'Laramie' by Charles King (best short novels txt) 📕

"That is just what stings and torments me so, Mrs. Miller," answered McLean, with unexpected energy. "That is what weighs upon my heart and soul. She has seen very little of the world. She is young, inexperienced, and motherless. Her father does not like me, and I know it, and simply because he saw my deep interest in her, and, having other views, he was determined to break it off in the bud. What possible right have I—poor, friendless, utterly without position or influence, saddled with this mountain of uncontracted debt—to seek to win such a girl as she for my wife? What have I to offer but misfortune and trouble? No, Mrs. Miller, it is all useless. If I have stood between her and such a future as he could offer her, God forgive me. I did not know the millstone that was to be hung about my neck. I did not dream of his existence. I just drifted in, and now I could pray heaven she hasn't."

Again he turned away, with something very like a sob in his weak voice, and buried his face in his arm.

"Mac," she persisted, "I'm not going to sit here and see you accusing yourself of wrong-doing in this way. Let me tell you that if she does care for you, and I believe she does, Nellie Bayard would rather be your wife in one room and a kitchen than live in opulence in New York or Chicago. What's more, she would wait for you loyally, faithfully, until you were thoroughly on your feet again, with this debt paid and a little laid by. As for Dr. Bayard's plans for her, he is worldly enough, of course, to seek such wealth as Roswell Holmes's for his daughter; but the man himself is changing his mind. You should have seen him devoting himself to Miss Forrest out here one evening. Now, there's a girl who would appreciate his money and spend it for him like a duchess."

But McLean was silent.

"Did you get to know her at all well?" asked Mrs. Miller presently.

"Very slightly indeed."

"And yet, living in the same building with her, as you and Mr. Hatton did, I fancied you would see her quite frequently."

"I didn't. I believe Hat did."

"Yes—his rooms being up-stairs, and opening on that gallery where she used to promenade so much, it was natural that he should see more of her. It worried Jeannie Bruce not a little. I never knew whether she cared for Mr. Hatton or not until Miss Forrest took to parading up and down in front of his rooms."

"Hat says she never came as far as his window. She turned about before she reached the hall-door always."

"Tell me, Mac. Do you think Mr. Hatton liked her?"

McLean's pale face flushed a little. He felt that questions were trembling on her lips which he did not wish to answer, and the one thing he could not do was equivocate.

"I'd rather you'd wait and ask him," he finally said.

"Oh! I don't mean as he likes Janet Bruce; what I meant was—well, you or he or both of you—did you feel that you—well—trusted her?"

McLean fairly squirmed in his nest under the sheets. This was just the drift he had dreaded. How he wished Weeks would come in and tell her they were talking too much and would be sure to throw him into a fever again, but no Weeks was to be had; he had gone home for a rest, and probably would not appear again until afternoon. He glanced uneasily into the front room.

"No! The hospital attendant is not there, Mac. I sent him off on an errand. You need not be afraid of his hearing,—and, besides, he has heard you talk about her. I thought you ought to know."

"Has heard me talk about her,—Miss Forrest? What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Miller?" And now he had turned toward her, his face filled with anxiety and alarm.

"Don't worry, Mac. I found it out instantly. You know he is a married man, and his wife has been my laundress for over five years. You talked about her when you were delirious,—not very much,—nothing—nothing I did not already know; but Dr. Weeks turned him away and took care of you from the moment Lachlan went for him and told him you were talking wild, and of course his wife wormed out of him why he was not needed for two days, and, little by little, what you had said. Luckily she came right to me, and I put a stopper on her tongue."

"My God! My God! What have I done?" moaned McLean, as he threw his arm over his eyes. "What did I say? What have I revealed, Mrs. Miller? I must know."

"Nothing; again I assure you, nothing that we—that is—I—did not already have good cause to suspect and know. It came to me from Robinson, Mac, before you dreamed of anything of the kind, so you are in no wise responsible. She must have a mania, there's no other explanation for it; but we're going to keep it all quiet. No one is to know until Captain Forrest gets back at the end of the campaign. Then he will be told, and restitution be made. But isn't it dreadful?"

For all answer McLean would only shake his head. He was stunned—horrified at thought of the wild revelation he had made. He could not bear to speak of it. Yet now he felt that he must know how much he had let fall.

"It is the last time that fellow Lachlan shall enter this room," he muttered between his teeth. "I'll have Weeks send him back to his company this very day."

"No, don't blame Lachlan. The poor fellow meant no harm. He only told it as evidence of the extremity of your delirium. He does not dream the truth with regard to her, though I fear his wife does. Why, Mac, if they had not come away from Robinson when they did, the whole post would have been in an uproar. Things were disappearing all the time,—money and valuables,—and since they left there it has all stopped, but has begun here. You and Mr. Hatton are not the only losers. Mr. Holmes confessed to me that his porte-monnaie had been stolen from his fur overcoat the night we were there at the doctor's, and I saw her standing by it, patting it and pretending to admire it; and I know that she has been sending registered letters away, and that bills are constantly coming to her from the East. Mrs. Griffin told me so. And then Mr. Hatton—well, you know he has confided in me in ever so many things—he told me a good deal before he went away. No, indeed, Mac. It isn't that you have revealed anything I did not know. It is only that I felt you ought to be told of it."

But McLean could not be comforted. "Who else knows of this?" he presently asked.

"I have told the major. We had talked it all over before your illness. Mrs. Bruce knows, for she too gets letters from Robinson. And perhaps there are one or two who suspect, but that is all. Mr. Hatton is the one who knows most about it all, and has most reason to believe in her guilt. When did you become convinced?"

"I don't know,—that night Hatton told me, I suppose,—the night the major came to see me, and Hatton begged off. You know about it?"

"The major told me he had gone to see you about some evidence you had; Mr. Hatton met him at the door and explained that you were asleep. Was that the night you mean, Mr. McLean? Was that the night that you became convinced that she was the thief?"

"That was the night."

"But what happened then to convince you? I ought to know. It is far better that I should know than have this cruel half belief."

"I—Mrs. Miller, forgive me, but it is a matter I cannot speak of. Hatton and I 'shook hands' on it we would say nothing to any one of our knowledge, and I cannot speak of it. Wait until he returns. He ought to be back to-morrow. You know he only went with the guard to the stockade up on Sage Creek. It's only three days' march. If he will tell you, well and good; but I will not say anything more,—just now, at any rate."

There came a quick step along the wooden piazza without, a tap at the door, and Dr. Weeks peered in. Glancing over her shoulder, Mrs. Miller saw that his face was white,—that he was beckoning to her; and she presently arose and went into the front room. She heard hoof-beats passing the house at a rapid trot. She heard hurrying feet and excited voices, and then the young doctor stretched forth his hand at the door-way and led her into the hall.

"Stay with McLean as much as you can, and keep this from him if possible. A courier is just in who got through, God knows how, during the night. Hatton and his party were corralled yesterday beyond Rawhide Butte. Several of them are killed already. The cavalry start at once, and I go with them."

XV.

For a man who prided himself on the ease and self-possession which made him so distinguished a feature in society, Dr. Bayard could not but confess to himself that the sudden orders which sent his assistant away left him in a somewhat embarrassing position. The care of Weeks's patients now devolved upon the senior, and among these patients was one who much needed his attention, but whom he shrank from seeing,—Randall McLean,—and another whom he greatly desired to attend, but who shrank from seeing him,—Miss Forrest.

Mrs. Miller was still at the bedside of the former when Dr. Bayard nerved himself to make the necessary call. To his great relief, the young soldier had fallen into a fitful doze and was unconscious of his presence. Mrs. Miller, in low tones, described his condition; and the doctor was content to go without other examination, though he left directions with the attendant as to what was to be done when the patient awaked. Next he repaired to Mrs. Forrest's rooms, and was measurably soothed and flattered by her appreciative reception. He bade her pay no attention to the rumors rushing through the post, and dinned into her affrighted ears by Celestine, as to the probable fate of Hatton and his little command. He pointed out to her, as he had to other ladies whom he had been summoned to attend that gruesome afternoon, that it was not the first time Mr. Hatton had been "corralled" by the Sioux, and that he had always successfully kept them at respectful distance, and his own command under cover, until the rescuers in shape of cavalry could reach the scene. It is true that in this instance the attack seemed to have been fierce and sudden, and the courier gave the names of two men who were killed instantly; but, said he, as that attack was repelled, and Hatton lost no time in getting his men into a little hollow, he believed and Major Miller believed that they could "stand off" the Indians indefinitely. The cavalry would certainly reach them early in the morning, and that would be the end of it. Forty-two hours wasn't very long compared with other sieges those infantrymen had sustained in escorting trains through the Indian country, if they only had water for their wounded, all would go well. There was the main trouble, said the doctor. What with the Niobrara and the Rawhide and the little streams running into them, and the spring at Box Elder, close to the road, there was so much water along the route that possibly they had neglected to fill the barrel on their wagon and the canteen