Where the Trail Divides | Page 3

halted. "I can't take you by force, and it's pure
madness to stay here longer." Baby Elizabeth, a big-eyed, solemn-faced
mite of humanity, had come up now and stood staring the stranger
silently from the side of her mother's skirts. "I hope for the best, but
before God I never expect to see any of you again."
"Oh, we'll see you in the fall all right--when you return," commented
Rowland easily; but the other made no reply, and without a backward
glance started at a rapid jog trot for the tiny settlement on the river two
miles away.
Behind him, impassive-faced Rowland stood watching the departing
frontiersman steadily, the pouches beneath his eyes accentuated by the
tightened lids.
"I don't believe there's a bit more danger here now than there ever was,"
he commented; "but there's certainly an unusual disturbance
somewhere. I don't take any stock in the people down at the settlement
leaving--they'd go if they heard a coyote whistle; but Brown tells me
there've been three different trappers from Big Stone gone through
south in the last week, and when they leave it means something. If you
say the word we'll leave everything and go yet."
"If we do we'll never come back."
"Not necessarily."
"Yes. I'm either afraid of these red people or else I'm not. We went
before because the others went. If we left now it would be different.
We'd be tortured day and night if we really feared--what happens now

and then to some. We came here with our eyes wide open. We can't
start again in civilisation. We're too old, and there's the past--"
"You still blame me?"
"No; but we've chosen. Whatever comes, we'll stay." She turned toward
the rough log shanty unemotionally.
"Come, let's forget it. Dinner's waiting and baby's hungry."
A moment Rowland hesitated, then he, too, followed.
"Yes, let's forget it," he echoed slowly.
* * * * *
"Well, in Heaven's name!" Rowland's great bulk was upon its feet, one
hand upon the ever-ready revolver at his hip, the dishes on the rough
pine dining table clattering with the suddenness of his withdrawal.
"Who are you, man, and what's the trouble? Speak up--"
The dishevelled intruder within the narrow doorway glanced about the
interior of the single room with bloodshot eyes.
His great mouth was a bit open and his swollen tongue all but
protruded.
"Water!" The word was scarce above a whisper.
"But who are you?"
"Water!" fiercely, insistently.
Of a sudden he spied a wooden pail upon a shelf in the corner, and
without invitation, almost as a wild beast springs, he made for it,
grasped the big tin dipper in both hands; drank measure after measure,
the overflow trickling down his bare throat and dripping onto the
sanded floor.

"God, that's good!" he voiced. "Good, good!"
After that first involuntary movement Rowland did not stir; but at his
side the woman had risen, and behind her, peering around the fortress
of her skirts as when before she had argued with Frontiersman Brown,
stood the little wide-eyed girl, type of the repressed frontier child.
Back to them came the stranger, his great jowl working unconsciously.
"You are Sam Rowland?" he enunciated thickly.
"Yes."
"The settlement hasn't broken up then?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Is it possible that you don't know, that they don't know?" Involuntarily
he seized his host by the arm. "I've heard of you; you live two miles out.
We've no time to lose. Come, don't stop to save anything."
Rowland straightened. The other smelled evilly of perspiration.
"Come where? Who are you anyway, and what's the matter? Talk so I
can understand you."
"You don't know that the Santees are on the 'big trail'? of the massacre
along the Minnesota River?"
"I know nothing. Once more, who are you?"
"Who am I? What does it matter? My name is Hans Mueller. I'm a
trapper." Of a sudden he drew back, inspecting his impassive
questioner doubtfully, almost unbelievingly. "But come. I'll tell you
along the way. You mustn't be here an hour longer. I saw their signal
smokes this very morning. They're murdering everyone--men, women,
and children. It's Little Crow who started it, and God knows how many
settlers they've killed. They chased me for hours, but I had a good horse.
It only gave out yesterday; and since then--But come. It's suicide to

chatter like this." He turned insistently toward the door. "They may be
here any minute."
Rowland and his wife looked at each other. Neither spoke a word; but
at last the woman shook her head slowly.
Hans Mueller shifted restlessly.
"Hurry, I tell you," he insisted.
Rowland sat down again deliberately, his heavy double chin folding
over his soft flannel shirt.
"Where are you going?" he temporised with almost a shade of
amusement.