Sarah Dakota

Front matter

Shelf. ,-IbJL4 5

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

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Chapter I. The Mistress Of Vandecar Ranch

COR the first time since morning the wild, riotous breeze was hushed. Hour after hour it had swept in sweet, strong gusts across the prairie, shaking the curly, gray buffalo grass, bending the gay, purple cone flowers till their heads were nearly snapped off, and tossing little yellow clouds from the sandy buttes.

Now, all the wide prairie lay silently simmering in the heated air of sunset. Crimson streaks barred the horizon, and were reflected earthward till the plains were all aflush with rose and amethyst. Far eastward the bluffs marking the course of the Big Muddy stood out bold and clear, their bases in rich umber shadows, their irregular summits tipped with gold. Nearer a fringe of trees, blackly outlined against the rosy horizon, indicated a smaller stream — the Rollingstone River.

The trees themselves were nothing remarka-

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ble. To an Easterner — to one accustomed to graceful maples and elms and stately pines and hemlocks, they were not worthy of much praise. The grove was composed of cottonwoods, their ghostly, white trunks standing up in gaunt awkwardness, and diamond willows, gashed and hacked here and there, where some wandering Sioux had cut off splinters and slices from which he might whittle canes to sell to travelers in the “fire wagons/ ' as the Red Man termed the palace cars of the Northern Pacific Railroad.

Nevertheless, the grove of cottonwoods was much admired by the surrounding settlers, and the ' owner of Rollingstone Ranch was envied not a little for the wind-break against the roaring northern blasts and the screen from the almost tropical rays of the midday sun which the grove nearly surrounding his buildings afforded. In front an opening had been cut, showing a sandy slope down to the river, and at the same time revealing an extensive view of the prairie.

The ranch itself was generally a scene of activity. Being a post trading station, it was frequented by a motley crowd. Farmers came hither to bring produce, receive their mail, and get the latest news as to prices for wheat ; cow-

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boys dropped in for lariats and hitching pins ; Indians came for their supplies, or brought for sale gay-colored work of beads or porcupine quills and calumets of red pipestone. Much good-natured gossip went on between the white men, and there was many an exchange of kind-hearted courtesies and generous deeds. Friendships were made here, and some broken. Sometimes, we are sorry to say, there were disagreements and violent quarrels, as might be expected from a place where liquor flowed so freely.

On this particular afternoon, however, quietness reigned at the ranch. The slanting rays of the setting sun brightened the dull red roof of the store into gayest vermilion. In the cool shade of the building sat Eric, the Norwegian hired man, his long, flaxen hair almost touching the piece of harness he was mending. The door behind him was wide open, and cool breezes swept across the damp floor within which he had just swept and sprinkled. A glance into the long stables at the left revealed everything clean and sweet with the odors of hay and grain. Most of the stalls were empty, for the horses were out on the range, but here and there a solitary animal might be heard leisurely crunching its feed.

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Crossing the broad, sandy yard one reached the grove in which stood the Yandecar Ranch proper — a long line of irregularly shaped buildings, all of them low, and composed of rough logs. Sods covered the roofs of several, and on top in late summer gay sunflowers flaunted their broad, yellow faces, and Indian corn waved its silken tassels. Kitchen, dining room, and bedrooms were all strung out, one after the other, a broad veranda making a continuous highway from door to door.

In the kitchen Etienne, the French Canadian cook, a lean, limber fellow, with a face as sallow and sharp as a hickory nut, sat perched up by the table. His white cap was awry; his usually immaculate apron had black spots on it. Etienne was laboriously creating a letter to be sent to his sweetheart, a black-eyed and rather ancient demoiselle , far up in rocky Quebec.

Usually Etienne coaxed Sarah Dakota to write his letters for him. But Sarah Dakota was not to be found this evening.

Dandy, her Indian pony, had long ago finished his oats down in the stable, and was rubbing his shaggy mane against the side of his manger, wondering why his mistress did not come for her customary canter in the cool eventide.

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But, as it happened, Sarah Dakota was busy about something else.

In the long row of connected apartments there was one which the members of the ranch seldom entered. Occasionally, on a Sunday afternoon, or on a stormy day when the weather compelled one to remain indoors, Colonel Chauncey Vandecar, the owner of the ranch, would shut himself up in this room, remaining there an hour or more, sitting in utter silence, or else monotonously pacing the floor, coming forth with his handsome, bronzed face strangely worn and white.

It had been the room of his dead wife — that pretty, young creature, the life of his home, the sunshine of his heart, who had been taken from him twelve years before our story begins.

It was to this room that Sarah Dakota, his only child, had, half-timidly, half-eagerly, gone that warm afternoon. And there she sat now, with all the glory of the sunset flooding the small, narrow window, making the faded chamber curtains look like richest stained glass, and changing the bits of dust floating around the room into a swarm of golden gnats.

There was a strange incongruity throughout the entire apartment. The walls, like those of

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the rest of the house, were of logs, their chinks and furrows filled up with the roughest plastering. There was neither paint nor paper anywhere to be seen, and time had worn the woodwork into a subdued, silvery gray. But, brightening this primitive plainness, were draperies of rich hues and material — silk and satin, embroidered with velvet and outlined in gold and silver tinsel. Costly rugs on the floor, green and soft as moss one finds in deep, dark woodlands ; pictures on the walls ; easy chairs here and there betokened comfort and luxury. In one corner stood the bed, of oak, elaborately carved and with a canopy of amber silk. Its linen pillows were yellow and dusty; no head had pressed them for years. Everything was left just as she had left it. Over on the little willow table was her workbasket, and in it the tiny blue and white sacque she had been making for her baby daughter when that last illness came.

Sarah Dakota took the little garment in her hands to-day, thrusting her two brown forefingers into the wee armholes.

“ That was for me, I reckon/’ she said soberly. “It don’t seem as though I was ever such a scrap of a young one as to wear that !

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I wonder if my mother liked to make things for me. My! but it’d be nice to have a mother make things now! Most girls I've read of have mothers. Wonder why mine was taken away ! ’ ’

She laid the soft, little garment back again carefully, almost reverently, and then sat there silently, her chin in the hollow of her hand.

She was a queer girl, was this Sarah Dakota — as queer as the name which her father had whimsically given her in honor of the Territory where his life and interests were tied.

He had been a pioneer there. He had come away back in the seventies, in the days of Custer, when it was as much as one’s life and scalp were worth to ride stealthily under cover of night across the prairies over which he now galloped as owner. He was a brave man, was Colonel Chauncey Vandecar. True, it was not the best kind of bravery — that which makes one do right in the face of all things opposing — it was the bravery that is physical rather than moral. Yet it won for him the love of his friends and the respect of his enemies.

He had led a bold, careless, but not wicked life, according to the code of the times and the Territory. He was called sharp at a bargain,

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but fair-dealing in the carrying of it out. He was very proud of his business honor, and at the same time proud of the fact that, as he said, “no other fellows got ahead” of him. His strong will and aggressive nature gave him success under difficulties where another man — a weaker one — would have failed.

At the time our story begins he was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the Territory. Section and quarter section he had laid claim to. Thousands of cattle bearing his brand roamed over the prairies. His ranch buildings, as we have already stated, were on an extensive scale.

So, being the daughter of a wealthy man — a man whose income was not put to any hazard by drought or frosted wheat — Sarah Dakota's lot was considered enviable by the girls of the surrounding country.

But, as we have said, she was queer — like her name. She was thin, agile, long-limbed, like a young colt. Her outdoor life had given her health, vigor, and a strong, erect figure. She had her father's haughty fashion of carrying the head well back on the shoulders. She had, too, his bright, dark, hazel eyes. Her hair, though, differed from his. Instead of being

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black and straight, it was of that indescribable color that comes from auburn and chestnut shadings, with copper-colored threads and sunshiny glintings woven in it. A great mass of it there was, too ! She could never braid it in two stiff, decorous pigtails, like those of the German and Norwegian girls in the neighborhood. Sarah Dakota’s hair was always breaking loose from nets, combs, and ribbons, and flying around her like an amber cloud.

It half-veiled her face now, as she sat there in her mother's room, and a glimpse through the shining tresses revealed her countenance — serious, perplexed, as if the consciousness of some great loss in her life had suddenly come to her.

A day or two before this, Sarah Dakota had gone to her father with a request, half-roguishly, half-pleadingly made :

4 ‘You dear, old pappy, you! I want some new dresses ! My navy-blue silk is in tatters, and my garnet doesn’t look a bit like the pictures in the fashion book you brought from town last week. My woolen frocks have got their trimmin’s ripped off or buttons missin’ ; an’, honest true ! I haven’t a single thing fit to wear except my new riding habit, and you know I can't go trailing around in that!”

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From his tall, soldierly height Colonel Vandecar looked down on the merry, upturned face. There was a thoughtful expression on his own countenance, and as he resumed his whistling, just interrupted by his daughter’s request, there was an added reflective tone to it.

“ New dresses, hey? Seems to me it takes as many yards of dry goods to fix you up as it would the whole Territory which you are named for !”

“That’s so, pappy dear! I’m growin’ so fast, you know ! It isn’t my fault that I have such a great, tall father that I am in duty bound to take after! You ought to be thankful that I’m not yet quite as tall ! You’d take almost as much dry goods for drapery as that big statue East — in New York, isn’t it? — of what’s you call it? Liberty Enlightening the World?” And with her fresh face dimpling and her hazel eyes full of dancing, golden lights, Sarah Dakota surveyed the tall riding boots, with faded brown corduroy trousers tucked in their tops, and the broad, portly chest, long neck, and massive head of her sire.

“Well, you are catching up pretty fast!” said her father, half-ruefully, half-admiringly. “You are running up like wheat in a warm

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rain ! You are a pretty big girl for a lone man like me to take care of, and I’m beginning to realize that I’ve got a pretty stiff job in bringing you up! That’s a fact, now!”

“0, you needn’t worry, pappy dear!” gayly. “Just give me plenty to eat and a pony to ride and all the pretty dresses I want, an’ I’ll get along all right!”

“But seems to me,” gravely; “seems to me, since you're growing up so fast, you ought to lay aside some of your tomboy ways. I think I remember that when I was back East, young ladies didn’t dash around like wild Indians. They were — the most of them — quiet and demure, and didn’t holler as though they wanted their voice to reach away over to the next quarter section. And they sat straight on their chairs and didn’t swing their feet, and when they wanted to get in the house they came in through the door instead of vaulting in through the window, as I saw a certain young person do yesterday. But pretty much of them liked fine clothes though, and your speaking of new dresses reminds me of something I was thinking about the other day. There are some — some of your mother’s things” — here Colonel Vandecar's voice faltered a little.

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* * They have been stored away in the big wardrobe in her room. Some of them were very nice, I remember. Your mother liked pretty things, and — and I was glad to give them to her. There must be several silks there, and other gowns of fine material. I always got the best for her. I had a pride about it. But what I was going to say is this, now that you are getting so big, you might as well have the things made over for you. I dare say you can make use of them. You have” — here the Colonel stammered a little — “you have a better right than — than anybody else.”

“An* you want me to have them?” said Sarah Dakota rather soberly, somewhat impressed by her father’s grave, discomposed manner.

“Yes. I know your ma ’d want it so. An’ ” — hesitatingly — “ an’ perhaps you’d better have ’em made over soon. If they are faded or moth-eaten, why I’ll get you new clothes ; but, as I said, I thought your ma ’d like to have you make use of these if you could. An’ I don't want you to go around shabby. I want you fixed up nice. Have it done right away. We — we may have company or something, soon,” and, turning abruptly, Colonel Vande-

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car stepped out on the broad veranda, and paced nervously up and down.

“I meant to tell the child/ ’ he soliloquized. “ I meant to tell her, but I can’t just yet. Sarah Dakota’s so — so peculiar, there’s no knowin’ how she’d take it.”

Thus it was that on the afternoon our story begins the young girl came to be in her dead mother’s room, examining the contents of the big, black walnut wardrobe.

A dozen or so of gowns lay scattered about — on the bed, across the backs of chairs. All of them were of costly and elegant material — silks and satins, velvets and heavy brocades. And there were laces, fans and feathers, ribbons and trinkets of various sorts.

The wedding gown lay across Sarah Dakota’s knees. It was a cream-tinted satin, trimmed with lace filmy as cobwebs. The scent of violets still clung to it.

Sarah Dakota found other things besides clothes. On a shelf in one corner of the wardrobe were some books. One of them was her mother’s journal. Many of the leaves were missing; others torn and discolored. With more awe and reverence than she had ever before experienced in her short, gay, careless life,

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the girl turned over page after page. The one at which she paused the longest was the one which caused her face to assume the thoughtful, yearning look we have mentioned :

“ It is a beautiful morning. The sky is like crystal, and the fresh, sweet air seems to fairly palpitate with golden sunshine. All the prairie is covered with wild roses. Not the tall, climbing ones, though, like the ones I used to find by the stone wall at the old farm. These are not much more than a foot high. They are in all shades of red, from palest pink to deepest carmine. Their delicious fragrance floats in at the window as I sit here.

“ This has been an unusually happy day. Something like the blessed Sabbaths of my girlhood. We have had religious services at the ranch. Father Stone officiated, and many of the farmers came with their wives and children. They all seemed so kind. It touched me to see how sorrowfully those stout, red-cheeked, strong-armed women looked at me. I knew they were pitying me because it is said that I must die so soon. I longed to tell them that it didn’t seem at all terrible to me.

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‘ ‘ The only thing I worry about — and that I do with most heavy-hearted anxiety — is my little daughter. How can I leave my baby. Only two years old, a girl, and in this wild, half-civilized community. Last night when they undressed her and laid her in my lap, I took her rosy, dimpled feet in my hands and cried over them. 0, those dear, little feet! How tired they will get among the thorns and flints of this world. If I might live and smooth the pathway for them. But God knows best. I keep saying that over and over again.

“My prayer day and night is that my little girl may grow up to be a good, noble woman. I think — nay, I know ! with the inward assurance of the Comforter — that my prayer will be answered. We had her christened to-day. I coaxed Chauncey to have it done. He does not care much for such things; I wish he did. He granted my request, however, and granted it very kindly. He means to be good to me. I was so thankful for it that I made no objections to the middle name he wanted to give her — Dakota ! The idea of giving the name of a vast Territory to such a wee bit of a child. But Chauncey is such an enthusiast over this new country. All his interests are centered here.

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I’m glad he never knew how homesick I have been here. How I have longed for the beautiful green valley of the winding Mohawk. But nowl shall have something even better.

‘“I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aftenwhiles For the longed-for hame-bringin’ an’ my Father’s welcome smiles,

An’ I’ll ne’er be fu’ content until mine een do see The gowden gates o’ heaven an’ mine ain countree! ’ ”

She had reached her 4 * ain countree 99 long years before this, had the patient, trusting, loving mother, and now the words she had written so feebly, but so fondly, came back to her child like a veritable message from the spirit land.

There was a little Bible on the same shelf with the journal. Its cover was a bright cherry red. It was a cheerful-looking book the young girl thought, and when she opened it she saw her own name written on the flyleaf: “ Sarah Dakota — a baptismal gift from Father Stone.”

It was veritable Greek to the girl; or, at least, it might as well have been written in that language for all the intelligence it gave her as she hastily glanced through its pages. No little South Sea islander knew less of the Bible than this bright, well-grown Western girl ! Colonel

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Vandecar had let her grow up ignorant of religion, of church-going, of reading the word of God, and of prayer. Either grief had hardened his heart, or the memory of his wife's prayerful desires had grown dim ; or, what was more likely, his busy, “ rustling " life, the daily contact and dealing with bold, lawless men, had made him careless of spiritual things. Sarah Dakota turned over leaf after leaf of the little red Bible, her only emotions being wonder or mild perplexity as to what the reading was about. It wasn't exactly a book of poetry, though some things sounded like it. It wasn't a novel either, though it was really exciting here and there. Sarah Dakota didn't dip very deeply into the strange book, but she came to the conclusion that there was a great deal about God and Christ in it, and, as she remarked to herself with native bluntness :

“An' I never heard much about them only at roundin'-up times, when the cowboys tear around an' use swear words."

Her mother must have thought a good deal about God and heaven and such things, the girl decided. The journal was full of these things. What a good woman that mother must have been.

Her picture hung over the bureau. It was a

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sweet, youthful face, with gentle, tender mouth, serious, loving, blue eyes, and hair like her daughter’s, rich and warm in color.

Sarah Dakota sat looking at the picture. There was a dull ache in her heart.

“I wish she had lived!” she exclaimed earnestly, with a choke in her voice. “ O, I wish she had lived !”

The glory of the sunset filled the room. It brought out the rich colors of the pretty gowns scattered about — violet, sea green, creamy white, blue, and silvery gray. It fell like a halo over the portrait on the wall, and it touched Sarah Dakota's hair with amber glintings.

Just as it was fading away, there was a noise on the veranda outside. Etienne had come out from the kitchen and was peeling potatoes for supper. His shrill, high-pitched voice was chattering away, as usual, in broken patois , with slow, stolid Eric as listener.

‘ * Ze rain come soon, ’ ’ he said. * 4 Ze cottonwood he rustle all his leedle flat stems. And see ze clouds over south, andze wind give von grand coyote howl ! ’ ’

“Can’t tell nodings about de vind,” growled Eric. “ Dis is a queer gountry. He gloud up, and von t’ink shower coom, und den a pig vind

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he coom, strong enough to make von pallheaded mit himselfs, und blow de glouds avay. Here ve haf vone, two, t’ree veeks mitout a drop of rain. In mine gountry it beest nod so, ' ' complacently.

But, with Celtic versatility, Etienne’s mind had already wandered to a subject other than the climatic changes of Dakota.

“Do you know where's ze boss, Colonel Vandecar, this afternoon?” he asked.

Eric gave a guttural chuckle.

“Veil, about two o'glock I seen him take de gray mare und ride toward de Fort Lincoln road. He goes dere already all de viles nowadays.”

Etienne shoved aside the heap of potatoes and drew nearer his companion. His voice took a confidential tone. His whispers sounded like a hoarse locust.

Eric listened and nodded, saying little.

Somebody else was listening. Sarah Dakota, seated behind the curtains of the open window, heard every word of the vivacious gossip.

Chapter II. What The Listener Heard

U O HE is not rich at all, is zis lady ze Colonel ^ marry, ’ ’ babbled Etienne ; ‘ ‘ but I think she’s sweet and good. You've seen her, Eric — that leedle Mees Grayson, the sister of Lieutenant Harter’s wife at ze fort. She coom visiting there over a year ago ; then she got interested in ze Indian school and go to ze Reservation and teach. They say she vary much liked there. She have avay with her — so attracteeve. I have seen handsomer ladies by far. Magnifiquement ! Tall, majesteek, charming, avec les beaux yeux ! Ladies that .set ze heart in one big flutter. Mam’selle Grayson not so. She have a pretty leedle face and gentle manners, and her voice sveet and low, and yet full of what you call autoritay. Ze Colonel he notice her more than any other lady since his wife she die. 0, I t’ink it one vary good thing — ze Colonel’s getting marry, I mean. We need a meestress to ze ranch. Old Antonia, she getting stiff and rheumateek, and so blind she can’t tell buffalo grass from herbs when she make

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pot-ciu-feu. She getting so vary c-cr-r-ranky, and she like to rule the ranch and treat me as though I were a scullery lad. Oui! oui! Rollingstone Ranch surely need a meestress. Besides, there’s leedle Mees Sarah Dakota; she running vild like a colt on ze range. She big girl now, but got no style, no manner. Not know ze etiquette von bit ! ”

“ She is a girl mit a gute heart,” remarked Eric.

“Oui! oui! I have nothing to objeck to zat. She good girl, but sometimes she not care how much fun she make,” rejoined Etienne, smarting at the memory of certain jokes played at his expense. She like to play vat you call ze pranks ; but vat I meant to say, she big enough now to be ladylike and have ze decorum and grace. But all ze company we have is ze men folks. Nothings but Indians, cowboys, and ze old c-cr-r-ranky Antonia.”

“Vat she say apout dis affair — de bringin’ home de new mutter?”

Etienne’s voice had a thrill of dramatic enjoyment in it as he answered. He drew his spare shoulders almost to his ears in an expressive shrug.

“ Malheur sement ! She know nothings. Her

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father have kept it von big secret. Mees Sarah Dakota have a temper, you know, Eric, mon ami. You and I have seen her act like a leedle wildcat when somethings not please her. So, between you and me, Eric, I think Colonel Vandecar not like to tell her."

“And the wedding is this evening down at the fort, and de Colonel pring home his new wife so soon?" exclaimed Eric, with a touch of pity in his deep voice.

“ Oui ! But there won't be much of a wedding though, because the Major's wife at the fort is sick, and the affair will be vary quiet. But next veek, so I vas told, Colonel Vandecar will give a reception here at the ranch, and I dare say we shall have feasting without end. The Colonel say he give me carte blanche , and so I go to town the last of this week to buy things. Eh bicn ! It is von lot of cookery I have to do." And, with a sigh of heavy responsibility, Etienne arose, tossed out his panful of parings to a vagrant cow, and then went back to his kitchen.

Eric knocked the ashes from his pipe, and went clumsily down the steps around to the sheds in search of pails for the evening milking.

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There was silence in the room where the window opened out on the piazza. Sarah Dakota still sat there — or crouched, rather — in a disconsolate little heap upon the floor. The creamy wedding dress had slipped from her lap and lay in billowy rumples around her. Now and then her brown fingers convulsively clutched the silken mass. She was hardly conscious of what she was doing. The soft, pink flush was gone from her cheeks. Her girlish face looked white and pinched ; her eyes were hard, stern, and, as yet, tearless. She was too stunned to cry. Such a terrible revelation had come to her ! Some one — a stranger — was to come between her and the place she held in her father's love ! Some one was to usurp her mother's place — that dear, dead mother, toward whom she had that very afternoon been drawn so near ! Some one was to come into Rollingstone Ranch as mistress of it — a position that she was now conscious that she had rather proudly held ! Some one was to order the servants, make plans — be at the head of the entire establishment !

“ 0, I hate that Miss Grayson,” said Sarah Dakota tempestuously. “She was at the Fourth of July picnic. One of those prim,

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proper Easterners who always carry a grammar and dictionary around with them, and rubbers and umbrellas and veils and looked surprised and shocked at everything we say or do. I remember she tried to be pleasant with me, but somehow I felt gawky and awkward and ignorant with her. I didn’t get on very well with her. I know I sha’n’t if she comes here; there won’t be a bit of use in trying. I don’t want anybody for my mother — only you, you ! ” with a hot burst of tears and a glance at the portrait above her, which seemed to smile in the deepening twilight.

“0, it is too bad!” Sarah Dakota went on; “too bad to bring anyone here to fill your place, you dear, sweet, pretty mother ! I dare say pappy didn’t tell me because he thought I’d bluster — and so I would,” fiercely. “So I would ! He needn’t think that I’ll give up and make peace and fall in with this scheme, either,” sullenly. “ I’ll just let him and that Grayson schoolma’am know how I feel about it! Cornin’ here to-night, are they? Well!” — and the girl’s lips were compressed into a thin, scarlet line — “well, they’ll find that there’s been a stampede here, that’s all!” And Sarah Dakota ended her passionate solilo-