"WHEN THE SUN GOETH DOWN."
"Opitsah!—Klahowya."
They brought him—his dark, sad-faced brothers—bearing him on a bed of elastic poles and the skins of beasts; and walking through the lines of blue-coats as if not seeing them, they laid him on the floor of the shack, and grouped themselves clannishly in one corner, near his head. Stuart knelt with trembling hands to examine the cruel wound in the throat, and turned away, shaking his head. He could not speak. There was a slow, inward hemorrhage. He was bleeding to death.
"Determination has kept him alive," decided the Major, when the spokesman of the Kootenais told of the shot on the mountain, and how they had to carry him, with Snowcap in his arms, to the wigwam of Grey Eagle; of the council through which he kept up, and then told them he would live until he reached camp—he was so sure of it! For the body of Snowcap he had asked the horses left in the gulch, and was given them—and much more, because of the sorrow of their nation. He did not try to speak at first, only looked about, drinking in the strange kindness in all the faces; then he reached out his hand toward Rachel.
"Opitsah!" he whispered, with that smile of triumph in his eyes. "I told you I'd live—till I got back to you;" and then his eyes turned to the Major. "I got a stand-off on the hostilities—till your return—inside my coat—I wrote it." He ceased, gasping, while they drew out the "talking-paper" with the mark of Grey Eagle at the foot, and on it also were their murderous stains.
"You—treat with them now," he continued, "but—be careful. Don't shirk promises. They're easy managed now—like a lot of children, just because they shot me—when I was carrying Snowcap home. But they'll get over—that, and then—be careful. They were ready for the war-path—when I got there."
He saw Captain Holt not far from him, and through the pallor of his face a faint flush crept.
"Well, I've come back for my trial," he scowled, with something of his old defiance; and the Major knelt down and took his hand.
"That's all over, Genesee," he said gently. "It was a big mistake. There is not a soul here with anything but gratitude and admiration for you. It was your own fault you were suspected; Miss Rachel has explained. Why did you not?"
He did not answer—only looked at her, and seemed gathering his strength for some final effort.
"I want someone—to write."
He was still holding Rachel's hand. She had not said a word; only her eyes seemed to tell him enough.
Stuart came forward. "Will I do, Jack?"
Jack nodded, and more than one was astonished at the signs of grief in Stuart's face. Rachel was past speculation.
"This lady, here," said Genesee, motioning to her, "has done a heap for me—more than she knows—I reckon—and I want—to square things."
Rachel attempted to speak; but he raised his hand.
"Don't," he whispered. "Let me say it—tillikum." Then he turned to Stuart. "There's a bit of ground up in the hills; it's mine, and I want her to have it—it's Tamahnous Hill—and the old mine—write it."
She thought of that other woman, and tried to protest. Again he saw it, and pressed her hand for silence.
"I want her to have it—for she likes these hills, and—she's been mighty good to me. No one will interfere—with her claim—I reckon."
"No one shall interfere," said Stuart, toward whom he looked. Genesee smiled.
"That's right—that's all right. She won't be afraid of the—witches. And she'll tell you where I want to go—she knows." His voice was growing fainter; they could see he was almost done with the Kootenai valley.
"In my pocket is something—from the mine," he said, looking at Rachel; "it will show you—and there's another will in the bank—at Holland's—it is—for Annie."
Stuart guided his hand for the signature to the paper. Stuart wrote his own, and Hardy followed, his eyes opening in wonder at something written there.
A slight rustle in the group at the door drew the Major's attention, and a young face coming forward made him turn to Stuart.
"I had altogether forgotten that I brought someone from Holland's for you—a boy sent there to find J. S. Stuart. I knew it must be C. S. Stuart, though, and brought him along."
A dark-faced little fellow, with a sturdy, bright look, walked forward at the commander's motion; but his wondering gaze was on the man lying there with such an eager look in his eyes.
"This is Mr. Stuart," said the Major, and then turned to Genesee.
The Stuart's face was white as the wounded man's as the boy looked up at him, frankly.
"I'm—I'm Jack," he said; "and mamma sent a letter."
The letter was held out, and the boy's plucky mouth trembled a little at the lack of welcome; not even a hand-shake, and he was such a little fellow—about ten. But Stuart looked like a man who sees a ghost. He took the letter, after a pause that seemed very long to the people who watched his strange manner. Then he looked at the envelope, took the boy by the arm, and thrusting the Major blindly aside, he knelt by Genesee.
"This is for you, Jack," he said, motioning the others back by a gesture—all but Rachel—that hand-clasp was so strong! "and your namesake has brought it."
"Read it," and he motioned Rachel to take it; "read me Annie's letter."
She read it in a low tone—a repetition of that other plea that Jack had left with her, and its finale the same longing request that her boy should at last be let know his father. Stuart was in tears when she finished.
"Jack," he said, "ten years is a long time; I've suffered every hour of them. Give me the boy; let me know you are agreed at last. Give Annie back to me!"
Jack raised his hand to the bewildered boy, who took it reverently.
"You are Annie's boy?" he whispered; "kiss me for her—tell her—" And then his eyes sought Stuart's—"I held them in pawn for you. I reckon you're earnest enough now—to redeem them. What was that verse about—giving back the pledge when—the sun goes down? You read it. Mother used to read it—little mother! She will be glad, I reckon—she—"
Stuart was sobbing outright, with his arms about the boy. Rachel, with the letter in her hand, was as puzzled as those who had drawn out of hearing. Only the Indians stood close and impassive. Jack, meeting her eyes, smiled.
"You know now—all about—them—and Annie. That was why I tried—to keep away from you—you know now."
But she did not know.
"You took his wife from him?" she said, in a maze of conflicting revelations; and Jack looked at Stuart, as she added, "and who were you?"
"He is my brother!" said Stuart, in answer to that look of Jack's. "He would not let me say it before—not for years. But he is my brother!"
The words were loud enough for all to hear, and there was a low chorus of surprise among the group. All concealment was about over for Genesee—even the concealment of death.
Then Stuart looked across at Rachel. He heard that speech, "You took his wife from him;" and he asked no leave of Jack to speak now.
"Don't think that of him," he said, steadily. "You have been the only one who has, blindfolded, judged him aright. Don't fail him now. He is worth all the belief you had in him. The story I read you that night was true. His was the manhood you admired in it; mine, the one you condemned. As I look back on our lives now, his seems to me one immense sacrifice—and no compensations—one terrible isolation; and now—now everything comes to him too late!"
"He is—sorry," whispered Genesee, "and talks wild—but—you know now?"
"Yes," and the girl's face had something of the solemn elation of his own. "Yes, I know now."
"And you—will live in the hills—may be?—not so very far away from—me. In my pocket—is something—from the mine—Davy will tell you. Be good to—my Kootenais; they think—a heap of you. Kalitan!"
The Arrow came forward, and shook reverently the hand of the man who had been master to him. The eyes roved about the room, as if in search of others unseen. Rachel guessed what was wanted, and motioned to the Indians.
"Come; your brother wants you," she said. And as they grouped about him and her, they barred out the soldiers and civilians—the white brother and child—barred out all from him save his friends of the mountains and the wild places—the haunts of exiles. And the girl, as one by one they touched her hand at his request, and circled her with their dark forms, seemed to belong to them too.
"When the—snow melts—the flowers are on that ledge," he whispered with his eyes closed, "and the birds—not echoes—the echoes are in the mine—don't be—afraid. I'll go long—and Mowitza."
He was silent for so long that she stooped and whispered to him of prayer. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"Give me—your good wishes—and kiss me, and I'll—risk hell," was the characteristic answer given so low that she had to watch closely the lips she kissed.
"And you've kissed me—again! Who said—no compensation?—they—don't know; we know—and the moonlight, and—yes—mother knows; she thought, at last—I was not—all bad; not all—little mother! And now—don't be afraid; I won't go—far—klahowya, my girl—my girl!"
Then one Indian from the circle unslung his rifle from his shoulder and shattered it with one blow of an axe that lay by the fire. The useless thing was laid beside what had been Genesee. And the owner, shrouding his head in his blanket, sat apart from the rest. It was he of the bear claws; the sworn friend of Lamonti, and the man who had shot him.
At sunset he was laid to rest in the little plateau on Scot's Mountain that faces the west. He was borne there by the Indians, who buried in his grave the tomahawk they had resurrected for the whites of Camp Kootenai. Mowitza, rebelliously impatient, was led riderless by Kalitan. All military honors were paid him who had received no honors in life, the rites ending by that volley of sound that seals the grave of a soldier.
Then the pale-faces turned again to the south, the dark-faces took the trail to the north, and the sun with a last flickering blaze flooded the snow with crimson, and died behind the western peaks they had watched light up one morning.