Part 11 (1/2)

”I do not know. But yonder lies the only being who ever befriended me; and somehow I get lonesome when I get far away from her grave. And I go round and round, like the sun around the world, and come back to where I started from.”

”But you must go--go far away--go now.”

”Do you know what you are saying? I was never outside of this. All would be strange. I would be lost, lost there. And then, do you not imagine they are waiting for me there--everywhere? Look at my face! This tinge of Indian blood, that all men abhor and fear, and call treacherous and b.l.o.o.d.y. Across my brow at my birth was drawn a brand that marks me forever--a brand--a brand as if it were the brand of Cain.”

The man bows his head, and turns away.

Slowly and timidly Carrie approaches him, and she lays her hand on his arm and looks in his face. The boy still watches by the door.

”But you will fly from here?”

His arm drops over her hair, down to her shoulder, and he draws her to his breast, as she looks up tenderly in his face, and pleads:

”You will go now--at once? For you will die here.”

”Ah, I will die here.” He says this with a calm and dogged determination. ”Carrie, I have one wish, one request--only one. I know you are weak and helpless yourself, and can't do much, and I ought not to ask you to do anything.”

Stumps has left the door as he hears the man mention that there is something to be done, and stands by their side.

”Whatever it is you ask, John Logan, we will do it--we will do it.”

The girl says this with a firmness that convinces him that it will be done.

”We will do it! we will do it! so help me, we will do it!” blubbers Stumps.

”What is it, John Logan, we can do?”

”I will not fly from here.” He looks down tenderly into their faces.

Then he lifts his face. It is dark and terrible, and his lips are set with resolution. ”I will die here. It may be to-night, it may be to-morrow. It may be as I turn to go out at that door they will send their bullets through my heart; it may be while I kneel in the snow at my mother's grave. But, sooner or later, it will come--it will come!”

”But please, John Logan, what is it we can do?”

Her voice is tremulous, and her eyes stream with tears.

”Carrie, I am a man--a strong man--and ought not to ask anything of a helpless girl. But I have no other friend. I have had no friends. All the days of my life have been dark and lonely. And now I am about to die, Carrie, I want you to see that I am buried by my mother yonder. I am so weary, and I could rest there. And then she, poor broken-hearted mother, she might not be so lonesome then. Do you promise?”

”I do promise!” and the boy echoes this scarcely audible but determined answer.

”Thank you--thank you! And now good night. I must be going, lest I draw suspicion on you. Good night, good night; G.o.d bless you, Carrie!”

He presses her to his heart, hastily embraces her, and tearing himself away, stoops and kisses the boy as he pa.s.ses to the door. Drawing his tattered s.h.i.+rt closer about his shoulders, and turning his face as if to conceal his emotion, he lays his hand upon the latch to suddenly dart forth.

Two dark figures pa.s.s the window, and in a moment more the latch-string is clutched by a rough, unsteady hand from without.

”Here, here!” cries the girl, as she springs back to the dingy curtain that divides off a portion of the cabin into a bed-room. ”Here! in here!

Quick! quick!” as she draws the curtain aside, and lets it fall over the retreating fugitive. Forty-nine and Gar Dosson enter. The former is drunk, and therefore dignified and silent. His companion is drunk, and therefore garrulous and familiar. Wine floats a man's real nature nearly to the surface.

Forty-nine lifts his hat, bows politely and respectfully to the children, brushes his hat with his elbow as he meanders across the floor to the peg in the wall, but cannot quite trust himself to speak.

”Hullo, Carats!” cries Gar Dosson, as he chucks her under the chin.

”Knowed I was coming, didn't you? Got yourself fixed up. Pretty, ain't she?” and he winks a blood-shot eye toward Stumps. ”And when is it going to be my Carats? Pretty soon, now, eh?” and he walks, or rather totters, aside.