repeated her question.
"i'd 'a' plum forgot there was such a man in this part of the country," said charley, "if it hadn't 'a' been that sometime before this here murder i carried a young woman—a stepdaughter of his'n—and she asked me the same question. i don't believe you can hire any one to take you out there, but i'll bet i can get you took by the same young feller that took this girl to the ranch. he's the indian agent, and i seen him in his car when we turned this last corner."
followed by his passenger the driver hurried back to the corner and hailed walter lowell, who was just preparing to return to the agency.
on having matters explained, lowell expressed his willingness to carry the lady passenger over to the ranch. her suitcase was put in the automobile, and soon they were on the outskirts of white lodge.
"i ought to explain," said the agent's passenger, "that my name is scovill—miss sarah scovill—and mr. morgan's stepdaughter has been in my school for years."
"i know," said lowell. "i've heard her talk about your school, and i'm glad you're going out to see her. she needs you."
miss scovill looked quickly at lowell. she was one of those women whose beauty is only accentuated by gray hair. her brow and eyes were serene—those of a dreamer. her mouth and chin were delicately modeled, but firm. their firmness explained, perhaps, why she was executive head of a school instead of merely a teacher. not all her philosophy had been won from books. she had traveled and observed much of life at first hand. that was why she could keep her counsel—why she had kept it during all the talk on the stage, even though that talk had vitally interested her. she showed the effects of her long, hard trip, but would not hear of stopping at the agency for supper.
"if you don't mind—if it is not altogether too much trouble to put you to—i must go on," she said. "i assure you it's very important, and it concerns helen ervin, and i assume that you are her friend."
lowell hastened his pace. it all meant that it would be long past the supper hour when he returned to the agency, but there was an appeal in miss scovill's eyes and voice which was not to be resisted. anyway, he was not going to offer material resistance to something which was concerned with the well being of helen ervin.
they sped through the agency, past talpers's store, and climbed the big hill just as the purples fell into their accustomed places in the hollows of the plain. as they bowled past the scene of the tragedy, lowell pointed it out, with only a brief word. his passenger gave a little gasp of pain and horror. he thought it was nothing more than might ordinarily be expected under such circumstances, but, on looking at miss scovill, he was surprised to see her leaning back against the seat, almost fainting.
"by george!" said lowell contritely, "i shouldn't have mentioned it to you."
he slowed down the car, but miss scovill sat upright and recovered her mental poise, though with evident effort.
"i'm glad you did mention it," she said, looking back as if fascinated. "only, you see, i'd been hearing about the murder most of the day in the stage, and then this place is so big and wide and lonely! please don't think i'm foolish."
"it's all because you're from the city and haven't proportioned things as yet," said lowell. "now all this loneliness seems kindly, to me. it's only crowds that seem cruel. i often envy trappers dying alone in such places. also i can understand why the indians wanted nothing better in death than to have their bodies hoisted high atop of a hill, with nothing to disturb."
as they rounded the top of the hill and the road came up behind them like an inverted curtain, miss scovill gave one last backward look. lowell saw that she was weeping quietly, but unrestrainedly. he drove on in silence until he pulled the automobile up in front of the morgan ranch.
"you'll find miss ervin here," said lowell, stepping out of the car. "this is the greek letter ranch."
if the prospect brought any new shock to miss scovill, she gave no indication of the fact. she answered lowell steadily enough when he asked her when he should call for her on her return trip.
"my return trip will be right now," she said. "i've thought it all out—just what i'm to do, with your help. please don't take my suitcase from the car. just turn the car around, and be ready to take us back to-night—i mean helen and myself. i intend to bring her right out and take her away from this place."
wonderingly lowell turned the car as she directed. miss scovill knocked at the ranch-house door. it was opened by wong, and miss scovill stepped inside. the door closed again. lowell rolled a cigarette and smoked it, and then rolled another. he was about to step out of the car and knock at the ranch-house door when helen and miss scovill came out, each with an arm about the other's waist.
miss scovill's face looked whiter than ever in the moonlight.
"something has happened," she said—"something that makes it impossible for me to go back—for helen to go back with me to-night. if you can come and get me in the morning, i'll go back alone."
lowell's amazement knew no bounds. miss scovill had made this long journey from san francisco to get helen—evidently to wrest her at once away from this ranch of mystery—and now she was going back alone, leaving the girl among the very influences she had intended to combat.
"please, mr. lowell, do as she says," interposed helen, whose demeanor was grave, but whose joy at this meeting with her teacher and foster mother shone in her eyes.
"yes, yes—you'll have our thanks all through your life if you will take me back to-morrow and say nothing of what you have seen or heard," said miss scovill.
lowell handed miss scovill's suitcase to the silent wong, who had slipped out behind the women.
"i'm only too glad to be of service to you in any way," he said. "i'll be here in the morning early enough so you can catch the stage out of white lodge."
much smoking on the way home did not clear up the mystery for lowell. nor did sitting up and weighing the matter long after his usual bedtime bring him any nearer to answering the questions: why did miss scovill come here determined to take helen ervin back to san francisco with her? why did miss scovill change her mind so completely after arriving at morgan's ranch? also why did said miss scovill betray such unusual agitation on passing the scene of the murder on the dollar sign road—a murder that she had been hearing discussed from all angles during the day?
this last question was intensified the next morning, when, with helen in the back seat with miss scovill, lowell drove back to white lodge. when they passed the scene of the murder, lowell took pains to notice that miss scovill betrayed no signs of mental strain. yet only a few hours before she had been completely unnerved at passing by this same spot.
the women talked little on the trip to white lodge. what talk there was between them was on school matters—mostly reminiscences of helen's school-days. lowell could not help thinking that they feared to talk of present matters—that something was weighing them down and crushing them into silence. but they parted calmly enough at white lodge. after the stage had gone with miss scovill, helen slipped into the seat beside lowell and chatted somewhat as she had done during their first journey over the road.
as for lowell, he dismissed for the moment all thoughts of tragedy and mystery from his mind, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the ride. they stopped at the agency, and helen called on some of the friends she had made on her first journey through. lowell showed her about the grounds, and she took keen interest in all that had been done to improve the condition of the indians.
"of course the main object is to induce the indian to work," said lowell. "the agency is simply an experimental plant to show him the right methods. it was hard for the white man to leave the comfortable life of the savage and take up work. the trouble is that we're expecting the indian to acquire in a generation the very things it took us ages to accept. that's why i haven't been in too great a hurry to shut down on dances and religious ceremonies. the indian has had to assimilate too much, as it is. it seems to me that if he makes progress slowly that is about all that can be expected of him."
"it seems to me that saving the indian from extermination, as all this work is helping to do, is among the greatest things in the world," said helen. "the sad thing to me is that these people seem so remote from all help. the world forgets so easily what it can't see."
"yes, there are no newspapers out here to get up christmas charity drives, and there are few volunteer settlement workers to be called on for help at any time. and there are no charity balls for the indian. it isn't that he wants charity so much as understanding."
"understanding often comes quickest through charity," interposed helen. "it seems to me that no one could ask a better life-work than to help these people."
"there's more to them than the world has been willing to concede," declared lowell. "i never have subscribed to parkman's theory that the indian's mind moves in a beaten track and that his soul is dormant. the more i work among them the more respect i have for their capabilities."
further talk of indian affairs consumed the remainder of the trip. lowell was an enthusiast in his work, though he seldom talked of it, preferring to let results speak for themselves. but he had found a ready and sympathetic listener. furthermore, he wished to take the girl's mind from the matters that evidently were proving such a weight. he succeeded so well that not until they reached the ranch did her troubled expression return.
"tell me," said lowell, as he helped her from the automobile, "is he—is morgan better, and is he treating you all right?"
"yes, to both questions," said she. then, after a moment's hesitation, she added: "come in. perhaps it will be possible for you to see him."
lowell stepped into the room that served as morgan's study. one wall was lined with books, greek predominating. helen knocked at the door of the adjoining room, and there came the clear, sharp, cynical voice that had aroused all the antagonism in lowell's nature on his first visit.
"come in, come in!" called the voice, as cold as ice crystals.
helen entered, and closed the door. the voice could be heard, in different modulations, but always with profound cynicism as its basis.
lowell, with a gesture of rage, stepped to the library table. he picked up a volume of shakespeare's tragedies, and noticed that all references to killing and to bloodshed in general had been blotted out. passage after passage was blackened with heavy lines in lead pencil. in astonishment, lowell picked up another volume and found that the same thing had been done. then the door opened and he heard the cutting voice say:
"tell the interesting young agent that i am indisposed. i have never had a social caller within my doors here, and i do not wish to start now."
helen came out and closed the door.
"you heard?" she asked.
"yes," replied lowell. "it's all right. i'm only sorry if my coming has caused you any additional pain or embarrassment. i won't ask you again what keeps you in an atmosphere like this, but any time you want to leave, command me on the instant."
"please don't get our talk back where it was before," pleaded helen, as they stepped out on the porch and lowell said good-bye. "i've enjoyed the ride and the talk to-day because it all took me away from myself and from this place of horrors. but i can't leave here permanently, no matter how much i might desire it."
"it's all going to be just as you say," lowell replied. "some day i'll see through it all, perhaps, but right now i'm not trying very hard, because some way i feel that you don't want me to."
she shook hands with him gratefully, and lowell drove slowly back to the agency, not forgetting his customary stop at the scene of the murder—a stop that proved fruitless as usual.
when he entered the agency office, lowell was greeted with an excited hail from ed rogers.
"here's news!" exclaimed the chief clerk. "tom redmond has telephoned over that jim mcfann has broken jail."
"how did he get away?"
"jim had been hearing all this talk about lynching. it had been coming to him, bit by bit, in the jail, probably passed on by the other prisoners, and it got him all worked up. it seems that the jailer's kid, a boy about sixteen years old, had been in the habit of bringing jim's meals. also the kid had a habit of carrying dad's keys around, just to show off. instead of grabbing his soup, jim grabbed the kid by the throat. then he made the boy unlock the cell door and jim slipped out, gagged the kid, and walked out of the jail. he jumped on a cowboy's pony in front of the jail, and was gone half an hour before the kid, who had been locked in jim's cell, managed to attract attention. tom redmond wants you to get out the indian police, because he's satisfied jim has skipped to the reservation and is hiding somewhere in the hills."
