Chapter VI: A Wild West Performance

“Oh, Doris, darling! how can I bear it? The very meanest, disappointingest thing that ever happened in this world! Oh, oh!” and poor Sin threw herself face downward on the grass in Doctor Brown’s back yard and sobbed tumultuously. All of her friend’s blandishments were of no effect, and she remained dead to the world until Scotty’s cold nose poked inquisitively into her ear aroused her at last. Springing to her feet, she rebuked him with energy, and only then consented to retail her woes.

“Buffalo Bill’s coming to Westwood next week, and will you believe it, mother won’t take me! Says it’s too hot, and circuses and such things always give her a headache. And you know it’s been the _dream of my life_ to see Buffalo Bill! There now, Doris Brown, see if you wouldn’t cry!”

“Um, um,” was all Doris said, for she was a maid of action rather than of many words. The case, as it seemed to her, was by no means hopeless, but she reserved her judgment.

Having had her cry out and relieved her feelings, Cynthia was soon engaged in a boisterous game with Sir Walter and an old tennis-ball that he had rooted out of some hiding-place or other, while canny Doris slipped into the house and shortly returned with a plate full of Mother Brown’s famous raisin cookies, and a piece of news that quite electrified her impulsive friend.

“Mother says, if your mother’ll let you go with us, she’ll take a party to Westwood to the matinee—you an’ me an’ Stella an’ Ethan an’ Miss Morrison too, if she wants to go,” she calmly stated.

And so it fell out that on the appointed Saturday afternoon in July, a radiantly happy party of six occupied seats in the big tent; the three girls looking their prettiest in simple white frocks, Ethan solemn as an owl in glasses and a natty linen suit, and good Mrs. Brown sweltering in the inevitable black dress of village propriety, but all alike absorbed in the stirring spectacle.

The Rough Riders of all nations and costumes; the wonderful rifle-shooting of the short-skirted, sombreroed cow-girl, the hair-raising hold-up of the ancient stage-coach—each and all yielded a separate thrill; but of course the best of all were the Indians—real, painted, plumed, ferocious warriors and daring horsemen of the plains! Everybody drew a long breath when they galloped into the arena.

“Doesn’t it make you think of home?” whispered Cynthia to Stella, with characteristic frankness speaking out what the others had only thought.

“Well, you see,” objected Yellow Star, “our men all dress like farmers now, and ’most all wear their hair short. _I_ never saw anything like this before—except once on a Fourth of July, when some white people paid our Indians to dress up and give a war-dance.”

“But—but they used to dress this way?” faltered Sin, rather taken aback, while the rest pricked up their ears.

“Well, not when they went to war, anyway. They wouldn’t want to be bothered with all those fixings if they really had to ride far, or fight, or anything like that. I think, myself, they only dressed up at councils and dances, and maybe not quite so much, even then,” (with just a flicker of a smile.) “I know one thing: lots of those beaded things are not Sioux.”

“Not Sioux, my dear! Why, what do you mean?” wondered Mrs. Brown.

“You see, Mrs. Brown,” explained Stella, “most of these very men are Sioux from our agency. I used to hear Father Waring and the agent talking about the show people. There are men at home, and a few women, that have been all over this country and in England and France and Germany. One of them brought home a German wife who didn’t know a word of our language, and he couldn’t speak German, either!

“Now, here they are, dressed up in all the beaded things they could make or beg or borrow from some other tribe—not Sioux at all! To us, that looks as if you wore a fireman’s boots and trousers and a priest’s cassock and a soldier’s hat,” she suggested, with another little quirk at the corners of the serious mouth, but subsided when she observed that several people beside their own party were listening with evident interest.

After the performance, four or five of the Indians passed out among the audience, and as they approached the Laurel party, Yellow Star gazed earnestly into their painted faces. She recognized several, but hesitated to speak to these men, whom, as a modest young girl of her people, she would not have thought of addressing at home, much as she longed to hear again the dear accents of her mother tongue.

At last, however, there came a woman with a child on her back, in its gorgeously beaded cradle, attracting the lion’s share of interest and attention. Many gave the mother a bit of silver in return for the privilege of a peep at its tiny face, or for one of the highly colored photographs she offered. When she actually held one out to Yellow Star among the rest, the girl couldn’t help murmuring, in the soft syllables of their native Dakota:

“Oh, I am so glad to see you! Don’t you know me? I am from home, too; I am The-One-who-was-left-Alive!”

The woman stared, then seized Stella’s hands eagerly and burst into a flood of low-voiced dialect. The two unconsciously made a picture which was thoroughly appreciated by several of the bystanders. The tall, slim girl in her virginal white frock and modest hat, with the big, black bow tying up her heavy braids of hair, stood glowing all over her expressive face and quite forgetting her shyness, while the sad and rather stolid countenance of the gaudily attired stranger softened and brightened wonderfully at the sight of a friend.

“Oh, the dear baby!” cooed Yellow Star, presently, lifting a corner of the shawl and looking closely at the little olive face. “But he doesn’t look well!” she exclaimed, anxiously.

“He is sick for two days now, and I know not what to do, for we must travel all time and it is so bad for him,” grieved the mother, looking at her with the pleading black eyes of a hurt animal. “My husband, Young Eagle, he say it is nothing; but me, I not like to dress him up and take around for the white people to stare at when he is sick.”

“Take him back to your tent, now, or wherever you stay, and bring Young Eagle to me. I will talk to him,” flashed Yellow Star, and she turned to her party with an impulsive:

“I must go with her for a little while, please: she is my friend; she is in trouble and among strangers.”

“I’ll go with you, dear,” put in Miss Morrison, quickly. “We will meet you at the station, Mrs. Brown; or no—I must take an earlier train; but there is time to go with Stella and the baby first—” and before any one could speak they were all three lost in the crowd, followed by admiring and envious glances from Cynthia and Doris, who fancied that a glimpse behind the scenes must hold more of wonder and romance than all the rest.

Neither Stella nor her teacher was at the station when the others arrived, and after a thorough search took the 5.40 train, remembering that Miss Morrison had said something about an engagement, and having to leave early, and in any case she would surely have kept Stella with her.

Great was the consternation, therefore, when they reached Laurel and found that Mrs. Waring had seen or heard nothing of her “little girl,” while a telephone message to Miss Morrison disclosed the fact that she had been obliged to hurry away and leave Stella with her new-found friends, who were to see that she met her party at the station in time for the 5.40.

The long, hot, dusty day was sinking into twilight, and the precious waif last seen with a travelling show, in a strange city twenty miles from home! Miss Morrison was conscience-smitten, Lucy Waring in tears, in which Cynthia and Doris were quite ready to join, and poor Mrs. Brown all but overcome by this unexpected ending to their exciting day.

There was no train for Westwood that night. Of course, there were always the telegraph and telephone, but no one knew just how to reach any responsible person, or even whether the “Wild West” might not be already on its way to Hartford or elsewhere. That, Miss Sophia said, was in all probability the case.

“You may be sure,” she announced, with her usual cold precision, “that the wretched child has run away with the show. What else could you expect, indeed, after deliberately putting her in the way of temptation? You will remember that I advised against it from the first. The sight of the beads and feathers and all the rest of the savage finery was too much for her, no doubt, and she will be exhibiting herself in them, if possible, this very evening. Perhaps this painful incident may convince you, my dear Lucy, that you can not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!”

After all, the only person to keep all his wits about him in this emergency was Ethan Honey. That youth stopped to consult nobody, but hastily recollecting that an express train for Westwood stopped at the next town, three miles off, in twenty minutes, he felt in his pockets to assure himself that he had just money enough for the fare, sprang on his bicycle and was off. Breathless and dusty, he arrived barely in time to turn the wheel over to the agent and board the express, which landed him at eight o’clock in the evening, anxious, supperless and penniless, among the flaring lights of the big town.