Where the Trail Divides | Page 7

have her, must see her again; must,
must--"
"Margaret!"
"I must, I say!"
"You must not. They'll never find her there. She's safe unless we show
the way. Think--as you love her."
"But if anything should happen to us--She'll starve!"
"No. There are soldiers at Yankton, and they'll come--now; and Landor
knows."
"Oh, Sam, Sam!"
There was silence. No human being could give answer to that mother
wail.
Again time passed; seconds that seemed minutes, minutes that were a
hell of suspense. Below the horizon of prairie the sun sank from sight.
In the hot air a bank of cumulus clouds glowed red as from a distant
conflagration. For and eternity previous it seemed to the silent watchers
there had been no move; now again at last the grass stirred; a corn plant

rustled where there was no breeze; out into the small open plat
surrounding the house sprang a frightened rabbit, scurried across the
clearing, headed for the protecting grass, halted at the edge
irresolute--scurried back again at something it saw.
"You had best go in, Margaret." The man's voice was strained,
unnatural. "They'll come very soon now. It's almost dark."
"And you?" Wonder of wonders, it was the woman's natural tone!
"I'll stay here. I can at least show them how a white man dies."
"Sam Rowland--my husband!"
"Margaret--my wife!" Regardless of watchful savage eyes, regardless
of everything, the man sprang to his feet. "Oh, how can you forgive me,
can God forgive me!" Tight in his arms he kissed her again and again;
passionately, in abandon. "I've always loved you, Margaret; always,
always!"
"And I you, man; and I you!"
* * * * *
It came. As from the darkness above drops the horned owl on the field
mouse, as meet the tiger and the deer at the water hole, so it came.
Upon the silence of night sounded the hoarse call of a catbird where no
bird was, and again, and again. In front of the maize patch, always in
front, a dark form, a mere shadow in the dusk of evening, stood out
clear against the light of sky. To right and left appeared others, as
motionless as boulders, or as giant cacti on the desert. Had Settler
Rowland been other than the exotic he was, he would have understood.
No Indian exposes himself save for a purpose; but he did not
understand. Erect now, his finger on the trigger of the old smoothbore,
he waited passive before the darkened doorway of the cabin, looking
straight before him, God alone knows what thoughts whirling in his
brain. Again in front of him sounded and resounded the alien call. The
dark figures against the sky took life, moved forward. Simultaneously,

on the thatch of the cabin roof, appeared two other figures identical
with those in front. Foot by foot, silent as death, they climbed up,
reached the ridge pole, crossed to the other side. On, on advanced the
figures in front. Down the easy incline of the roof came the two in the
rear, reached the edge, paused waiting. Of a sudden, out of the maize
patch, out of the grass, seemingly out of space itself, came a new
cry--the trilling call of the prairie owl. It was the signal. Like twin
drops of rain from a cloudless sky fell the two figures on Rowland's
head; ere he could utter a sound, could offer resistance, bore him to
earth. From somewhere, everywhere, swarmed others. The very earth
seemed to open and give them forth in legion. In the multitude of hands
he was as a child. Within the space of seconds, ere waiting Margaret
realised that anything had happened, he had disappeared, all had
disappeared. In the clearing before the door not a human being was
visible, not a live thing; only on the thatched roof, silent as before,
patient as fate, awaited two other shadows, darker but by contrast with
the weather-coloured grass.
Minutes passed. Not even the call of the catbird, broke the silence.
Within the darkness of the cabin the suspense was a thing of which
insanity is made.
"Sam!" called a voice softly.
No answer.
"Sam!" repeated more loudly.
Again no answer of voice or of action.
In the doorway appeared a woman's figure; breathless, blindly fearful.
"Sam!" for the third time, tremulous, wailing; and she stepped outside.
A second, and it was over. A second, and the revel was on. The earth
was not silent now. There was no warning trill of prairie owl. As
dropped the figures from above there broke forth the Sioux war-cry:
long drawn out, demoniac, indescribable. Blood curdling, more savage

infinitely than the cry of any wild beast, the others took it up,
augmented it by a score, a hundred throats. Again the earth vomited the
demons forth.