“What’s the matter here, Peppajee?” he asked. “Heap trouble walk down at Hart Ranch. Trouble walk here all same, mebbyso?”
Peppajee looked at him sourly, but the news was big, and it must be told.
“Heap much trouble come. Squaw callum Hagar make much talk. Do much bad, mebbyso. Squaw Rachel ketchum bad heart along yo’. Heap cry all time. No sleepum, no eatum—all time heap sad. Ketchum bad spirit, mebbyso. Ketchum debbil. Sun go ’way, ketchum knife, go Hagar wikiup. Killum Hagar—so.” He thrust out his arm as one who stabs. “Killum himself—so.” He struck his chest with his clenched fist. “Hagar heap dead. Rachel heap dead. Kay bueno. Mebbyso yo’ heap bad medicine. Yo’ go.”
“A squaw just died,” he told Miss Georgie curtly, when they rode on. But her quick eyes noted a new look in his face. Before it had been grave and stern and bitter; now it was sorrowful instead.
CHAPTER XXVII
LIFE ADJUSTS ITSELF AGAIN TO SOME THINGS
The next day was a day of dust hanging always over the grade because of much hurried riding up and down; a day of many strange faces whose eyes peered curiously at the place where Baumberger fell, and at the cold ashes of Stanley’s campfire, and at the Harts and their house, and their horses and all things pertaining in the remotest degree to the drama which had been played grimly there to its last, tragic “curtain.” They stared up at the rim-rock and made various estimates of the distance and argued over the question of marksmanship, and whether it really took a good shot to fire from the top and hit a man below.
As for the killing of Baumberger, public opinion tried—with the aid of various plugs of tobacco and much expectoration—the case and rendered a unanimous verdict upon it long before the coroner arrived. “Done just right,” was the verdict of Public Opinion, and the self-constituted judges manifested their further approval by slapping Good Indian upon the back when they had a chance, or by solemnly shaking hands with him, or by facetiously assuring him that they would be good. All of which Grant interpreted correctly as sympathy and a desire to show him that they did not look upon him as a murderer, but as a man who had the courage to defend himself and those dear to him from a great danger.
With everything so agreeably disposed of according to the crude—though none the less true, perhaps—ethics of the time and the locality, it was tacitly understood that the coroner and the inquest he held in the grove beside the house were a mere concession to red tape. Nevertheless a general tension manifested itself when the jury, after solemnly listening, in their official capacity, to the evidence they had heard and discussed freely hours before, bent heads and whispered briefly together. There was also a corresponding atmosphere of relief when the verdict of Public Opinion was called justifiable homicide by the coroner and so stamped with official approval.
When that was done they carried Baumberger’s gross physical shell away up the grade to the station; and the dust of his passing settled upon the straggling crowd that censured his misdeeds and mourned not at all, and yet paid tribute to his dead body with lowered voices while they spoke of him, and with awed silence when the rough box was lowered to the station platform.
As the sky clears and grows blue and deep and unfathomably peaceful after a storm, as trees wind-riven straighten and nod graciously to the little cloud-boats that sail the blue above, and wave dainty finger-tips of branches in bon voyage, so did the Peaceful Hart ranch, when the dust had settled after the latest departure and the whistle of the train—which bore the coroner and that other quiet passenger—came faintly down over the rim-rock, settle with a sigh of relief into its old, easy habits of life.
All, that is, save Good Indian himself, and perhaps one other.
* * * *
Peaceful cleared his white mustache and beard from a few stray drops of coffee and let his mild blue eyes travel slowly around the table, from one tanned young face to another.
“Now the excitement’s all over and done with,” he drawled in his half-apologetic tones, “it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you boys to get to work and throw the water back where it belongs. I dunno but what the garden’s spoiled already; but the small fruit can be saved.”
“Clark and I was going up to the Injun camp,” spoke up Gene. “We wanted to see—”
“You’ll have to do some riding to get there,” Good Indian informed them dryly. “They hit the trail before sunrise this morning.”
“Huh! What were you doing up there that time of day?” blurted Wally, eying him sharply.
“Watching the sun rise.” His lips smiled over the retort, but his eyes did not. “I’ll lower the water in your milk-house now, Mother Hart,” he promised lightly, “so you won’t have to wear rubber-boots when you go to skim the milk.” He gave Evadna a quick, sidelong glance as she came into the room, and pushed back his chair. “I’ll get at it right away,” he said cheerfully, picked up his hat, and went out whistling. Then he put his head in at the door. “Say,” he called, “does anybody know where that long-handled shovel is?” Again he eyed Evadna without seeming to see her at all.
“If it isn’t down at the stable,” said Jack soberly, “or by the apple-cellar or somewhere around the pond or garden, look along the ditches as far up as the big meadow. And if you don’t run across it there—” The door slammed, and Jack laughed with his eyes fast shut and three dimples showing.
Evadna sank listlessly into her chair and regarded him and all her little world with frank disapproval.
“Upon my word, I don’t see how anybody can laugh, after what has happened on this place,” she said dismally, “or—whistle, after—” Her lips quivered a little. She was a distressed Christmas angel, if ever there was one.
Wally snorted. “Want us to go crying around because the row’s over?” he demanded. “Think Grant ought to wear crepe, I suppose—because he ain’t on ice this morning—or in jail, which he’d hate a lot worse. Think we ought to go around with our jaws hanging down so you could step on ’em, because Baumberger cashed in? Huh! All hurts my feelings is, I didn’t get a whack at the old devil myself!” It was a long speech for Wally to make, and he made it with deliberate malice.
“Now you’re shouting!” applauded Gene, also with the intent to be shocking.
“That’s the stuff,” approved Clark, grinning at Evadna’s horrified eyes.
“Grant can run over me sharp-shod and I won’t say a word, for what he did day before yesterday,” declared Jack, opening his eyes and looking straight at Evadna. “You don’t see any tears rolling down my cheeks, I hope?”
“Good Injun’s the stuff, all right. He’d ’a’ licked the hull damn—”
“Now, Donny, be careful what language you use,” Phoebe admonished, and so cut short his high-pitched song of praise.
“I don’t care—I think it’s perfectly awful.” Evadna looked distastefully upon her breakfast. “I just can’t sleep in that room, Aunt Phoebe. I tried not to think about it, but it opens right that way.”
“Huh!” snorted Wally. “Board up the window, then, so you can’t see the fatal spot!” His gray eyes twinkled. “I could dance on it myself,” he said, just to horrify her—which he did. Evadna shivered, pressed her wisp of handkerchief against her lips, and left the table hurriedly.
“You boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” Phoebe scolded half-heartedly; for she had lived long in the wild, and had seen much that was raw and primitive. “You must take into consideration that Vadnie isn’t used to such things. Why, great grief! I don’t suppose the child ever saw a dead man before in her life—unless he was laid out in church with flower-anchors piled knee-deep all over him. And to see one shot right before her very eyes—and by the man she expects—or did expect to marry—why, you can’t wonder at her looking at it the way she does. It isn’t Vadnie’s fault. It’s the way she’s been raised.”